Campervan Therapy

A quick dash from the Catalan to the Basque coast offers up parched mountains, rocky teeth, the Pyrenees covered in snow, Medieval towns clustered on hilltops, cypress lined driveways, the Ebro Valley covered in vines, the lacy blossom on thousands of fruit trees and wildflowers romping away in the fields.

Basque Orio is a working fishing port, its quayside lined with trawlers, its river of the same name runs out to the wild waves of the Atlantic.

The old town clusters round the 17^th Century San Nicolás de Bari, a stop-off on the Camino de Santiago pilgrim route. The covered market square is surrounded by restaurants and bars, with their outdoor braziers, the scent of barbequing fish on the air. Children play while adults chat through the evening.

Orio Kanpina is a green oasis with an ancient church poking up out of the fir trees on the mountain.  The bar next to the campsite serves up simple salads, hake and chips and a smooth vino rosado.

Your brain gets a workout following the yellow Camino walking signs to Zarautz, but soon we’re over the bridge in Orio and walking up through the mountain’s forested slopes. We glimpse the Atlantic through the holm oaks as we follow both the Camino and GR121 walking trail signs.

The trail spits us out in a pastoral idyll. We wind up through hills green and fresh enough to eat. Mules, donkeys, goats, and impossibly long-haired sheep do just that. Solid stone farmhouses line the route, hens pecking around in their yards. Primroses stud the hedgerows.

Seán slogs up behind me with the picnic backpack, but it’s worth it at the top of the mountain as we look back at the lush fields and blue-hued mountain peaks.

We choose the coastal walking trail to Zarautz, the Atlantic before us, with surf booming into the cliffs below and breaking on Zarautz’s beach, which is the longest beach in the Basque Country.

Humble ham rolls are elevated to a feast, not only by the spectacular view, but also by the dense walnut bread that I always hunt down in Spain.

Soon, we detour to look at the Malla Harria mining dock that juts out on the promontory into the Atlantic just before Zarautz where iron from Andazarrate mines, 10 kilometres away, was loaded onto trawlers, transported by a funicular system, from the islet of Mollarri. As always, I’m taken aback by believing I’m in the middle of Nature only to learn of its industrial past.

Steps lead down to the valley bottom where the River Iñurritza weaves through the dunes and the wetland area to the sea. I play chase with the waves along the length of the fine sanded beach. There’s nothing better than sinking your bare feet into fine sand as far as I’m concerned.

Seán’s horror at cold water keeps him far from the racing waves. The bay is full of surfers, looking like so many seals on the boards out to sea, but when they do catch a wave it’s awe inspiring to see them ride it, turning right back into it at the last moment just before it hits the shore.