As I write, we’re pitching up and down on the Bay of
Biscay, a couple of hours out of Bilbao.
We used this same vessel three years ago from Santander, and I don’t
remember it being quite so sporting a ride.
We’ve had an enjoyable short stay in the Basque
country, where as I’d mentioned we rented a little flat on a smallholding up in
the hills near Bilbao. The property,
called Urresillo Landetxea (rural goldmine, we’re told) was serviceable, and at
€100 a night, came with two bedrooms, a satisfactory living room and outdoor
barbecuing and eating facilities. The
furnishings were a touch shabby, but I guess one man’s shabby is another’s
rustic, which fitted with the image of the place. The welcome was warm, and the location was
idyllic, with a pleasant outlook across the wooded hillside, and bags of peace
and quiet – apart from the landlords’ rowdy poultry.
The blurb on the place led us to expect a conventional
oven as well as a microwave ditto, so we’d brought a Carrefour ready-made
lasagne with us. (Almost as good as
home-made, I should add.) The microwave
was the only oven, alas: we were fooled by an errant comma in the blurb. It was a bit disappointing done in the
microwave, but adding a handful of lardons livened it up a bit.
On our only full day, we headed for the coast,
visiting Bermeo and Bakio, and taking in some fabulous coastal scenery in the
process. We took a walk along the front
at Bakio, watching a couple of dozen surfers out on the beautiful rollers. The day was hot – it got up to 39.5° a few
times, so the air conditioning was very welcome. Bakio was pretty much closed down for the
season, so we dropped in to the airport for a lunchtime salad before doing our
last bit of shopping.
Dotty excelled herself for much of the time, and when
asked to take us to a branch of Fortnums, couldn’t have been expected to know
that we wanted one with a car park. Her
second choice was closed for rebuilding.
At that point, we took advantage of what would otherwise have been quite
a detour to go and have a look at the Biscay Bridge doing its stuff. This transporter bridge took a couple of
loads of cars across as we watched, and one brave soul was walking across the
high-level walkway.
At this point we decided to head back towards the
flat, and find a supermarket closer to home.
One the way, Martyn spotted a Lidl just after we had passed the
corresponding highway exit. Dotty
proceeded to get us thoroughly lost on the way there, and we finished up
navigating by sun and common sense. We
stocked up with some of our familiar Navarre rosé at half the UK price, plus a
few other local wines. We had to call in
at the adjacent (and unusually smart) Aldi for the Txakoli, the white wine of
the Basque country – Romae ut Romani, n’est-ce pas? Dotty then regained her composure and got us
home correctly.
She was back up to her tricks on the way to the ferry
port next morning, leading us via country lanes to a blocked-off entrance to
the highway, which we could have found by our usual route, had we but stopped
and thought for ourselves for a moment.
The morning traffic was not fun, since there was a small matter of
Bilbao between us and the ferry port.
Had I hair, it would have been standing on end. Well, we got there safely, and were soon
loaded on board, rather more promptly and efficiently than in Santander last
time we did the long crossing.
[Next day] The crossing is long and pretty tedious,
and this time, a lively swell on the Bay of Biscay made getting around even on
two capable legs quite difficult. Once
horizontal, I found the movement not unpleasant, but we both appreciated the
smooth water after we’d rounded Cape Finistère (which gives its name to our
ship).
Having docked around 09:00, it took another 50 minutes
to get out of the docks. The A27 was
dreadful, so we struck out across country thanks to Martyn’s local knowledge,
and were home, shopped, soon after midday.
Fed and watered, and the car emptied, we headed for the local car
wash. Having been quoted a pretty dismal
trade-in on the Tiguan, I contacted one of the car buying web sites, which
quoted a sum little better, hence I ignored their offer. Ten days they came back and improved it by a
grand, which the fellow in their local shed proceeded to knock back by £700 on account
of chips and scratches. We met somewhere
in the middle, with the result that we are now, for the time being, a one-car
family.
This left us with a small detail: how to get
home. There is a bus service nearby, but
the next bus was due more than an hour after we got to the stop. Never short of mischief, we ambled into the
SEAT dealership to tell them we wouldn’t be trading the Tiguan, to find that
they now have a couple of Atecas, including a demonstrator. I shamelessly suggested I take it on a
one-way test drive to Forges-l’Evêque, to which our friendly salesman
sportingly agreed. Problem solved. Plus, it’s a nice car, and I’m looking
forward to getting mine. Minus a pedal,
and plus 40 horsepower.
All of which has helped to keep one’s mind off
tomorrow’s agenda. Watch this space.
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