Morocco, day one: Donostia

I did this almost as a dare.

In a random conversation in the pub about a week ago, I mentioned to some friends that in light of the fact I was running out of firewood I was thinking of migrating south for the rest of the winter instead of spending money buying more firewood. They reminded me that I’ve been talking about doing this for years – although I did have to point out that in 2023 I did migrate in the other direction and see a Northern Light – and so on my return from the pub, always a sensible state for decision-making, I started investigating how much it would cost to migrate south for the winter.

To my surprise, the Renfe web site yielded some remarkably cheap tickets for such short notice, and it turned out that it is entirely possible to cross Spain from north to south for not much more than another two cubic metres of Hornbeam. Before I knew it, and in the absence of any self-control, I’d booked some tickets on shiny duck-trains and committed myself to looking for places to stay. In a twist of fate, the weather then cleared up for the next few and was lovely for a whole week which I spent second-guessing my decision, until yesterday, when it went cold and grim again.

This morning, I felt thoroughly vindicated in having made the sensible decision of having a mini adventure as it was miserable, overcast, and cold when I eventually left the house to walk to the bus stop with finger puppet in tow. I nearly missed my bus as five minutes into my walk I had one of those excruciating brain-fart moments in which I couldn't remember whether I’d switched the heating off or not – five minutes later I knew I had – but it turns out that even with an extra ten minutes' power-walking I have a turn of speed when necessary, and I got to the bus stop with a few of minutes to spare. At 11:40 on the dot we left for Périgueux, where we arrived about an hour later with plenty of time in hand.

Having decided against falafely goodness last time, I decided to indulge myself with a quick falafel (nice, came with a mountain of chips) and a swift half in the bar opposite the station, a wise choice which led to my snoozing through nearly the whole TER journey to Bordeaux Saint-Jean which was, as a result, near-instantaneous. The ongoing digestive efforts made keeping myself awake and upright something of a struggle during the wait for the 15:19 to Hendaye as it slowly slipped down the departures board thanks to some kind person having left a bag unattended on the platform next to it. When our departure was finally announced, there was a mad exodus from various waiting areas to platform A where a woefully under-sized TER heaved under the mass of people trying to get on it.

Eventually, and with all of us seated, we set off through the dreary in the hope of finding respite from grey and wet somewhere else. At the first station along the way, Pessac, it became apparent that we were not the only people who had had the idea to escape the cold and rain on a Friday afternoon. As we slowly pulled alongside the platform, the little happy faces of the people eagerly waiting – relieved their comfy warm train was finally here to whisk them away – could be observed sinking to reflect the horror of realisation that their journeys were not going to get off to the start they had been hoping for.

Despite the over-crowding and a 25-minute delay, the journey onwards to Hendaye was mostly uneventful. Outside the window a blur of grey, brown, and occasional green smeared past the window, and nothing really changed until Dax, where most people got off happy that their onward trains had been held and that connections were not going to be missed. In a now nearly empty train, the smiley controller finally came to check our tickets. Occasionally, the clouds would taunt us by clearing long enough for glimmers of sunlight to raise our hopes, but at about six o’clock it was starting to get dark and by the time we arrived in Hendaye, the weather had defaulted to cold, windy, and wet. This was most definitely not the tropical seaside paradise I was expecting.

The electronic voice doing the English and Spanish announcements barked at us to take our personnal items with us.

The Euksotren to Donostia was just leaving as I made it to the station, but that left me with time to figure out the ticket machine, and only about forty-five minutes later I was fighting my way through a sea of oversized (in my opinion) umbrellas to get to my bed for the night. The hostel I stayed in last time didn’t have rooms available for tonight, so I booked a Room in the City instead, based on its being more-or-less the same setup of little sleepy pods with curtains. It's set in 4,000 square metres of what was the former Sisters of Mary Convent, and has a rooftop terrace (closed by the time I got there) and outside seating and dining area (wet by the time I got there) and felt closer to Donostia Amara and well-placed for finding things, were one in such a mind.

It was eight by the the time I’d checked in and done everything that was necessary, so with little time to waste or explore, I went out for a little wander looking for food and remembered that last time I was here, I’d wanted but failed to eat at Botanika. I was happy to eat there as the food was good and inexpensive. As I’d had quite a large lunch and then remained perfectly still for more or less seven hours, I wasn’t desperately hungry so snacked, really, on a plate of exquisite hummus which came with lovely breads and crunchy vegetables which I washed down with a creamy beer.

Tired, but determined to be on the train in the morning, I did a little reconnaissance dash to the railway station (or what's left of it) before going to bed.