The Great Iberian Road Trip, Days 9 to 15: Where Is Everybody? At The Football!

We had been in our rental for five hours and we hadn’t seen a single soul from the terrace windows off the living room. The place was deserted. There are cars around, there are plants in the common gardens, the grass is freshly mown, but there was no sign of life. It was like the Truman Show but without the fabulous weather. We arranged the children into various rooms to sleep, and after a number of shenanigans involving the exchanging of rooms and some typical bedtime screaming, the little monsters finally succumbed to their own sagging energy levels. I settled down to watch the second half of the Portugal v France quarter final, but before I switched on the TV, I paused for a short period of total calm and glorious silence.

And then…

AAAAuuuuUUUUrrrrRRRRrrrrRRRR!

This low-pitched, unsettling lupine howl from what seemed like a distant location deep in the forest made us sit up with a start, stabbing the silence, smothering the stillness and penetrating the peace. I looked at Bonny Bee, she looked at me, and in that instant we knew one thing: we wouldn’t be taking any family walks in the forest during our stay.

I watched the thrilling and appropriate end to Cristiano Ronaldo’s overhyped and tarnished international career and switched off the TV with a grin as wide as Lionel Messi’s trophy cabinet. The howls had subsided, so I decided to go to bed. Next day, we decided to explore the village some more. Because of Bonny Bee’s working schedule, rarely anything takes place before lunch, so we parked in the centre and went in search of a place to eat. For such a small place it had a large number of cafés and restaurants, all of which were full every day.

One place we settled on was to appease the children. For the last week we had eaten local food, so they deserved a little decadence and we found a place that served pizza and burgers called Las Titas. We sat on the terrace in our summer clothes and froze. We have truly become Valencianos. For that reason, we made our way inside and found a large table with benches each side in that typical US diner fashion. It had an Arizona gas station motif and the décor contained parts of cars and road maps. This type of place could have been in a much larger city, so to be in this village was very impressive. And the atmosphere was rocking – on a Saturday lunchtime.

The pizza section of the menu would make an Italian gesticulate most vigorously and probably walk out, kicking open and slamming the door shut as they left. I love the way the Spanish troll the fastidious Italians by murdering their hair-splitting culinary pedantry and doing new things with them. For example, I had a Pizza Tejana, a Texan take on the round Italian-style grilled open sandwich, which contained the usual tomato-based sauce, mozzarella and oregano, but also had some pulled pork with sriracha, chicken taco, bacon, onion, and a smoked cheddar-bacon sauce. It sounded so abominably delicious, or deliciously abominable, that I had to try it. After ten minutes, it was the first dish to reach our table. The children looked with envy at my pizza and asked for some. I reluctantly handed out three pieces, but despite having eaten only a little over half of it, it was much more filling than I could have imagined.

And it was delectable, truly a sign that innovation can win out over stubbornly clinging on to a form of superstitious nostalgia. Despite being a case of blasphemy the equivalent of taking a ton of pineapples scraped off a thousand Pizza Hawaii and dumping them on the grave of Gualtiero Marchesi, we weren’t on Italian jurisdiction, so we felt smugly satisfied.

The staff in Las Titas were extremely efficient, happy, kind and knowledgeable. And I think we will be back a couple more times. We stepped out into the village and went for a walk along the bay. San Cibrao is a lovely place, and the people so kind and welcoming. There is a saying: the Spanish will welcome you with open arms but they will never wrap them around you. In Valencia as well as here, we have met and spoken to hundreds more people in the short time we have been here than we ever did in Saarburg over fifteen years, but in both places, there is that same kind of reluctance to make any further steps towards sealing the connection.

You will nearly always meet casually and by chance in places you often frequent, and not through making any formal rendezvous, like to go to an event or restaurant. My theory is that in countries like the UK, Australia and the US, people move houses pretty often, so they pick up friends all the time, whereas in Old Europe, people generally stay where they are and the bonds they made in school and in their neighbourhood remain their friendship circle for life.

It was a cold, murky day, so we just hung around the village at the playground and the café next to it. The weather was going to improve the next day, Sunday 7 July, so we decided to make the most of it by taking a trip to a place called Foz and then on to Ribadeo. Foz was another quiet seaside village with little going on, but it had a few enticing restaurants near the promenade. We settled on one with a menu that was as hilariously translated as it was enticing. Their “Pig trotters with tickets” seemed like just the… ticket. And who could resist “Hake stuffed with hedgehog”? The most original surf ‘n’ turf menu item ever.

After a hearty meal consisting of Fabada Asturiana followed by some Secreto de Cerdo and potatoes, I invited everyone to jump in the car and head to Ribadeo, to see something new. The town itself was another maritime treasure, but of course we had to go to the playground. Luckily for us, there were a couple of decent cafés right next door. After a good hour of pushing swings, cleaning puke, returning other people’s toys, and saying “wow” after every act, I decided to take a look at Google Maps to see what I could entice them away with.

I was saved by an island with a lighthouse and some spectacular views just 10 to 12 minutes away. It was a little difficult to prise everyone away from the huge round basket swing, but I managed to; and after a little tour of the block, we sped off for the lighthouse. And like many aspects around here, it blew us all away. “Dramatic coastline” is an overused phrase, but in this case, it suits perfectly.

Over the millennia, the Atlantic Ocean’s violent, often turbulent temperament has carved many coves, bays, islands, channels, slopes, and cliffs out of the land, creating the spectacular seaboard we see today. We walked from the car down a narrow road, round a bend and there it was: a concrete and cast-iron bridge over the sea on to an island containing a historical lighthouse. A new one had been constructed nearby, but the old one had been converted into a café and guesthouse. I checked out the price for one night, and let’s just say it was the same as about a week in the place we’re staying in.

The children have started to appreciate places with views, and it’s so gratifying to hear their observations. We took a lot of photos and created some new memories.

The rest of the week was mainly spent just hanging around the village and taking a few short trips to other towns. I would typically cook a large lunch at home, then we would go out for cake and a release of energy. One of the most memorable visits was to Viveiro, a town a little way westwards. The old town, with its whitewashed buildings in narrow streets reminded us of Andalucia. And the newer part, stretched out along the inlet, reminded us of Lucerne in Switzerland.

Really, northern Spain is so varied and yet so meagrely visited that it is a joy to travel through this landscape. I really get the Caminantes and the reasons why this lush, verdant setting prepares the pilgrims for their arrival in Santiago de Compostela. All along the coast, from San Sebastian to Vigo, you can stop the car virtually anywhere and stand there for a while contemplating the view. So imagine walking it – for someone like me, who loves an area of outstanding natural beauty, I would take months to get there.

Another day, while Bonny Bee was working, I took the children to Burela, a town in the opposite direction, for cake, drinks, and a visit to quite an elaborate playground. We entered a café on one of the main streets, and sat at one of the rustic-looking tables. The woman served us with the cakes we ordered, but it didn’t end there: she kept bringing us little delicacies from the region for us to try. A very kind lady.

We headed to the playground, which when we arrived at about half past three was deserted, was at five teeming with as many kids as you can imagine, from all walks of life, all types of backgrounds, all various shades of skin, with one objective: to have immense fun with a football.

Dainoris tried joining in, but was a little clumsy – he’s still a bit of an English speaker, but his ability to understand Spanish is fine. When he starts Spanish primary school in September, we hope he will have little to no trouble at all.

Milda is a different kettle of fish: she could make friends with absolutely anyone. In fact, I think we should send her to the Middle East as a peace ambassador – she would be more successful than any fuddy-duddy politician.

Livia, on the other hand, is very approachable, but doesn’t have the social skills to keep people wanting to hang around her: she is more likely to start getting a little boisterous and end up playing alone somewhere else.

I was heartened by how easily these kids just let us newbies settle in to their environment. In the end, I was getting their ball out of the tree and chucking the kids about like we’d known each other for ever. Great bunch of lads.

And this is what I’ve learned since I’ve been in Spain: despite all the political rhetoric and the doom-mongering, Spain is a successfully multiracial society. This was richly demonstrated by the 16-year-old footballing prodigy, Lamine Yamal, whose mother is from Equatorial Guinea and father from Morocco, whose name I have seen on the backs of about half a dozen boys and young men in the last week or two.

Spain also seems to have set up its education system as well as possible too. Every school I pass looks so appealing for kids. Very often, there’s a lot of outdoor space, there’s plenty of material to pick from, every school is at least bilingual, and I don’t know many under-forties who don’t speak much English. In fact, every kid whose parent has interacted with us, has been challenged to speak to ours in English. We are attempting the same with our children in the other direction, which should be much easier, considering Spanish is all around us, but it’s taking a little time… In any case, the next generation of Spanish citizens will be just fine, if current governments can sort out some of the mess and mistakes of the past, keeping the extremists at bay.

On Sunday 14 July, I went for a walk after the Euro 2024 final, won by Spain, and another thing struck me: Spanish people are by no means to ostentatious in their flag-waving. In other countries, like the Netherlands, England, Germany, Poland, Italy, I have seen flags go up everywhere when the football championships roll around. It has become almost socially unacceptable in England for a pub not to drape itself in a huge Cross of St George or daub “It’s Coming Home” across the façade.

Here, flag-waving is very understated indeed. The number of flags I have seen, or at least noticed, would fit on fewer than both hands. But boy, can Spanish people celebrate… and it was during that walk that a few fireworks were set off about a kilometre away, which in turn set off a bit of dog barking. And it was while I was passing a modest row house that I heard from within the garden the very same haunting howling noise that had been mystifying me every night for a week. I don’t know what dog it was, but the acoustics created by the three walls of the property caused this rather meek-sized dog to sound like it was something that should be roaming the moors devouring sheep and inspiring filmmakers. But instead it was probably a little annoyed by the distant fireworks and missing its owner.

It’s funny how a certain landscape can play tricks on the imagination…

The Great Iberian Road Trip, Day 8: Thieving Pterodactyls and Lying Property Sharks

Leaving San Vicente de la Barquera was not easy. Being such an idyllic place yet with some decent life, any locations from now on would have some big boots to fill. In order to get through the long summer exile, it was necessary to book a couple of cheaper places for a longer stay where we could carry on ordinary life. We were heading to a place called San Cibrao, a village on the northern coast about 50 km from anywhere. On the way, we decided to stop off in Gijón, a city famous for the Santa Catalina Hill of sculptures by the sea, the Fishermen’s Quarter, and having a name that sounds like a donkey’s call.

Approaching Gijón, we were under the impression it was a fairly working city with a lot of companies, apartments and nothing else. But we were mistaken. The historical city centre of Gijón is on a rocky outcrop between two glorious beaches and the main port. I parked the car close to the Santa Catalina park by a couple of cafés that Google recommended. We entered one called La Tinta Del Mar, an archetypal maritime place: no frills, plenty of smiles, decent honest food, and proper coffee.

The children needed to let off a bit of steam, so the stopover in Gijón was supposed to be refuelling, then a good run around. In the café, the first thing that caught Bonny Bee’s attention was the Lure Of The Tostada. For anyone who is unaware, the tostada is Spain’s late-morning staple. It’s often about 15 to 20 centimetres of baguette cut in half and toasted, served with olive oil and fresh tomato paste, usually made on-site. The bread offered in this place was slightly ciabatta-looking, but nonetheless attractive. We jumped. I have to say it definitely hit the spot.

The kids had a couple of cheese and ham sandwiches, and we headed out on to what one might call Gijón’s top-floor balcony, Santa Catalina. It was a fairly gloomy day, some droplets of rain around, but on the whole not one to deter us from enjoying some sightseeing.

We walked up the grassy hill to find a woman with a cute little spaniel cross off the leash. Looking at Livia’s body language I could see what was going to happen next. As soon as Livia opened her mouth and did her usual irrational screaming-and-running performance across the park, the dog set off in hot pursuit. This sweet little companion dog must have thought “ah finally, someone playing to my ancestral instincts!” As a guard dog, it was more likely to lick any intruder to death, but there’s no changing the mind of a girl convinced every gormless pet with hair and four legs is going to murder her.

The owner set off at a fair pace to retrieve her dog, whistling, calling its name and generally looking insulted that anyone – ANYONE – could be remotely scared of her dog. She rather brusquely said to us “your daughter is going deeper into the territory where other dogs go, you should stop her!” Well, madam, I would, but as your four-legged creature is off its leash in a public park, it’s kind of hard to justify blaming my daughter for running off, especially considering she has absolutely no control over her emotions and her actions when it comes to dogs. After the badly choreographed Benny Hill Reenactment had been snuffed out by an indignant dog owner and a very athletic Bonny Bee, we continued our walk around the park.

It was full of the usually inexplicable artwork that city councils tend to dump in their municipal parks to give the locals something to stare quizzically at and for the pretentious to hail as works of genius. In any case, it was a pleasant park; in the middle, a huge nineteenth-century military installation to protect the port from invasion and on the lower levels a large inviting children’s playground, which has become the most essential element on this trip of any successful day out. Anything less than that is an unadulterated tragedy.

The family democratic process has gone like this:

ME: So, what shall we do today? We can go to a castle, take a ride up a mountain, visit a farm, or go and see an island.

KID 1: But we want to go to a playground!

KID 2: Playground!

BONNY BEE: We can go to a playground but first we want to see something else.

KID 1: That’s not fair, it’s so booooriiiing!

KID 3: Playground is best, maybe one with a slide and swings.

KID 2: Yeah, not like the one yesterday with only two swings!

KID 3: We want one with a moving slide, a climbing frame and – and – and – and lots of different swings!

ME: But you enjoyed the other places we visited.

KID 1: Yes but it’s not what we want!

ME: What about us?

KID 2: …

And on it goes. There are times that I must say I have felt marginalised by my own flesh and blood. Back in Valencia, when Milda creeps in to our bed in the middle of the night, it’s big enough not to make too much of a difference. But here, the bed is nearly as narrow as the dining table. And the dining table isn’t exactly fit for a Putin-Macron summit…

So we spent a while in the playground before going to check out Gijón’s old town. In the maritime gloom of Spain’s north coast lie a series of incredibly underrated towns and cities. Gijón is no exception. All right, it is never going to compete with the big cities, but it has a lot of charm. The Town Hall Square is an ornate rectangular treasure with buildings that reminded me of some of the smaller city squares in Poland, with their arched porticos and doors so high that a horse standing on top of another horse could enter with ease.

We sat at one of the two main cafés in the square and were immediately greeted by a seagull that, upon seeing three small children, was looking forward to robbing them of the cakes we had ordered. It was as if it knew. Kids are so predictable, even bandit birds know what’s coming. And yes, the shrieking feathered skyrat mugged us of a lot of cake to the extent that it landed on our table and physically dragged a slice of cake clean on to the floor. It was, for a couple of seconds, quite a shock, but the kids found it uproariously funny, so we just went along with that. Although we knew the seagull had done us up good and proper.

Seagulls to me are like Cristiano Ronaldo or Elon Musk. I detest them to my very core, but I can’t help but admire the way they outmanoeuvre everyone they confront. I watched in dumbstruck awe as one of these Terminator birds flew across the square about 3 floors up, glided effortlessly into a narrow side-street, and took a sharp left down another. At about 40 kilometres per hour. In the drizzle. If I did that in a car, I would have been liable for a humongous amount of carnage. They are thugs of the sky. The kind of creature that Bond villains would be based on.

The café itself was a truly delightful place to be a patron or a worker. But unfortunately the workers were unfriendly, impatient and not in the least helpful. It’s the type of place without a base of regular customers. The sort where people go once and never again. The guy who took our order had all the approachability of a Soviet Gastronom attendant but without the smart apparel. The misery etched on the faces of the staff told me a lot about the place. I didn’t write a review on Google, because I sensed they were being hounded by their boss, and I didn’t want to get them into trouble. But there was something not right about the place.

We headed back to the car and made our way to our next destination, San Ciprian, or in Galician San Cibrao, an undistinguished fishing village miles from anywhere. About 30 km beforehand, I messaged the agent to tell her we were half an hour away, and she said she would be waiting for us when we arrived. After a little confusion with the exact location, the agent came into view. For the next three weeks we were to stay here in the unpredictable climate of northern Galicia, so we hoped it was at least a decent apartment. It is situated in an urbanisation about 1.5 kilometres outside of the village, in between the trees of the never-ending primary forest all around us.

The woman herself was lovely although she gave me the impression she had lived through a lot. She told us we could park in whichever one of the three covered and numbered bays outside that we wanted, which I thought was strange. I took out the suitcases to have as few journeys to the apartment as possible and awaited her instructions. She said she would help me by bringing one of the suitcases up. In fact, she insisted, against my protestations. They’re heavy, even for me.

“You’re on the third floor,” she said through a set of teeth so long they could pick lettuce up off the floor without bending down in what seemed like Spanish spoken by a Portuguese.

“I’m glad there’s a lift then!” said I, naively.

“Yesh, but it doeshn’t work anymore. There are sheven rezhidenshesh, but only one ish year-long occupied. And they live on the firsht floor, sho they don’t shee the need for a lift.”

So we dragged the shootcayshesh – sorry, suitcases – up three flights of stairs. She gave us the keys and told us to go on ahead, she would take a little while longer.

“You (puff) get shtarted, I’ll (snort) take my time (wheeze) and shee you there (gasp).” I was a bit concerned about her, but she insisted. I could hear her groaning and mumbling as she made her way up the stairs.

“Please, just leave it there, and I’ll come down for it in a little while.”

“I’m nearly at the shecond floor, just take a glansh around, shit on the shofa and I’ll be there in a couple of minnitsh.”

To her credit, this poor woman, who obviously felt pressure from the people who run the app we used, to do her very best. And she did, bless her. I will make sure she gets a terrific review on there, and make sure the app people know how I feel about them. Because when she got to the top, in the glow of the hallway light, you could see where she had had open heart surgery. Exploitation of subordinates comes in many forms, and making anyone in that state of health feel the need to go that far is an outrage.

In any case, she showed us about the place, spotlessly clean but a little outdated (sounds familiar), with a proper number of bedrooms that hopefully we could get the kids to sleep individually. But there was a huge TV, which was great for watching kids’ TV and Euro 2024. I had drawn Spain in the coworking sweepstake. In fact, I fortuitously happened to be there when they made the draw and was invited to assist. I not only pulled Spain out, I pulled my own name out, much to the merriment of everyone there. I did offer to put it back in and let someone else pull out a country for me, but they were adamant that I should keep it. Well, what’s a guy to do? Never in my life did I want to lose a bet as much as this, but hey, I’ll let it go!

Back to the apartment. After the lady showed us around the place, she told us to get in touch with her if there were any issues at all. I had a feeling we might need her a few times. I found it really sad, disgraceful even, that five of the apartments out of the seven in this block were empty, and only one – ONE – actually had permanent residents. I just didn’t get it. How could the local government let the place fall into disrepair like this? We took a tentative ride into the village. The road from the urbanisation to the village is long and straight. And you can see from the very other end the symbol of local government incompetence: the empty skeleton of a block of apartments or offices, that had obviously been there a long, long time. Deserted, abandoned, unloved and unwanted.

What was saddest, though, was that if this atrociously-placed eyesore hadn’t been started in the first place, the direct view to the sea would be a perfect way to say “Welcome to San Cibrao”. Instead, some construction cowboys had slipped a few backhanders to some malleable councillors and got the necessary permits. It happens everywhere in depressed areas – then the building firms declare bankruptcy and the money disappears, leaving an unacceptable legacy for the local people and turning them against the politicians who did this. And this is how the more extreme parties get noticed – because after the mainstream ones run out of credibility due to taking the populace for granted (they’ll always vote for us, won’t they?) the only alternative is to give them the Stinkfinger, as the Germans call it.

EXTRA PHOTOS:

The Great Iberian Road Trip, Days 5-8: If Cornwall Were Italian It Would Look Like This

The arrival in San Vicente de la Barquera was a mix of happiness and frustration. We were thoroughly excited to be in such a spectacular place, but the one-way systems in the town made it almost impossible to find the rental accommodation. The instructions were sketchier than the Technical Challenge round in the Bake-Off semi-final. In the end, it was simply me overthinking the situation. We had a spot in a typical Spanish indoor parking area - I don't know what it is about their propensity for converting their spare rooms into places to store cars, but the number of dodgy locations I’ve seen which are designated for cars would never pass the planning stage anywhere north of the Alps.

Our apartment overlooks the pseudo-Cornish inlet of the river Escudo, with a smattering of private boats moored on the channel. About 350 metres away on the opposite side of the river mouth lie two perfectly-formed semicircular beaches that lead up to a campsite, an apartment block, and some typical seaside cafés with their usual fare of substandard cakes and overpriced fried food. But in amongst them is a proper restaurant with a daily menu and real waiting staff. Something for everybody.

Heading along the road from our apartment on the right are blocks of apartments, a couple of supermarkets, a pharmacy and another café, and on the other side are the fishing docks where people come at all times of the day and night to purchase seafood and fish straight out of the sea. At the roundabout at the end, a right turn takes you over a fairly long, curved bridge towards the beating heart of the town. Here we find the Old Main Drag, as a famous Irishman once sang. The narrow streets and alleys leading off bring up some memories of Menaggio, on Lake Como. This is doubly confirmed by the view from the banks of the inlet as one goes left around its periphery. The colourful buildings rising up the hill to the castle, and their reflection on the still waters of this natural harbour all draw similarities with the Italian Lakes.

But without the pushy tourists and the unprincipled local pricing.

We both have responsibilities while we are here: Bonny Bee is making sure we stay financially afloat by doing the vast majority of the professional activities on this road trip, and because I’m the one with the driving licence and the knowledge of the area, I’m seeing that the kids have things to do.

After settling in, I went out to the supermarket to buy a few groceries and get acquainted with the locality. I decided to make something easy like pasta with bacon and tomato sauce. There was very little in the way of herbs or other loose products, so I just threw the lot together in a mishmash of filling nutrients. This is the main issue I have with tourist towns: I couldn’t even find proper muesli or fresh milk: it was all big brand rubbish in small quantities – the cereals with the green and orange cockerel on the front, the chocolate spread with the huge lettering, the yoghurts made in a French mega-factory near Nancy, and the coffee from a Swiss giant that I refuse to even touch, let alone buy. I settled for a local brand called Dromedario, which turned out to be really tasty, unlike that other mess that they roped George Clooney into hawking in a series of cringeworthy adverts.

I tend to stay away from big brands for most things, because they are so brutal in their marketing, that they are obviously trying to push aside any competition that might be better. Which is often all of the rest. Sometimes a few extra shekels gets you a much, much better quality product, and sometimes the cheaper supermarket brand is the best option.

Anyhow, the kids were not just hyperactive from all that sitting and relaxing in the car, they were excited to the point of delirium. I could tell it was going to be a pretty exhausting night. After a series of threats and confiscations, they eventually dropped off at around ten-thirty. Sleeping all in the same room brought a level of misery and despair to us a couple of years ago in Roskilde, but this has turned to sheer frustration – progress, one might say…

The morning light, accompanied by some pleasantly fresh air, gave me the urge to get going out to explore the town. But Bonny Bee and the children had other ideas. Bonny was excused, as she had a lot of work to do. The others just wanted to watch kids’ TV and take it easy, which is fair enough if you’re my age, but they’re at the battery-operated bunny rabbit stage of life, so they should be badgering me, not the other way round. In any case, I managed to get two of them out for a while; Dainoris had spent too long wasting our time, so to make a point, we left him with his mother.

The town was located about a ten-minute walk away from our place, and walking around it shouldn’t take that long, but there were a large number of obstacles in such a small area. Milda and Livia have an irrational fear of dogs, and this whole town is pooch paradise. Punctuating the random darting off screaming at the sight of a vicious-looking Labrador or a sabre-toothed Jack Russell, we managed to make it to the safe haven of a set of high bar stool at the first café in town. The rest would have to wait. After a soothing pineapple juice for them and a coffee for me; we carried on our walk, with me trying to stand between the girls and the ferocious poodles and brutal spaniels that blocked our path.

The main squares in San Vicente accommodate a tree-covered community meeting area, a number of cafés, a medical clinic, the central market, with the rest for cars. We walked around the serene harbour with the faint sound of fishing boats chugging out towards the sea. It was suddenly lunchtime and having been in Spain for nearly a year now, we are experts at identifying rip-off one-time-visit restaurants from the more family-friendly, repeat-visit ones. A good place was just opposite the market and a jolly old geezer with a smoker’s cough came out to hand us the daily menu, which seemed to have been the daily menu for several weeks.

In any case, Livia predictably chose spaghetti with tomato and minced beef, and Milda surprised us all by requesting fish. No ordinary fish, this was a connoisseur’s choice. Since she was still unable to walk, she has had an adventurous taste in food – this hasn’t shown signs of stopping. She also happens to be great company: nice chats, fun games, spur-of-the-moment singing… She makes our time pass so much more easily.

We then took a walk through the palm tree-lined park to the children’s playground at the other end of the town for a play and a little bit of energy-reduction before we headed back to our apartment to face the wrath of a rather truculent Dainoris. In the end, he had become quite meek and contrite, and since then seems to have calmed down a little.

That evening, I spent the rest of the time sitting in the huge bay window in the upstairs room looking out on the river mouth with the laptop. This was the perfect place to write – I will be returning here in the future.

The next day, Wednesday 3 July, it was the two girls who wanted to stay at home and Dainoris who wanted to go out. We did the same thing as the day before, except we had lunch in another local establishment. He met some younger kid in the playground who took a shining to him, and we would run into him a few times round the town.

So far, it had been a little bit of a dysfunctional stay in San Vicente, and Bonny Bee had hardly seen or done anything. So that afternoon, we managed to get to the beach – it was a glorious day; the kind of cotton-white clouds that amble leisurely across the sky and change shape on an almost constant basis. The beach was full of families, teenage groups, the odd geriatric nudist, and the traditional supply of protein-fuelled Neanderthals flexing muscles and grunting at passers-by.

There are no waves here, which made it easy for the three to walk straight into the water and splash around as much as they wanted. They played very nicely together indeed, which made a great change. I went out further into the water, and instantly regretted it when my foot scraped on what seemed to be an open shell or a shard of rock sticking up. Getting out of the water and going to the First Aid centre at the top of the beach was going to be a tricky affair, but I made it. They sterilised the wound and patched me up, but sooner or later I would have to go to the clinic in the centre, I was sure. The gash was deep but quite clean. The thick skin of the foot was going to take a long time to reattach.

And that was the end of my aquatic activities for a while.

We went back to the apartment to finish off the evening in peace. Not a bit of it. I made burgers in bread and when Livia asked me to cut hers into several pieces, she slipped her finger in and the knife I was using sliced part of her skin off. It was one of the most traumatic things that ever happened to me. I felt sick. So did everyone else. Livia, for all her faults, took it in her stride, and after the initial shock, acted with stoic calm once her finger was bandaged up.

On the Thursday, our final full day here, I needed to go to the pharmacy for two reasons – Livia’s finger and my foot. We changed Livia’s plaster and the pharmacist gave me some waterproof plasters. While I was there, one of the employees of the local clinic came in and the pharmacist asked her to take a look at my foot. She told me to go immediately to get an appointment. I am constantly fascinated by the amount of paperwork we have to carry around with us in Spain to get anything simple done. I had to stand there with three marauding munchkins while being asked for various bits of admin. My fears were unfounded, as everyone in the place that day witnessed my three little hooligans playing on the reception floor so very nicely. The compliments were unfamiliarly kind, but I would take them gladly.

But the woman at reception nonetheless located all the details needed and printed out a receipt-like piece of paper with the confirmation of my appointment for 16.20 that afternoon. We went around town a little bit more, their mother took over while I went to get the car and they walked over the bridge to the beach. It was clouding up quite a lot so I didn’t think there would be much activity on the beach, but this is the hardy north, where people take no notice of the weather – a recognisable trait for me.

Arriving slightly early for the doctor, I was seen very rapidly. You know you are getting old when the doctor meeting you is young enough to be your daughter. This had never happened to me before – the doctors I have been seen by are often fusty, crusty fuddy-duddies, but here was someone who was probably still imbibing cocktails and jumping to an electronic beat on a Saturday night until 4 or 5. She was extremely good at her job and had an enthusiasm for it that impressed me greatly. I think she would have made an excellent dinner party guest.

She gave me an ointment to rub on three times a day and a strip of waterproof plasters. We had a short chat about life in the town and off I went, to find the others at the beach further up. I parked right at the edge of the beach and found Livia and Dainoris in the water. Initially I couldn’t see their mother or Milda, but eventually they were spotted further up just below the best-looking beach café I have ever seen. It’s one of those places that even civil engineers and merchant bankers on six-figure salaries would spend a few moments considering resigning to do a few hours’ work a week there. Although with their savings, they could probably buy the place in cash.

From the beach, you go up some grass-lined concrete steps to the roadside pavement. At the other end of the pavilion, about 10 metres further on, is the bar. It is well-stocked with plenty of cakes, sandwiches, snacks and all types of drinks. I can imagine it’s pretty kicking on Saturday nights in the summer. The bartender, a softly-spoken gentle giant from Colombia who had everything under control, told us about the cakes on offer in his display cabinet.

There was a marvellously unpretentious cheesecake with speculoos (called Lotus in Spain, after the Belgian company that produces it), but my eyes were drawn to the most handsome buttercream-covered carrot cake I have ever seen. I settled for a slice of that. It was exactly how I liked my cake: slightly underbaked by just a few minutes so that it retains its fluffiness and stays fresh and moist, even when it sits in a display unit all day. As for the buttercream, all I can say is I asked for the details of the maker, because I wanted to personally write them a note to congratulate them for making the best carrot cake I have ever eaten.

Livia’s finger had got wet in the water, despite wearing one of those finger condoms taped up. It was bleeding because the water had softened the skin and the coldness hadn’t helped. We headed back to the apartment one last time to patch her up and dress her wound once more. She complained a bit about it, but she’s pretty calm, which is the best attitude you can have.

The following morning we would be heading westward once again to Galicia, a dream of mine for many years. But for the final hours of daylight, I would sit by the window overlooking the inlet and write, write, write…

EXTRA PHOTOS:

The Great Iberian Road Trip, Day 4 - The Wild Westward Way

We left the far-flung Kerry Mountains – a.k.a. the Sierra de Urbasa – at an unspeakably early hour on Monday morning. We were all convinced that we weren’t cut out for 100% rural life for longer than two nights. In fact, the children tellingly got dressed and brushed their teeth without even so much as a whimper: a sure sign of their camping fatigue. This has been truly noted. I packed the car to within an inch of its life (we won’t be buying too many large souvenirs on this road trip, that’s for sure) and we set off on the spectacular road that runs from Navarra to the port city of San Sebastian.

Valencia, with its wide boulevards and spacious motorways, is a perfect city for those who like to thrash their cars. I was completely bamboozled many times by Valencian drivers: they’ll overtake you at a traffic light if it means they’ll get in front. I have been raced through the streets many times – more so when I was still in a German car. I remember one geezer looking at me with a huge smile on his face waiting for the traffic lights to turn green so he could leave me for dust. He forgot I was in a Toyota Prius Plus Hybrid and I could go 0-60 in about 3 seconds – never try to instigate a drag race with a battery-operated car: you will lose. I have been tailgated by old grandmas in 30-year-old Peugeot 305s, overtaken on the wrong side by huge truck drivers, and been outmanoeuvred by a driving instructor going 40 km/h above the speed limit.

So it came as an enormous shock to me to find that Basques drive like utter lunatics. The breathtaking, winding motorway that cuts through the dramatic landscape here, chicaning in and out of valleys, running parallel to hillside meadows and cutting through the limestone rock, is a perilous yet utterly beguiling route from Pamplona to the coast and on along into Cantabria and Asturias. We could have been in Switzerland or subalpine Italy if it were not for the numerous crash scenes. It reminded me of the high summer insect slaughter in my kitchen: random vehicles strewn along the highway as if some colossal child ogre with a massive flyswat had splatted them. So you would think that the blessed locals would learn from this and slow down.

Not a bit of it.

In fact, I had to perform some pretty scary manoeuvres of my own just to keep up. There were articulated trucks overtaking in the fast lane; there were Dacia Dokker drivers hurtling round bends as if they were expecting a chequered flag to appear; there were motorcyclists dodging in and out of the traffic like some Star Wars-Grand Theft Auto mashup. And in amongst all this were we. I mean, I’m not a squeamish driver; I can truly handle myself on the road. But I was just pretty badly shocked by it all. In Valencia, they drive competitively. Here, they drive aggressively, or even with hostility.

Using my phone as the GPS, I noticed an email coming in from the Valencian Education Ministry. This was serious. This would be the day we found out about our children’s fate in the coming year. Where would they be placed? Previously, we had to go through what I can only describe as the world’s least efficient school application process. In fact, it was so unwieldy and unmanageable, I asked the secretary of our preferred school to do it for us. About a month ago, the online applications opened up for schools in the Valencian Community. You have to go to a particular website and get yourself an ID. Fair enough. But to do that, you need to scan and send every single piece of paperwork you have ever received, and woe betide anyone who is applying with the wrong type of document.

The Spanish NIE is a piece of paper you get to prove you are a resident in Spain. To get this, we had to jump through hoops of fire. And when we got it, we soon realised it was only the preliminary one. To get the full version, you have to train a set of gibbons to make a Black Forest gâteau and serve it with steaming hot coffee to a group of top German chefs. So as we don’t have that particular skillset, we gave up in a blind panic and pleaded with Isabel, a truly kind and patient woman who runs the school’s secretariat along with her sister, to do it for us. The fact that she offered to do it for us says a lot about the type of application process. Some larger schools even provide appointments for anxious parents to come along and have their applications handled.

You choose between five and ten schools you would like your kids to end up in, and through a points-based system, they allocate you to various schools. The points are loosely based on the following criteria: number of siblings, location close to home or work, recently moved there, and then a few other factors. As this one is a four-minute walk from our office, we have three kids, and we recently arrived, we were more or less nailed on for our first choice. So when I pulled off the motorway into a service station area and went to the database to check, I was astonished and frustrated (but hardly surprised) to find that I was unable to connect. I called the ministry immediately, and after a long wait, some person told me that if the school did your application, then the school would dispense the decision.

But when I called the school’s secretary, she wasn’t there. We had to wait until the day after to discover the results.

I tried to block it out of my mind and just enjoy the scenery, even if it was raining and cold. The weather evoked memories of Belgium in March – it is a wonder of our rich planet that the climate in the Basque Country is so temperate, and yet further north round the Bay of Biscay in Bordeaux, Royan or Arcachon it’s about 10 to 15 degrees warmer.

We arrived in a rather gloomy San Sebastian a little after 10 in the morning. I had always wanted to walk along the Kontxa promenade there, with its ornate architecture and imaginative ironclad ornaments, but being here at the beginning of July in weather that the Scots would describe as dreich, I was rather underwhelmed. The city behind the seafront was also fairly generic. This could be any middling European market city: a little bit of Antwerp in the street accessories, a dash of Mannheim in the atmosphere, a sprinkling of Leicester in the shops, and a dose of the unexciting Zürich social scene. There were grid streets, tree-lined avenues, the same chain shops as everywhere else, and very utilitarian amenities. Nothing really screamed that it was special or unique. I think humdrum sets the scene perfectly.

And that was the moment that it hit me: Valencia is unique. Diverse. Multifaceted. Exciting. Playful. Impish. Subversive. Truculent. And I missed it so desperately. In under a year, Valencia had shown itself to me and awoken so many of my feelings that had remained dormant during the previous fifteen long wilderness years.

Such a powerful epiphany. For the ten months we had spent there, I had been constantly questioning whether we had made the right decision, and it took a walk in the Basque rain for me to realise it. I had had my misgivings about the whole scheme: why would we want to put down our roots in such a vastly different place? Why didn’t Bonny Bee want to settle for something less adventurous, like Belgium or Czechia? But now I saw the method in the madness: and I can now say that I have a much clearer picture of the situation and as soon as we return to Valencia in September, I will get the ball rolling on our definitive settling in the area.

The further westward we went, the cheerier the weather. When the huge sign appeared welcoming us to Cantabria, the skies suddenly brightened up. I didn’t, though. I was feeling sleepy from all the early-morning packing, the driving and the burden of not knowing where my kids were going to school in September. Having them in El Cabanyal, a few hundred metres from our office, would be a huge relief to us, and make our lives much easier.

But that would have to wait, as I was determined to enjoy the inspirational landscape that had announced itself in front of us. If the Basque Country had been a southern mashup of Ireland and Germany, Cantabria has echoes of Devon, Cornwall, the Scottish Lowlands, and Lake Como.

The picturesque fishing port of San Vicente de la Barquera lies in an inlet at the mouth of the river Escudo and other tributaries. The squeal of seagulls, the chugging of fishing boats, the buzzing waterside houses and hostelries, the ubiquity of seafood, all have echoes of Devon and Cornwall – this could be St Ives, Polperro, Dartmouth or Padstow. The squares, with their social heart, the florid character of the buildings, and the serenity of the water lapping at the shores all draw parallels with Lake Como villages such as Bellagio. And the imposing, undulating dark hills with their wild and shadowy forests and wide-open meadows immediately reminds me of Loch Lomond and the Trossachs. However, the immense, white-clouded skies with their penetrating light, tell me I am much further south. And indeed I am. But also much further north than Valencia.

San Vicente de la Barquera, and Cantabria as a whole, is one of Europe’s best-kept secrets; and I will elaborate in the next instalment.