A few days off: Sopelana/Bilbao

We left Orio heading for Bilbao. The scenic route takes us through Guernica. It is Monday and Guernica is mostly closed. There is a very old oak tree which we can visit. It was planted in the fourteenth century. One imagines an ancient gnarled specimen the size of a grain silo with a hot air ballon on top.

Unable to find a photo of a silo
with a hot-air ballon on top.
This is as close as I could get.

It seems that the original tree only lasted 450 years. Another tree was planted in 1742 and lasted until 1892 which was a pretty miserable attempt at being a very old tree. The next tree was planted in 1811, a little pre-emptively and 82 years befor the previous tree died. It survived the bombing in 1937 but was replaced due to fungus. The current tree was planted in 1986 and moved to its present location in 2005. So that means we get to drive across town to visit a tree that was planted in the same year that Chris de Burgh’s Lady in Red got to No. 1 in the UK charts – great, but not for me.

And the original of the Picasso painting commemorating the Fascist bombing of the town is in Madrid, if you want to see a copy there is one here:

So we move on.

Our research tells us that there is a campsite in Sopelana which is on the metro line into Bilbao. This is good as parking is not easy in Bilbao and the metro is quick, cheap and it is always fun riding on other people’s public transport. Despite studious attention to detail, a map of the rail system and meticulous planning, you ever really know where you will end up.

I have given up trying to persuade Tricia that the beauty of having our own home on wheels is that we can stop anywhere and do not have to get to places by a fixed time which is always more stressful than it should be.

So I have agreed that we will stop at the Sopelana campsite recommended on one of the web sites Tricia checked out, but we do not know where it is. But this is Spain, we will visit the tourist information. The tourist information signs in and around Sopelana are plentiful and take us right around the town, inot the centre and out the other side. We discover the next day that there are two tourist information offices. Both are sign posted and we had managed to follow both sets of signs, missed office No.1 and got the round tour. Anyway, the door of tourist office No. 2 is open and I go in.

There are two men in overalls. Spanish, even in Basque country, is remarkably easy to understand if the subject matter is clear. I ask for a map. The younger one explains that they are cleaners and not tourist information people. I say that’s OK as the map I need is right there in front of me on the desk, in top of a pile of maps and obviously free. All I have to do is reach out an pick it up. But good manners lead me to hesitate and he steps between me and the maps. The cleaner says that I cannot have one as he is a cleaner not they are not tourist information people." I say “Oh come on, the map is right there”. He says "Come back at 7am when the tourist information people open up". I say "It will be a little late to find the campsite by then." He says “Que?”

To cut a long story short this goes on for several minutes. I persist along the lines of  'Oh, go on...' and he persists 'No.' Eventually the older one comes over and says (in effect) “Why not give him a map?” The young one says "Because we are not tourist information people".

The older one delivers a torrent of what I assume to be Basque as I do not recognise a word. I think he says “Look, Pedro, this guy is not going to give up without a fight and there is a nice cool beer waiting for you, just give the geezer the damn map and stop being such an arsehole.”

It is also possible that he said “You are of course right and freedom for the Basque people with independence from the domination of the running imperialist dogs of Spain and their failure to maintain the traditional honourable industries of the Basque people, slavishly exchanging them for reliance on tourism, is the one goal for which every true Basque must strive. This bloody foreigner is taking the piss and deserves to sleep in the gutter but just give him a damn map and stop being such an arsehole.”

I get a map. The young guy has a look about him which makes the sour faced, Gallic shrug of the obstinate French apparatchik look like a gesture of filial love, welcome and eternal gratitude.

I cannot be arsed to go into the  details of the campsite, suffice to say we book in and have a superb view of a new council estate and the remnants of a sunset.

It didn't look much better at night

The bar and the shop are closed and there is lashings of hot water so all is kind of OK.

Off to Bilbao tomorrow...we will walk the mile or so to the metro station and pass this Stop sign on the way. I wonder if you can get done for not stopping at it?

Verdict: My pikey credential are in tatters.