9th Dec 1988 - northern SPain

Our introduction to Spain is almost as much of a nightmare as our first day in the Netherlands, except that now we are more used to driving on the right hand side of the road.

Finding that the banks were closed yesterday because it was a National Holiday was bad enough, but today is not much better. If a building has 'Banco' or 'Wechsel ‑ Cambio ‑ Exchange' on the outside, at least you know it is a bank of some sort. But not all banks are designated thus. Many just have 'Caja de Ahorros', or the Basque equivalent, which we didn't realise also meant bank until the dic­tionary trans­lated it as 'box of savings'.

Our money problems are not quite solved by just going to the bank. When we stop for pet­rol, the attendant gives me the change, and goes to great pains to point out something about one part­icular coin. Yes, I can see it says 500 pesetas on the back, but my limited spanish has gone into retire­ment after trying to deal with french for the last few weeks and I cannot make out what he wants. My confusion causes him to repeat the explan­a­tion several times. (As the coin is also explained to me in a few shops during the next few days I can only think that it is a new coin and shopkeepers have been told to make sure that cus­tomers knew what it is.)

Our natural history information mentions only one place to visit in winter on the north coast of Spain: the Santoña Marshes near Laredo, so we have arranged for mail to be sent to Laredo too. To get there, we have to travel through the Basque region, and then negotiate Bilbao. In hindsight we should have taken the toll road.

Between San Sebastian and Bilbao there is industry on almost every flat piece of land. It is obvious the rivers below are well polluted ‑ often a muddy grey colour ‑ and there is plenty of debris and rubbish tipped down the banks. Gen­erally there is an unpleasant industrial smell and we soon head back to the cleaner air and more precipitous roads of the coast. The strong fishy smell around the village of Bermeo is quite plea­sant by comparison, and there the harbour is chock full of traditional fishing boats ‑ a change from the expensive yachting marinas we have often seen in France and the Nether­lands.

The Basque region, like Wales, has a language 'problem'. Most of the signs are in both Basque and Spanish, which can be confusing enough when the list of eight or ten names on a sign actually refers to only four or five places. However the locals often object to the Spanish names and blank them out with spray point, this is most frus­trating as our map gives only the Spanish name.

From our road atlas it looks to be possible to avoid Bilbao. We try three times but still end up screaming at each other in the hell of a crowded, slow‑moving city centre traffic jam. There just do not seem to be any signposts to tell us which road goes to Santander, the next city to the west. On the third attempt we know that whatever else we do, we have to get across the river. And once we are across, there were signs in profusion. Vicky and Andy (see later) tell us they had had the same problem.