In Castillon in summer, there's no great opportunity for the girls to put on best frocks. So, in the great Bordeaux tradition, we come down (us just for w/e) to the Basque Country. Our preferred place is in Spain although the inhabitants of Donostia will never admit that. A 3hr drive.
The Hotel Londres on the front is a Grand old place. One of the best. Bit oldy-worldy, but oh! that stunning view of the bay!
It's the 'Semane Grande' and the town is one heaving, noisy party which doesn't end for a week.
The best frocks parade the Paseo, then to the Old Quarter and its Pinxtos (Tapas) bars. Best bars in the world. Drink foaming Txacholi (always poured from 2 feet up to take some of the bite off), then eat all the colourful decorations laid on the bar.
Cannot understand a Basque word so watch bar TV; chaps - in white cricket flannels - running at charging bulls, then casually doing somersaults over those tons of angry muscle ...with sharp horns. Basques are different. Mad and incomprehensible. Love 'em.
Narrow streets, very narrow bars. Elbows and noise. NOISE! Bands march, bands rock, bands do incomprehensible Basque things in every street and square. Later there's a sudden lemming rush - floodstream - of people. Pushed along narrow street, then rammed into railings, cringe as artillery opens up point blank; fireworks like never before. The sound in that canyon of a street is IN CRED E BUL. Pardon? Eh? Shellshocked and DEAF; to bed... probably to the sound of surf and the never-ending party. But not sure.
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