Bilbao – Sukarrieta – Deba – San Sebastian – Bayonne – Contis – Sanguinet – Bordeaux: 441 km

I leave Bilbao with San Sebastián and Bordeaux in prospect. I’ve heard good stories about both cities and I intend to explore them for a day or two. I might be even more excited for what’s in-between. The Asturias have been beautiful, both the beaches and the mountains, and I expect nothing less from the Basque Country and the forest that lays just over the border with France. 

The first of those days challenges me with over 1000 meters of elevation. That’s been a while, but my legs are back on track and the views are totally worth the suffering. Steep cliffs offer wide panoramas over the Atlantic. Maya and I camp on a sandy river bed that meets the ocean a couple of kilometres away. It’s the perfect spot, and even though I’ve collected wood for a fire, for the first time since we’re back in Europe we don’t need it. The night is mild, and so are we. The next morning however, Maya can’t walk. Last night she was running over the sand as if possessed, now she hops on three legs. It’s the first time I see her in so much pain and it breaks my heart. Worried, I pack up fast and get us to a veterinarian in the nearest village. Maya screams and howls as the vet stretches and twists her back leg. She makes a call and the person on the other side of the line translates. “An inflammation of the joint. Possibly twisted it when she mis-stepped on the beach. Not a big problem, here’s some antibiotics.” Five days of pills, and five days of rest. She’s not going to like being tied down. It also means that in this last stretch of mountains – once over the border with France the roads will be perfectly flat – she can’t run next to me on the uphills. The 18 extra kilo’s – yes, she’s almost doubled in size since I got her just a month and a half ago – make a huge difference and on every little ascent I grind my knees to the bone. It’s all worth it though for this little black and white, pink nosed ball of energy that now lays annoyed in the buggy for hours on end.

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Iago lives in a tiny, cute harbour town Basque Country called Deba. I’m his first Warm Showers guest and he’s a gracious host. We have rice, some sort of imitation local baby eel omelette and bread for dinner. Of course, served with cider from the region, that you are supposed to down in one go. I reach San Sebastián a day later. There, I have yet another Warm Showers who’s agreed to host me. Maya pees the second we get into the house, but is immediately forgiven when she pulls out the cutest look she can. I stay with Erika and Patricia, the former Scottish, the latter Spanish. Erika is a more than experienced cyclist, but has stopped since she nearly died on a trip through south east Asia from an infection. Her roommate Particia, who’s always cold, and I communicate by body language since my Spanish is not at a conversational level yet. They make me feel at home and let me stay for a rest day.

San Sebastián itself is a magical place. The sea is omnipresent in every part of town. The salty air, the sound of the waves, the surfers in their wetsuits on the pavement. San Sebastián precisely big enough not to get bored, and small enough to feel a sense of belonging. Known for its gastronomy, the bistros are inviting with their glass displays filled top to bottom with sandwiches and tortillas de patatas.

I could stay in San Sebastián for ever, but the road calls. It always does, it’s there just waiting to be explored, adventures waiting to happen around every corner. Today I cross into France, for the third time this trip. Exactly one year ago, still on the Trek, I cycled along the Cote d’Azure, and all the way in the beginning, still overwhelmed by what I was doing, I paddled along the vineyards of The Alsace. The Pyrenees loom large and majestic in the distance. After the two American borders I’ve crossed in the last couple of months, this one seems almost childish. It’s a bridge, at the end the border only signified with a blue sign that reads FRANCE. The coming days are framed by beaches and pine forests. Beautiful cycle paths cross straight through the thick pine forests, no cars in sight, and now, during low season, it feels like I have the place to myself. They are completely flat, and continue for literal days. Every night I veer off those paths to camp on secluded beaches, watch the most stunning sunsets and gaze at the starry night sky next to the fire. Once I hit Bordeaux four days later, all I have is covered in sand. My clothes, Maya, the tent, bike, even the food I eat. I’m a sand monster, both in and out.

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In Bordeaux I stay with Alain and Mimi, an elderly retired couple living just outside of the ring road. They put me in their garden house, that is mostly a kitchen used by their daughter in law to bake pastries for her café. The first night they invite me for a potluck with their friends at their place. It’s an extremely French experience where the meal starts with olives, bread and pathé, followed by salad and quiche, ended with both cheese and tarte tatin. Their friends wear actual berets, and shawls tied in that quintessential French way. Mimi, with her white hair, she could be my grandmother, commands the conversation, making jokes and telling anecdotes I don’t understand. Obviously, the medium is French so I laugh when everybody else does. I still have blast.

In Bordeaux I realise what luck I’ve had with the weather. Yes, it’s been cold, but at least it has been dry. And the last week temperatures have been nearing 20 Celsius during the day. Now it rains for three days straight. I ask to stay an extra night to avoid all of the wetness. I’m happily allowed. I walk around Bordeaux, that is both beautiful and grimy. The old town, with its patisseries, grand café’s, brasseries, and fancy restaurants, surrounded with the neighbourhoods where people don’t eat that fancy. The grey houses darkened by the rain. It must be nice here in summer. I drink a Bordeaux wine, maybe two.