Until a week ago we might have said that we had spent the last seven days in Spain but we now know that do so would be a huge faux pas! Despite the Basque region spanning both Spain and France it is fiercely independent and proud of its own identity. Ask any local on, either side of the border, what is their nationality and the answer will always be “I am Basque”. They have what is considered to be the oldest language in western europe and unlike any other we have ever come across. It bears no resemblance to the latin tongues of France or Spain making it particularly difficult to read menus!
After having spent the previous week lolling on the golden sands of Santander, we decided that it was time to head inland for some rural tranquility. We chose Zestoa and found ourselves a hotel that would once have been regal and full of old world charm. Unfortunately for us, despite its exterior elegance, its former days of glory were well and truly passed. Elements of faded grandeur could be appreciated in the musty old ballroom and the half working chandeliers and it certainly had an amazing view from our bedroom window.
Not a bad view!
The hotel
Zestoa is a sleepy little village that comes to life in the evenings. Every night locals gather in the main square to eat Pintxos (tapas), catch up on the days events and let their children run wild! Oddly we found a very modern funky bar with state of the art TVs where we could drink cheap beer, watch a nightly round up of the Spanish olympic highlights (that didn’t take long) and eat the daily offerings decorating the bar.
Our plans to don our walking boots and while away our days exploring the surrounding mountains was brought to an abrupt conclusion when, on our first outing, we were faced with deranged guard dogs around every bend that raced towards us with glazed eyes and bear fangs - a truly unpleasant experience!
Naturally this meant that we migrated back to the coast to discover what the Cantabrian sea shore has to offer. We were pleasantly surprised. 65 million year old rock formations act as a perfect backdrop to stunning golden sands with breaks to make even the most experiences surfer’s heart miss a beat.
Old fishing ports, their cobbled streets lined with pintxos bars, are interspersed with lively beach resorts giving a laid back but often bustling vibe. There was even a village called Deba which we had to visit. Mike insisted that I have my picture taken with a road sign so here you go.... Deb in Deba:
Pintxos are the order of the day in most places. These work well for an early evening snack to accompany your Rioja as the sun sets but not as a substitute for an evening meal which was often the case. Freshly caught fish was on offer at some of the fishing ports but inland was a different story. After a few days we found ourselves craving the gastronomic delights that we had become accustomed to in France. In our quest to find an evening meal that you could eat with a knife and fork we discovered that everything comes with chips. Maybe we were unlucky with our choice of restaurants but being served frozen fish in a port side restaurant (which incidentally was still cold) and what tasted like tinned meatballs - with the ubiquitous chips - was really disappointing.
A dividing line can certainly be drawn through the centre of the Basque county. That is not the line between France and Spain but between costal and rural. There is a marked difference between the two. The wealthy coastal resorts are modern, bustling and vibrant whilst time appears to have stood still in its rural counterparts. Whilst visiting the small village of Azpetzia we stumbled upon yet another festival. The cavernous cathedral was packed to the rafters with locals in their finery. Following the service a procession took to the streets with a marching band and some age old basque costumed men banging drums and blowing what looked like reorders. The piece de la resistance was parents allowing there very young children (as young as 5 years old) do their own miniature version of Pamplona. Yes, a gun fired and before our eyes hoards of children fled screaming and shouting from a herd of bulls (albeit baby ones!!).
The traditional rural eccentricities were also on display on our last night in Zestoa . The whole village clamoured amongst one another in the church square to shout and cheer as 8 young guys, chained to a wooden beam, lifted a huge concrete boulder and marched up and down the square until they passed out (...well give it a couple more minutes and we’re sure they would have done!). Very strange.
Mike was in his element when he realised that the matadors and their entourage that were performing at the local arena were staying in our hotel. He couldn't resist going to inspect their capes and swords and ask for a photo. This is Antonio Ferrarer, apparently he is a big deal in bull fighting circles!
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