GETTING TO GETARIA

It was Sunday morning, and as we set off from Rosa’s we could hear the church bells ringing. A stylishly dressed matron hurried by us, late for Mass. Her bright red jacket was a cheery note on a grey and misty morning.

I’d read in the guidebooks how one of the frustrations of the Camino del Norte was the up and down nature of the walk. I could begin to understand it. For every crossing the many rivers flowing into the Cantabrian Sea we had to descend steeply, only to ascend just as precipitously on the other side. I often think I could climb Everest, but getting down would kill me. My knees were beginning to complain about the sharp descents.

We crossed the Rio Orio on a bridge and passed through the industrial part of town. Soon the road gave way to a flowery, hillside trail, with lovely views of caserios, including Rosa’s, in the soft green hills above the town. One of the oddest things for a Canadian on the Camino in spring is to see roses in full bloom while the leaves on the trees are barely showing. Another shocking sight is the crosses commemorating the fallen from the Civil War, one of which we found by the side of the trail overlooking the village. It was quite horrible to imagine someone being killed in such a beautiful place in the woods, possibly in sight of his own home. I suppose in the Pais Vasco, the cross might equally well commemorate an ETA casualty, instead.

Soon we were out in the country walking on minor paved roads. The air was fresh and the grey seas refreshing. There was rain threatening in the distance, but for now we were dry and happy, except on the downhills. By midmorning we had covered the 7km to Zarautz, where we stopped for a break. We walked through the town which looked as if it did a thriving tourist trade. Ana was searching for the casco viejo, the old town, and being Ana, found it without difficulty. We stopped at a bar on the Plaza Mayor. Gisbert and the ladies had a beer and some tapas. I stuck to café con leche, to which I admit, cheerfully, I am addicted. The rain had started to fall, but it was the friendly siri miri , or sea mist, for which the region is famous, and didn’t stop us from enjoying the walking.

We walked together and apart, sometimes one with another, sometimes all together, but always in sight of one another. We chose the coastal route out of Zarautz on an amazing promenade, beautifully paved in stone, with gleaming decorative stainless steel railings, extending an amazing 4 km to the next town of Getaria.



Everyone from both towns seemed to be out enjoying the day. There was heavy pedestrian traffic going both ways. What a great opportunity, I thought, for people to enjoy some exercise and see the sights. It would have been a lovely walk to one town or the other, for some lunch and some wine, and a stretch of the legs in the brisk sea air on the way home to wear it off.

We saw a bit of a shipwreck on the way, a fairly sizeable sailboat capsizing, and other boats in the vicinity coming to the rescue of the crew. As we approached Getaria, we could see the aptly named island, El Raton, (the mouse) sitting off from shore with its humpy back and a small crest looking like ears, very naturalistic.

In Getaria, just by one of the many statues of Juan Sebastian Elcano, the town’s most famous son, we were drawn down the hill by the sight of a crowded street bedecked with pennants, with a Cathedral at its foot.


I think Ana and Margi were contemplating another fish fry, but at 60 Euros for two, it seemed rather too extravagant for lunch. Instead, we sat on a plaza above the harbour, sharing our bread and cheese and a bottle of sidra, which Ana had wormed out of one of the tony restaurants on the front. Below us we could see the local fishing fleet, decked out in red, white and green, the colours of the Basque flag, which fluttered above the boats. A market was also in full swing, odd on a Sunday, I thought.

Behind us was another statue of Elcano, who was with Magellan on his circumnavigation of the globe, and who, when Magellan died enroute, completed the venture! No surprise there! I was starting to realize that to live and thrive in the Basque country, you had to be as tough as nails. Those high hills, that wild sea, and the rain all work together to create hardy self-reliance. Elcano was variously a soldier, merchant captain, debtor, explorer, mutineer, a commander who survived several mutinies, tribal warfare and foul weather. He died of malnutrition somewhere in the Pacific Ocean on his second voyage, but not before receiving a title which he could pass on to his (illegitimate) son. I’ve since learned that Getaria is also the birthplace of the fashion designer Balenciaga, an explorer of a different sort.