Morocco, day twenty-four: Donostia

I decided the 7:20 from Madrid Chamartin would be the best train to get me to Donostia.

This was not the most expensive, but it was not the cheapest either, and the only reason I chose it over the others was that it'd get me to Donostia with time to have a little explore, possibly, and a graze on some pintxos.

After a look round the metro station at Chamartin where there were some "historic trains" parked on a platform for people to have a look at, I found my way to the part of the main train station reserved for high-speed or long-distance trains and set about finding coffee just in case the "sin restauracíon" proved to be true (it didn't).

Madrid Chamartin is not a pleasant cockcrow train experience and I got the distinct impression that Spanish attitude to early-morning fuck-giving makes the French look positively festive by comparison. Still, I was eventually relieved of ten euros (one hundred dirhams!) for a coffee in a cardboard cup, a not-very-nice orange juice in a plastic goblet, a meh croissant, and a bottle of water by a woman who'd probably have had another skin form if she'd moved any more slowly. Not that her lack of haste was a problem as the platform for our train was only announced at 7:19 and we were still waiting in a long line to board at 7:35.

The layout of first didn't match what I thought I'd clicked on when I booked seat 7A, but seat 7A was a window seat in the direction of travel, and nobody joined me in the seat opposite – I don't remember that being there – for the rest of the journey, so all was good. I was sitting in the direction of the pointy end, so hurray for that but there was no pretty to see for the first hour which was mostly spent snoozing in between slugs of coffee and water from my desperately expensive "welcome back" experience. For at least the first two hours it was mostly dark or dull outside the window and there really was nothing to be seen really until the last couple of hours, and even then it was a bit murky. I was sitting on the same side of the train as for my journey down, so there was little difference in the view but it was nonetheless fun to gaze out from time to time and enjoy it anyway.

At one point I went to the buffet car and grabbed a handful of what I thought was going to be tasty free stuff, perhaps nutty or chocolatey treats like the individual chocolate things the DB give out occasionally. The person in the dining car gave me a funny look as I piled them triumphantly to take back to my seat with my coffee, probably knowing that it was there that I discovered – imagine my surprise – that they were little packs of headphones for the on-board entertainment system and not tasty yums. If I'd known this yesterday, I could've followed the mammary sagas all the way from Algeciras. Anyway. I now possess multiple pairs of Renfe earphones. I'd have preferred treats.

At Donostia (technically Donostia San Sebastián according to the sign over the station) progress has been made in the last three weeks. We were deposited on a very shiny platform one underneath the red steel canopy which is one of the only remaining Gustav Eiffel railway structures in Spain. Instead of having to battle it out underground and then go over a rickety bridge to get to the river side of the station, it was a one-minute walk from the train through the station building to the street, where if I'd wanted a bus, one was waiting. The façade is a strange mix of lovely old station building and slightly ugly skeletal steel, but it might still be unfinished so I shall reserve judgement for a later trip.

Colo Colo is once again my sleepy place and I spent the hour between train and check-in among the elegant post-church Donostiarras in a bar called Ikili drinking red Montecillo from a glass I could swim in and grazing on pintxos; I had an eggy thing (bonus prawn, wasn't expecting that), a portion of tortilla, and practically an entire bucket of olives for 13€. It would've been just over a tenner save for that pesky second glass of wine. I thought at first that I was little out of place with my backpack and travel not-an-anorak but once I'd settled into the second glass I felt perfectly at home and ready for my little post-nibbles siesta which lasted until I was woken up by some thumpy music.

I'm astonished to learn that even in my ever-advancing years, hearing even the smallest snippet of Cher's Believe can still get me to my feet and bouncing like a loon next to the source of the music in record time (even faster if it's the Almighty mix).

This is how I learned that today was Carnival in Saint Sebastián and that on the street corner outside my hostel was the mother of all street parties that hadn't been there when I'd checked in for my disco-nap. I had wondered why I was seeing increasing amounts of people in fancy dress as the train was approaching Donostia but just dismissed it as some quaint Basque Country tradition, thinking that perhaps Smurf Sunday is a perfectly normal thing. In fact, it's Carnival because Lent starts on Wednesday so what better way to prepare for a month of fasting than by having a massive a party?

It seems to be a recurring theme.

Carnival in Spain takes place in the five days leading up to Lent. Today's festivities – or at least those that I witnessed – were float after colourful, noisy float of indefatigable dancers of all ages having a bop through the streets to thumpy music blasted out of the back of whatever vehicle was pulling them. Meanwhile, people in various states of fancy-dress were indulging in their own levels of on-street bop, some of the youngsters going absolutely mad for it while the older generations sat at tables imbibing all colours of booze and snacking on pintxos, like-mindedly tapping their toes. I didn't make it to the Plaza Cataluña as I preferred to stay for the floats, but that's where the epicentre of the event was with street theatre and circus and jugglers.

Sadly I won't be here on Tuesday for what must be the cultural and ceremonial highlight of the year, the Entierro de la Sardina. I am utterly gutted.

Anyway.

I was slightly out of sorts yesterday as Morocco exerts some kind of inertial force that made it a real struggle to extract myself from the country, and from Tangier in particular. I could happily have spent longer there keeping my daily exertion limited to the absolutely necessary, and although locals suggested leaving for Ramadan because "you'll be fine, but there's literally nothing to do", I wouldn't have had to work hard to convince my inner sloth to sleep during the day and only emerge at night to forage. I could've emerged in the morning for a hearty breakfast then hidden away in my room with a bottle of water until the evening, even.

Reality must take hold eventually and all good things must come to an end. It's always best to leave them wanting more, or to leave the party at its height, so to speak, so having an actual street party to walk away from contented was the perfect end to an adventure. Post festivities, I feasted on falafelly goodness from the Turkish Kebab Factory just round a corner from the cathedral where I paid 7€ for a falafel dönner – which came with serve-yourself bottles of harissa and "white sauce" – and a can of Kas Naranja, which I've never had before.

Fed, and knowing there's work on the Hendaye - Bordeaux line which means I have to leave at silly o'clock tomorrow, I did some typing and chatted with some other guests, then bought my TER tickets so I could settle into my lovely pine sleepy pod.