All good things, as they say, must come to an end.
I woke up in my dinky pine pod a little earlier than expected and so had time to explore its features. I had a light, two USB ports, a Lenovo tablet with internet access and a pair of JBL noise-cancelling headphones, all of which I’m sure would long have been stolen were this a hostel in a comparable city in the UK or France.
My pod was at right angles to the end of a row of pods which made access up the laddery steps slightly convoluted as the grab handle was in the wrong place. Were I an actual youth staying in a youth hostel, I’d probably have fared better, but I think I would have preferred the lower “bunk”. Once ensconced there was a curtain to provide privacy and block any light from entering or escaping, and the mattress was deep and firm with two chunky pillows.
The hostel facilities were good too, and there was an on-demand supply of coffee and coffee from a machine that used beans and not horrible wasteful pods. I had no need for my AeroPress, even though I’d taken it (and not a coat) in case anyone was in any doubt just what kind of person I am.
The hostel was within walking distance of everything – taberna, Dr Martens, many jewellers’ shops, and a sofa emporium – and checking in and out could be done with (checking in) or without (checking out) the help of staff at the desk. Access to all guest areas was provided by a four-digit PIN that opened doors and lockers and which was disabled the instant I checked out using the tablet in reception (I checked).
Coffee and ablutions complete, I booked my return tickets on the TER and took a final languid stroll to Donostia Amara to find the café was closed, a most unsatisfactory situation remedied by the enlightening discovery of a pasteleria on the corner of Easo Kalea and Moraza Kalea where a friendly woman served me the most obscene breakfast pastry I have ever experienced, and a knife and fork with which to eat it to save me the tantalising indignity of simply stuffing it whole into my face – a sight perhaps she thought might have offended the sensibilities of the church-goers passing the window. In a way I am glad I didn’t find this place earlier, for I would have gladly fallen into a sugar coma and never left.
Sadly, though, I have to return to the real world occasionally and so replete had one last look at the people having fun in the Plaza de Easo, then made my way back to the station. There was time to squeeze in a quick bonus church next door which I could’ve missed had I blinked, the Aita Karmeldar Oinutsak, but there was a mass in progress, something that made exploration impossible. In any case, I was not in a discalced state, so my presence was inappropriate.
The 10:45 Euskotren left on time, full of people who had barely survived the previous night. I peered through the windows in case there had been any developments in urban laundry-hanging techniques in the preceeding 48 hours, then killed some time in Hendaye with an inferior pastry product and a coffee from the Kafe Olé opposite the station.
The double-decker 12:10 TER to Bordeaux left on time and a friendly mother and enthusiastic child played Uno across the aisle for most of the journey, occasionally stopping to glare at the leatherette German couple whose needlessly massive Samsonite suitcases occupied two of the seats at a table of four. They seemed genuinely aggrieved that a mother travelling with her children have the audacity to suggest they might have the decency to move them and their Deuter backpacks so that actual people could sit in the seats, but perhaps that’s just because they were worried a suitcase might fall open and we’d discover where they were hiding the bodies.
In their defence, the luggage capabilities on this particular TER were lacking, but were I to run the railways I would have had them and their bags publicly and summarily exploded on the platform as entertainment for the passengers who had been forced to stand for two and a half hours.
Between trains in Bordeaux I had time for lunch, which I took in the Grand Comptoir restaurant adjacent to platform one. The summer salad with halloumi looked nice, but the lure of canelés (two Ns if you’re normal, one if you’re from Bordeaux) was enough to pull me to the Menu Express, comprising Orecchiette à la Méditerranéenne (vegetarian) followed by aforementioned canelés (fait maison). To this I added a large glass of white and a coffee and the bill came to about 23€ in total which was probably a little on the dear side if you’re used to pintxos and beer, but otherwise a substantial and tasty meal served in an environment all stations should have.
I waddled onto the 16:27 and took my place at a window seat right at the front of train, sharing a table with an SNCF driver who was getting to where his train was and he somehow wasn’t. We arrived on time and as we were pulling into the station it was announced that people connecting to Limoges should remain on the train as it had conveniently become the 18:25 service to Limoges. The bus onward was waiting right outside the station and despite being driven in a style that suggested the person behind the wheel might’ve stolen it, we were all delivered to our destination safely and ahead of schedule.
I was glad to walk home in daylight.
