It’s good to talk…

We couldn’t begin too early this morning. About 9am we sat down for our breakfast buffet, then dawdled in our room as the funicular doesn’t begin till 11am. It rattled down the hill and we alighted with slightly shaky legs. The bus stop is just outside the funicular terminus and there was only a five minute wait for the #16 which dropped us off just outside the old town.

There was a sizable market hall, which we looked round and located a very helpful lady who sold us some more ‘extra special olive oil’. Susie enthused over her ‘taster’ but I’m afraid it does nothing for me. Obviously my palate is more attuned to sweeter things. Heading towards the older part of town, we saw a very animated police officer, enthusiastically waving her arms at the traffic. In the distance we could here horns and whistles and shortly a group of protesters came into view. It was a demo about cutting back on care. I’m not sure how effective it was, but they have my admiration for both their enthusiasm and the amount of decibels you can get out of a whistle.

Susie found somewhere that sold not only UK papers but San Sebastian fridge magnets of the worst possible taste. Slipping into the older part of town we saw a restaurant which displayed a mirror adorned with the statement that they had no wifi and we should talk to each other instead. Naturally we popped in for a coffee and stayed until their kitchen opened for lunch. Studiously avoiding the menu item of ‘premium meats of old cow from Guikar’ I ended up with a burger, rather larger than I’d imagined….oh, we talked too.

I wish I could say that the old town had charming twisting streets, like Seville or Cadiz but it didn’t. For that matter neither did Bilbao. Why, I’m not quite sure, maybe it has something to do with the relative age of the towns and original inhabitants. We like San Sebastian but found it lacked a bit of warmth and personality. It definitely looks better from our hotel room window.

We found a taxi and a short drive later we were back at the hotel. It’s a lot easier than catching a bus and boarding a funicular that doesn’t fill you with confidence as to it’s ability to reach it’s destination. We stowed yet more bottles of superior olive oil in the boot of the car, ready for tomorrow, when we cross the border back into France and drive to an overnight hotel.

 

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