Hiking across northern Spain on the Camino del Norte and the Gran Recorrido

Hiking across northern Spain on the Camino del Norte and the Gran Recorrido

Hondarribia, Part 2

My "individual" room

The house that Franco built

When I was at this campground in 2008, as I stood in the bar having a coffee and staring at an old photo of the grounds, an older gentleman told me the house had been built as a vacation home for General Francisco Franco, the Spanish dictator, some time in the 1950s. The man claimed to have worked on the construction of the house himself. I don’t know if that story was true, or if Franco ever came here even if it was. But I do know that Franco met with Hitler in Hondarribia once or twice (consult the works of American historian Stanley G. Payne for more accurate information). At that time, though I was planning to stay several days, I vowed never to venture further inside the building than the bar, as I was none too thrilled about occupying a space that might have been visited by men who had perpetrated so much evil. This time, though, I decided it was better to stay in the house than to suffer another night of high winds and torrential rain, especially since virtually everything I had packed was soaked through (see previous entry: Hondarribia, Part 1). So I entered the huge, cavernous house and hung my gear to dry in a room with 12 beds, imagining all the while what sorts of things Franco might have done in the house if he had ever been in it.

The view from Higer

The view from Higer

Since all my possessions were already wet, and I was staying another night, I decided I might as well wash some of my wet clothes. So I scrubbed them in the sink, then had a nice hot shower…until the hot water ran out three minutes in. Then I had a nice cold shower.

After everything was hung to dry, I set off down the hill to the town of Hondarribia. The road offers some spectacular views of the harbor, the estuary, and the French beach of Hendaye, as it winds its way down some 300 feet of elevation over two kilometers, and with the unique light of the changing weather, it was ideal for snapping some photos.

The town was quiet, and I wasn’t sure where to eat, so I fell back upon the habits I had formed with Amos four years before, and went to the Doner Kebab. I wondered aloud if it was the same ownership, but the man working said he had taken it over three years ago when he had come from his native Pakistan.

The remainder of the day I spent in an internet café, working on this blog. Internet cafés in Spain, called locutorios, are a gathering place for foreigners using various media to communicate with home, and this one was no different, as it was crowded with Africans and Caribbeans of various nationalities. Several hours later, after night had fallen, I strapped on my headlamp and hiked up the dark, desolate road. I had forgotten how much fear extreme darkness can cause, even if it is unsubstantiated. I tried to control my breathing to calm myself, but each time I started to relax, a solitary car came zooming around the corner, obviously not expecting to see a pedestrian. Forty-five minutes later, I arrived at the campground and headed for the bar to cool my nerves a bit.

One can almost always find company in bars in Spain, regardless of the day of the week or the time of day. This is not necessarily because Spaniards drink too much, though I’m certain there is plenty of alcoholism. Bars are meeting places in Spain. A place to go with family, meet friends, connect with neighbors, or just chat with whoever is there. It’s just as common to order a coffee at 10pm on a Thursday as it is to order a beer or wine. Ok, maybe not just as common, but it is common. This night the bar was populated with a smattering of old hippy-types, presumably residents of the campground’s trailer park. I had a beer and read the paper.

Eventually, I could stall no longer, and had to enter Franco’s house for the night. The campground did not give me a key, so the door was standing wide open. I hoped no one had any interest in some brand new wet hiking gear. I closed the door partway behind me, but did not lock it, as I assumed the staff wanted it open. Then I navigated my way through the hall using the few lights that worked, walking quickly to get to the next light before the timer expired on the previous one. I made my way up the marble staircase to the second floor, down the hall, and into my room. There, I turned all my gear over in hopes that it would dry by morning. Then I brushed my teeth, rearranged my gear, and laid my journal, headlamp, and multi-tool on the bed. Finally, there was nothing left to do but go to bed. So I tucked myself into my sleeping bag and stuffed my three pairs of socks (some clean, some dirty, all wet!) up under my shirt to dry them out with my body heat overnight.

I hadn’t yet decided if I would open the shades to let in the lights from the trailer park or if I’d leave them closed and sleep with the lights on in the room. The idea of Franco and Hitler having been in the building was creeping me out, and since I was the only person staying in this huge house all closed up for winter, with the wind howling and the creaking and knocking echoing through the hallways, well, it didn’t make it any better. By that time it was midnight and I figured I should get some sleep if I was going to leave early in the morning. I fell asleep in about 10 minutes. With the lights on.

After a fitfull sleep, I awoke at 6 o’clock, and the wind had intensified to a steady screeching and howling. I got up and shuffled over to the window, but it was pitch dark and I couldn’t see anything. I stayed awake for a piece writing and debating whether to get up and pack my bag. But I didn’t like the idea of hiking this leg with the wind gusting over 40 mph, since the trail ran along a high exposed ridge. I waited till 8 o’clock, and it was still dark and windy as ever. I couldn’t remember whether the solstice was that day or the next–the end of the Mayan calendar–but it sure felt like the end of the world in that far-off corner of Spain.

The voices of the workers just outside my door woke me some time after 10, and I felt groggy like one does when awoken from the midst of a deep sleep. I got up slowly and contemplated leaving, but the wind was whistling past the house just the same or worse. The workers were in the room across the hall talking about cleaning, since the house was a bit dirty. I began to feel bad that I had traipsed mud through the house, splayed my things all over the place, and laid my tent out in the hall. I got up with the intent to pack and looked at my gear. Several minutes passed, and I neither moved nor made any decisions about where to put things. There was no way I could pack in less than an hour, and by then it would be close to noon. Then I felt the clothes I had hung to dry. They were not dry.

An angry sea

An angry sea

So I put my wet clothes on to dry them quicker and packed away what gear was dry to get ready for the next day’s departure. Then I took my camera and hiked around to the tip of the cape on the seaward side of the Higer lighthouse. I attempted to descend the slope to get a closer shot of the raging sea and was nearly sent careening off the precipice into the crashing surf below. Not good hiking weather.

From the northeastern-most point of Spain, I found a hiking trail that rose and fell along the coast down to the harbor, where I walked around taking photos of the fishing boats, all tied up on account of the weather. This kept me busy, as Hondarribia has quite a fishing fleet with a storied history.

Fishing boats in Hondarribia Harbor

Fishing boats in Hondarribia Harbor

From the harbor, I walked along the coast all the way to the center of town. The clouds had begun to clear, and though the wind still blew, it was turning into a nice afternoon. As I walked around, I felt like I should be spending my time working on the blog, but it didn’t make sense to hole up in a locutorio when the weather was improving and I only had one day–a matter of hours–to enjoy Hondarribia. So I ignored the nagging feeling and postponed working on the blog until after lunch.

Later, after several hours in front of the computer, I wandered around the town until I found the new location for the tourism office. Amos and I had been pleasantly surprised with the helpfulness of the tourism offices throughout the Basque Country on our previous visit, and this time was no exception. The girl working was thrilled to be able to practice her English, and she spoke very well. Her name was Itsaso–Basque for ocean–and though she gave me all kinds of information and chatted with me for a good while, she confessed that she was bored with her job and wanted to travel to Australia or the United States to practice English and get to know someplace new. We exchanged contact information and I left the office with a satchel full of literature, including one booklet on the Camino del Norte, another listing all the places to stay in every town along the route, and a great deal of hiking maps of the area–this useful gem would go on to accompany me all the way to Fisterra.

Back in Franco’s house, I began to arrange my gear with the new materials from the tourism office. There was no way it was all going to fit. Luckily, my clothes had not dried on the hangers, so I couldn’t pack until the morning anyway. I had decided to lock the front door, and was feeling a bit less creeped out by the house. So when I finished reading and writing, I settled in for a restful night’s sleep–with the lights on.

P.S. One month after arriving home from Spain, I received an email from Itsaso telling me she had booked a ticket to New York. After her invaluable help, I got the chance to be her tour guide through Manhattan and Brooklyn!

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8 years ago 0 Comments Short URL

Author: Dan

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