After lunch, we reconnoitred on the main street and headed for the hills. We travelled up and up passing by small aldeas, or hamlets, some with oranges and roses growing in the gardens. In one small place, San Prudentzio, we passed a large building where we heard gorgeous singing coming from a basement room. The windows were frosted so we couldn’t get a look at the singers, but since it was Sunday, and the music sounded liturgical (angelic, even) we decided it must be a choir practice or a church service in progress. We passed vineyards planted with grapes for txakoli, the famous local white wine, too sour and resinous for my liking.
We entered a small village with friendly gray ponies and a donkey pastured near a a church so squat and square it looked fortified.
We met lots of farm animals that day, especially donkeys, some of whom were eager to beg for scraps of food; others more intent on “horseplay” or “pequenos jaleos”—little battles, about sex mostly.
After Azkizu, the land started to drop off sharply, and by the time we reached the paved road on the outskirts of Zumaia, the slopes were very steep indeed. I had fallen behind the other three, and was in a lot of pain. I had to go down the last hill (read cliff) backwards, with Ana and Margi taking turns to steer me by hanging onto the ends of my hiking poles, while I held the grips. We must have looked like some kind of crazy train! It sure helped with the pain though.
As we walked into the town, where we had decided to stay, we passed an ancient ermita with beautiful lush gardens which had become an art museum featuring the works of Zuloaga, a famous local artist, with some Zubaran and El Greco thrown in for good measure. Despite our tiredness, Ana and I determined to come back the two kilometers and see it when it opened at 5.00. In the meantime we crossed a bridge over the Urola River, where locals were fishing, hopelessly and disgustedly. All they were catching were shrimp. This was the second time we’d been told of the failure of the local fishery. As if to prove it, there were rotting fishing boats on the river bottom. It was a shame to see these beautiful wooden craft, gracefully curved at each end, holed and covered in green algae. We also saw a large blue shipyard building with BALENCIAGA emblazoned on it. Apparently they specialize in tugboats. I guess the marine heritage of Zumaia isn’t completely lost.
There was a really attractive promenade along the far shore of the river. Zumaia looked pretty prosperous, although there were a few streets away from the front which looked a bit grim. There were lots of bars and restaurants, and even at 10 at night I found a farmacia where I could by ibuprophen crème for my knees. We found a private albergue in a grand old house. The owner was very kind, and if the surroundings weren’t quite up to scratch, his openness and willingness to be of service had to count for something. He let me use his own internet to send a message home. His kids had left it sticky and with missing keys, but it was better than nothing. Internet cafes, which had been all the rage on my last visit, had been replaced by texting. Eventually, I joined the ranks of those who had no cellphone in the locutorios. Me and the African and South American immigrants.
There were loads of Senegalese all along the north coast. Some had come as fisherman, while others arrived looking for any work at all. One fellow with whom I had a long conversation told me that he and his brother had come to Spain because it was too hard to get papers for France. He had made great progress in learning Spanish, in less than a year. In another village, I saw children with deep brown skins, some African, some Arab shouting in Euskara with the other children, completely integrated. To be a Basque, you must speak Basque.. It appears to be a sufficient condition. My respect for these people was increasing daily!
We had arrived fairly early in the day, so there was time to do laundry before going out to find supper. We had decided to eat out, since we didn't really like the look of the outdoor kitchen in the albergue. We did have some tea there, and got to know some more peregrinos. One pair of Norwegian sisters whom I'd seen in Orio were there, and were quite friendly and eager to chat. They were redoubtable women, aged 63 and 74. I think this was their sixth Camino, and they'd done others in Norway too. They gave me some ointment for my knee, along with the story of how the older of the two sisters had walked two hundred kilometres on a broken leg on her last Camino, after a fall. They were to become our walking companions as far as Bilbao.
Later, Ana and I went back across the river on complaining legs to the museum, only to find it closed. Such a disappointment! I'd have to wait until Bilbao to encounter paintings by Zuloaga.
I forget what the reasons were, perhaps just that it was Monday, but none of the restaurants seemed to be serving food. We went to a couple of bars, and got whatever we could. We were too early even for tapas. I had some merluza and some sidra. Its a funny thing but walking reduces rather than increases one's hunger.
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