My original plan for visiting the Pyrenees called for a rental car. Alas, an automatic rented in Southern France or Northern Spain was going to cost me 90 USD a day! I decided instead to base in Bayonne and day trip by train. I bought a ticket over the Internet for a direct ride from Paris on the TGV, and I picked a hotel as close to the station as I could get - right next door, in fact.
Turned out, the TGV was only grande vitesse for the first hour, as far as Poitiers (yes, it does tilt on the bends), and my carriage was somewhat dilapidated, with less seat room than on the suburban train to Chartres. I was happy enough watching the countryside pass, and then suddenly I saw the name Pomerol, and realized I was seeing some of the most highly-prized (and highly-priced) grape vines in the world - looking like rows of gnarled old sticks crowned with small sprays of bright green leaves. Here and there huddles of tiled buildings sheltered by trees broke the rows. A more dignified grey-roofed chateau stood in a little park.
On board, where several people were accompanied by very well-behaved dogs, increased security was evident. Normally, luggage goes either overhead, or on racks at either end of the carriages. Now the areas at the ends of the carriages were blocked off by tape, with notices proclaiming that they were "condamnee" for security reasons. As we left Paris, a gendarme went through the train, matching overhead bags with passengers. Although two gendarmes continued to patrol the train throughout the journey, they didn't bother with bag matching for passengers who joined at intermediate stops.
The Paris-Madrid hotel in Bayonne was basic but comfortable, with helpful owners. Close to the station, it was also close to the Bistro McCluque, where I ate three nights running [Food alert] The first night I enjoyed spicy grilled crayfish followed by delicious breast of duck in blackberry sauce, and cheese served, surprisingly successfully, with blackberry preserves. The next night I worked my way through most of a huge plate of paella, hiding both known and unknown sea creatures in well-flavored rice. The third night, featuring a dry fillet of dorade (sea bream), was disappointing and I ate a good poulet basque (casseroled chicken with peppers) at a different place my last night in Bayonne. Still, it always surprises me that even the most mundane food seems to taste better in France. [/Food alert]
The Pyrenees made my itinerary not only because I love mountains, but also because of a now-forgotten English author, Dornford Yates, whose comedies of manners and light adventure novels, written in the 1920s, I read as a child. (No, not in the 1920s!) I remembered one in particular, set in the French town of Pau, which apparently offered a magnificent view of the Pyrenean range from its promenade, high above the River Gave. Alas, not only did I find that a town I had always thought of as "Paw" was actually "Poe" to its inhabitants, but the view was obstinately obscured by haze - and indeed Yates had warned that this was often the case.
Some day I will have to stay in Pau and wait for the mountains to show themselves, for I found it an otherwise enjoyable town, with plenty of shops and cafes, a pleasant park with a stream and a rose arbor, a posh casino and the villas built by and for the rich English who visited en masse in the 19th century in varying states of disrepair. I would have enjoyed its chateau more with an English instead of French language tour, but the Gobelin tapestries described by Yates are still in place, the reconstructed royal apartments are suitably grand, and the shrine to Protestant Henry III of Navarre, who became Catholic Henry IV of France ("Paris is worth a mass") and who was born here is a hoot - the massive turtle shell said to have been his cradle is surrounded by four pennanted spears and crowned with immense white plumes.
I had thought of calling this piece "Basking with the Basques", but due to unexpected difficulty buying suntan lotion I spent my time at the seaside town of St. Jean de Luz trying instead to stay in the shade, not easy as the promenade faced the sun, and most trees in this part of the world have been viciously pollarded. I had picked a sunny Sunday to visit, and found many French with the same idea. Even excellent sauteed anchovies with garlic for lunch did not convince me that this was a town to revisit.
St. Jean Pied-a-Port, on the other hand, while also packed with French tourists, at least had a wonderful mountain setting. (Despite the similarity of their names, they are in quite different directions from Bayonne, requiring different trains.) I rode up to St. Jean Pied-a-Port with a trainload of pilgrims, well-equipped with boots, sticks, packs, water-bottles and sleeping bags for the Camino Real, the pilgrimage trail to Santiago de Compostela. (I hear that Jenna Bush had her luggage trucked instead of carrying it herself - I donīt think that should count...) The mountains were so beautiful that I was almost tempted to consider a pilgrimage myself, but stories of slogging through mud to be welcomed by cold showers gave me pause. The pilgrims I talked with varied from Catholic to Anglican to non-denominational to atheist, but were mostly Canadian.
Riding the train back down the mountain to Bayonne, I was reminded again of Yates. The blue-green of the river, the young spring green of the trees, the daisies and dandelions decorating the grass, the mountain slopes, all seemed as they would have been when he knew them, when cars were new and few, and Europe's most recent scars were from WWI. Berry and Boy, Jonah and Daphne and Jill might still be laughing just round the next bend.
The paradors of Spain and pousadas of Portugal are famous for providing the best (and most expensive) accommodation their countries have to offer, in often historic surroundings, and I felt I should spent at least one night investigating. The parador I chose, at Fuenterrabia (aka Hondarribia), just over the border from France, was only a 4-star (thus, thankfully, a little cheaper) but fully justified the splurge. My room came with an admirable view over a bay, even better, perhaps, at night, and while not particularly large had all the comforts.
Fuenterrabia's old town, up high, had plenty of charm and atmosphere. The new town, which I accidentally visited while looking for the parador, had none. I revisited the new town in search of īnet access, in short supply since Paris, and the English Corner gave me a free peek at the web site for my next hotel on their main terminal - the others were all tied up for classes. I chatted with the owner, who grew up in the US - another time I might sign up for one of her tours (www.hondarribiatours.com).
From Fuenterrabia it took me six trains, plus the Bilbao metro, to reach Santiago. RENFE, the state railway concern, doesn't run trains along the northern coast, so I used the private Eusko Tren and FEVE trains. From Irun (the closest station to Fuenterrabia) I rode a suburban commuter, fast and crowded, to San Sebastian (a.k.a. Donostia). From there to Bilbao the route was more rural and I noticed the whistle of the train (only used occasionally) was short and shrill, quite unlike the plaintive wail of American locomotives. I also noticed that the honey-colored stone and orange tiles of the older buildings was being replaced by white plaster - and all across Iberia multi-colored shutters are being replaced by dull white blinds built into new windows, turning the buildings themselves blind.
In Bilbao a quick switch to the metro saved me most of a trek from the Eusko Tren terminus to the FEVE station, where I ate an unidentifiable sandwich in the cafeteria and caught my last train of the day to Santander. This was another rural train, more like a bus, stopping anywhere there were people wanting to board. After the mostly-empty, mountainous countryside, Santander was a shock. Everything was big: the bay, the ships, the avenues, the buildings - even my hotel room was a fair-sized double (if otherwise cheap, clean, uncheerful and undistinguished). While a reasonable īnet cafe with English-style keyboards and a truly excellent salad with tuna and anchovies somewhat improved my opinion of Santander I have no wish to return.
The next morning my feet and knees complained bitterly at the idea of moving on, and limped slowly back to the station (designedly close to my hotel) for my next FEVE train to Oviedo. My doubts regarding the trip were soothed by the scenery, which kept getting better the further west I went, and this day included sea, cliffs and snowcapped mountains. Just as I was wondering whether it would be safe to write that so far everything was proceeding according to plan, the train slowed to a crawl and we had to abandon it at the next station. I stood on the replacement for the last 20 minutes into Oviedo, no doubt as a penalty for tempting Providence even in thought. In contrast, the train to Leon was a fast RENFE Talgo, headed for Madrid, and only a few minutes late. It was truly luxurious, with free headsets and video, and comfortable seats. However, much of the superb mountain scenery was lost as we spent much of the trip in tunnels. As we crossed range after forested range it occurred to me that the rain in Spain actually stays mainly in the northern mountains.
There is only one (RENFE) train a day from Leon to Santiago, and it was definitely not a Talgo, meandering across country and stopping frequently in the middle of nowhere for no discernible reason. It eventually arrived in Santiago 90 minutes late. Still, it did arrive, and so I completed the trek across North Spain I had thought might present problems with little to report besides exceptional scenery, and the feeling that this area might repay further exploration.
My landlady in Bayonne was horrified that I planned to visit Leon. Cold, unfriendly place, she said, go to Salamanca instead. (I would hear more praise of Salamanca later, but it just didn't fit my itinerary.) Well, Santiagoīs cathedral is bigger, and much more elaborately decorated, and there was a cold wind in Leon, and a male chauvinist waiter who didnīt think a woman could read a wine list, but Leon did have some redeeming features. For a start, it has a lot fewer tourists - Santiago was chock-a-block with people, some genuine pilgrims, but many not. Second, I found all the baroque glitter in Santiago cathedral totally obscured the original Romanesque majesty of the building, while Leon cathedralīs soaring austerity was enhanced by walls of stained glass (admittedly some in dire need of cleaning). Finally, Leon is also home to St. Isidoreīs Basilica, where I gazed in awe at the 12th century frescoes spread across the walls and ceiling of the royal burial vault. An 11th century wood and ivory casket and 16th century silver chalice also held my attention.
If you can only visit one I suppose it has to be Santiago, but Leon is more of a real town, where multilingual menus are a rarity and my hotel, the Regia Leon, still had the charm of age, unlike the over-restored but admittedly comfortable Airas Nunes in Santiago. Both were well-located mini-splurges, booked as a reward for resisting the Leon parador before I fell for the one in Fuenterribia. A further mini-splurge awaited me in Porto.
Sent from Ronda, Spain, 16 June, 2004
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