The Crossing

12 Oct

We’re in the hills of Northern Spain not far from San Sebastián and the Spanish/French border. Yesterday we were in the up-market town of Biarritz, today at a Formica table in the campsite bar in the hills of Zarautz. The beauty of being on the road is that you never quite know where you’ll be next.

Biarritz started as a disappointment on our trek from the campsite in Bidart. Our approach was met by sea-front buildings that wouldn’t look out of place in Bournemouth (no disrespect like)… but as we drew/trudged closer to the centre the imposing Victorian and art nouveau hotels, shops and cafés gave the town the feel of a stop-over location for James Bond. The town boasts a stunning rocky coastline, spit spot cleanliness, surfers, high-end stores (it has a La Fayette!!!) and cafe culture – a dream European getaway.

The weird thing about crossing into Spain is that there is no crossing – that we came across anyway. We literally took a left turn on a roundabout and the number plates turned from F to E.

The grey sky, drizzly rain, a dog unfriendly campsite, a hill too big for Jeronimo (the motorhome) to get up, getting lost on Spain’s spaghetti junction and an incessantly whining Toto in the back made for a grim introduction to Spain. Our luck was quick to change though when the road opened to lush green hills not too far removed from the Gower or Brecon Beacons of home.

Our excellent campsite is set on the edge of the rolling green hills overlooking a valley and magnificent bay.

The views are spectacular.









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