Travelling in Euskal Herria

This travel guide to Euskal Herria published at The Sunday Times comes to us via Basque Diaspora:

Basque: No such thing as a quiet drink

In the beautiful Basque country, hospitality knows no bounds

Philip Jacobson of The Sunday Times stays up late

Early evening in one of the countless bars of San Sebastian’s old town, and, following a chat about rugby with some convivial Basques, I am about to be gently abducted. They are warming up for the nightly txikiteo, an extended ramble around their favourite tapas joints, and take it for granted that I will join them. Nothing too strenuous, they promise, and in any case, what better way could there be to get to know their fine city? A couple of hours later, I’m full to bursting with morsels of squid, anchovies, smoked meats, cheese and spicy sausage, washed down with many a glass of beer, wine and sharp cider, and the pace is beginning to tell on me. My companions, hardened practitioners of the Basque art of simultaneously eating, drinking, smoking and conversing at top volume, take pity, and we find a cafe for a cup of the shudderingly strong black coffee that keeps the locals going.

Having previously spent time in the Basque country — both the Spanish and French side — I should have realised what was coming next. As 9.30pm was clearly too early for dinner, my guides observed, we could have a quiet drink or two while we decided which of the first- rate seafood restaurants within walking distance we would visit. I did briefly consider dropping out, but that would have gravely offended the enduring, if exhausting, tradition of Basque hospitality: midnight was long gone by the time we reeled from the Restaurante Beti-Jai. Needless to say, I was not allowed to pay my own way.

Next morning, feeling somewhat fragile, I set off for the Playa de la Concha, the great crescent of golden sand that is the pride and joy of the vibrant, stylish city known to Basques as Donostia. The cafes in the arcades lining Plaza de la Constitucion were just
opening as the first coaches disgorged parties of tourists heading for the excellent Museo de San Telmo, devoted to the ethnography of the ancient Basque nation.

Strolling along the broad promenade in a bracing wind, I passed wetsuited surfers preparing to ride the long Atlantic rollers. The sun came out to illuminate the elegant facades of the belle-époque buildings around the bay. Beyond the western end of the beach, embedded in rocks lashed by the sea, lies the extraordinary El Peine de los Vientos (Comb of the Winds), an iron-and- granite artwork created by the renowned modern sculptor Eduardo Chillida.

A proud Donostiarra who died last year, Chillida once kept goal for San Sebastian’s revered Real Sociedad team, whose clashes with Atletico Bilbao always generate fierce passions. The historic rivalry between the two cities remains intense, and the extraordinary success of the Guggenheim Museum in raising Bilbao’s profile around the world does not exactly thrill the self-styled queen of the Basque coast.

FROM San Sebastian, I took the old Guipuzcoa coast road towards France: my ultimate destination was Bayonne, a handsome, self-confident city too often overlooked by British visitors in favour of its flashier neighbour, Biarritz. The frontier road meanders past some pretty Basque villages along the Bidasoa estuary, though the border town of Irun is a drab place.

Things start looking up again the moment you cross into the French Basque country. St Jean de Luz is a dazzling little resort set in a beautiful bay. Don’t believe anybody who tells you that it has been spoilt by tourism: yes, it gets crowded in peak season, and yes, the best hotels and restaurants on Rue de la République are eye-wateringly expensive. But there are cheaper, and still excellent, restaurants across the bridge that links the town to Ciboure, and the most important things are free of charge: the magical evening light, which suffuses the port with subtle colours, the splendid beach and the great gothic church of St Jean Baptiste, where Louis XIV married the Spanish infanta Maria Teresa in 1660.

A short drive away, the former whaling port of Guéthary does not aspire to great sophistication; although discerning French families have been vacationing here for years, it retains the feel of a real Basque community. Old codgers in floppy berets sun themselves on benches around the fronton court, where fast and furious pelota contests take place: a lot of money can change hands during big matches, one confirmed gambler told me, “but I wouldn’t advise you to try your luck”.

The last time I was in Guéthary, a fair was in full swing. The hardy Basques adore trials of physical strength, and a collection of bruisers were competing to lift the biggest boulders, pull a heavily laden wagon the farthest and split the most logs. The bars were full of locals playing a fiendishly complicated Basque card game, mus: all I can tell you is that it revolves around a stylised ritual of cheating, signalled by a bizarre array of gestures and grimaces.

AS FAR as Biarritz is concerned, set me down at a table in the cafe of the lovingly restored Casino Municipal, looking out over the Grande Plage, and I’ll let the laid-back ambience of this spa town-turned-resort do the rest. There is something enormously relaxing about watching the hefty Atlantic breakers over a carafe of icy rosé, idly scanning the running card for the afternoon’s racing at the local hippodrome.

Although Biarritz clung for too long to the glory days of the Second Empire, when it became the in place for crowned heads, European nobility and well-heeled swells, I find the air of faded grandeur most agreeable.

The first glimpse of Bayonne’s walled old town, with its fine half-timbered houses painted a distinctive oxblood red, always raises my spirits: here is another of those medium- sized French cities (from the same mould as Auxerre, Aix en Provence and Montpellier) that strikes an enviable balance between commerce and culture, tradition and trade. Even the most dedicated beach person would find a day there richly rewarding, with ample time to do the main sights and still enjoy wandering through the historic Grand Bayonne district.

The lofty, gothic Cathédrale Sainte Marie is a good starting point: begun in the 13th century, when Bayonne was ruled by the English, it was eventually completed six centuries later. Just around the corner is the shop-lined Rue du Port Neuf, where the most famous of the town’s numerous chocolate-makers, Chocolat Cazenave, is located: try a mug of the creamy hot chocolate that has been served there since the mid-1880s (when the church denounced it as “devil’s brew”), before contemplating the purchase of a Bayonne ham from the shop almost opposite.

The city’s annual jazz festival, in July, allows its more sober-sided inhabitants to let down their hair, and the fun continues with the Fêtes de Bayonne at the end of the month. The Musée Bonnat, named after Bayonne’s foremost painter, has works by Goya, Ingres and Degas, with a room set aside for Rubens, while visitors to the Musée Basque — extensively restored and expanded not long ago — have nothing but praise for the imaginatively displayed collections of Basque history and culture.

On the opposite bank of the narrow River Nive, which bisects the town centre, Petit Bayonne is the place to be after dark, when bars and restaurants in the twisting backstreets come raucously to life. On a previous visit, a local journalist directed me to Le P’tit Pub: crowded, noisy, smoky and hugely welcoming. I could have been back in San Sebastian.

.... ... .