San Sebastián

I probably should have started writing this at the airport, but 4 am isn't my most creative time. Not to mention the sickness clouding my already foggy morning-brain. Needless to say, I don't think the material I'd have produced on the plane would have been hailed as a triumph in dramatisation of the distinctly undramatic. All I'm saying, in the most convoluted way possible, is that you, reader, have not missed much.

The Basque country isn't unlike Britain in its climate- green and mild, though the hills here don't quite roll as they do at home, but tower like waves around the claustrophobic motorways clamped between jagged cliff and cavernous valley. The scenery is breathtaking, but I spent most of the two hour transfer from the airport in Santander to our hotel in San Sebastian reading. My dissertation is due this year, you see.

When I did manage to peel my eyes away from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, Ken Kesey's psychedelic masterwork, I wasn't disappointed. San Sebastian is stunning. Like Paris, Cordoba and Barcelona all rolled into one. The white buildings with black iron detailing, the glamorous boulevards overpopulated with glamorous people, here for the ongoing film festival (which Johnny Depp is attending, might I add), the tight winding side streets and quaint squares, all tucked in against an expansive white sand beach, which we can see from our hotel room. The hotel isn't shabby either, futuristic like a Hitman map, luxurious like the mega yachts whose reviews Lucas and I are so fond of watching.

I'm updating this little number from mine and Theo's room while everyone waits for me to finish on the toilet so we can get lunch on the rooftop bar (complete with swimming pool). I'll hurry up, we only have 3 days. The toilet has this little digital keypad next to it which I believe controls the bidet function. I've managed to deduce this from the fact that its covered in little diagrams of men and women, sometimes both at once, having water sprayed up their arses. Again, hurrying up to the rooftop bar.

The view from the roof is almost indescribable, though I'll try nonetheless. To the right towers an almost East-Asian green mountain with a statue of whom I assume is Saint Sebastian himself.

Below this sits an efficient little port dotted with white and blue boats of all sizes. The port unsurprisingly leads out to sea- a very calm sea, nestled between two pincing rock faces that form a cozy cove. On the side of the cove opposite to ours, nothing much stands out, but for a grand, white and green building with two pointed towers protruding from the top.

It seems the further right (and closer to our hotel) I look, the more ludicrously fashionable and expensive the city becomes. There are no high rises, no skyscrapers- everything is inoffensive and tasteful, but nothing feels forced. This city is cohesively and effortlessly beautiful, with its white walls, black railed windows and red terracotta roofing.

My beer has arrived. It’s San Miguel, but it’s amber, many shades darker than what they serve at home. More bitter too. I think I'll focus on enjoying it now.

I've gone for a walk on my own. It’s overcast but not cold, so my polo and swim shorts are keeping me warm enough. I'm sat at the end of the right side of the cove, watching the waves churn around the rocks. There's an aquarium here, though I don't think it's open. It turns out that it is, but I'd have to pay, so I'm not sold. The buildings on the pier are very rustic, mainly white with varied detailing- brown, dark green, grey, redbrick, more green. I suppose it matches the flag, which is green, red and white.

I’m walking down a very narrow street now, flanked by cream-brown buildings: bars at their base, apartments above, as is typical of the Spanish.

I'll recommend we bar crawl this street; it looks perfect. I've found that every street in what seems to be the old town is equally as narrow and picturesque as the one I've just described. They're tight, vibrant, and lively without being hectic. Its almost labyrinthine.

Love bidets.

We just ate a one of the most exclusive restaurants in the world… for 60 quid. Bar Nestor is a taverna known for serving the best tortilla de patate in Spain.

Nestor, the bar's namesake, has been making the dish for 40 years, and chooses to make only 2 a day, meaning that people have to reserve individual slices on the day. Luckily we managed to get 4, and accompanied it with a delicious sparkling Basque white wine called txakoli poured from a height.

The tortilla was as good as they say: crisp exterior with a melty core of runny egg, potato and soft onion, perfectly seasoned and perfectly paired with the wine. I can't recommend it more, simplicity done right.

Now we're waiting for the next bar, though its taking a while, and we're being perpetually teased by the gigantic crowd of youths gathering behind us. Using Google translate, we discovered that the gathering was of young Basque socialists, though it didn't look as though they were discussing politics in great detail. It’s invite only, I assume, and everyone is insufferably cool. I hope we get seated soon, otherwise everyone will blame me. There's not a chance I'm running the bar crawl tomorrow.

We managed to get a table pretty soon after that whole fiasco. The taverna was known for its steak and it didn't disappoint; succulent, rare cuboids of tender beef topped with green peppers on baguette, accompanied by a crisp rioja.

It was at this taverna that Theo and I decided we'd split from our parents and attempt to socialise on our own. This was a horrible mistake, and now I'm full of self loathing because simple communication eludes me. To make a long story short, I'm stood updating this on the pier as Theo makes friends with random Spanish men; something he's been asking me to help him with all night. I'm not sure why, but it feels physically impossible to speak to people that I don't know unless I'm physically forced to. I hate it with a passion, and yet I'm incurably extroverted. What a pain. I don't care all that much as long as Theo has fun and doesn't die. I've decided holidays with friends are entirely necessary, because new people are not friends (refer to my poem ‘New People’ if you fancy reading more about my nuclear levels of autism).

Theo and I decided that the divide and conquer technique would be most effective, though I mainly persuaded him of this so that he'd make friends on his own. I suggested he should try to ingratiate himself with a big group, which he felt more comfortable doing, while I'd make friends with a small group of mainly girls, as I felt more comfortable with them. Instead, they made friends and I retired to write this. I've still got an eye on him though. The last I saw he was clapping his hands in time to the beat of a Spanish song, so things seem to be going as well as I could have hoped.

We came home pretty soon after and went to sleep. Its now Friday morning and I'm eating at the breakfast buffet, which is impeccable. Basically anything with egg, or anything described as a Basque speciality, is guaranteed to be mind blowing. Basque cake in particular is a godsend.

After breakfast we went to get covid tested, got sangria and more txakoli, and then went for a walk in the more built up and modern area of San Sebastian. Honestly, it doesn't compare with the old town, but I tend to say that about everywhere. I'd take a narrow, windy road over a 4 lane boulevard any day. In this modern area, we walked past the Real Sociedad kit shop (the local football team which is one of the best in Spain). David Silva- the City legend- plays there now, so Theo bought his shirt for 90 euros, which I felt was a little steep, but he's happy.

Teddy at the beach.

When we got back, we changed into shorts and headed to the beach for a swim. As is tradition, I swam out to the buoy, then came back to shore to read my book in the sun. We're back at the hotel again, and I'm planning to head up to the rooftop bar to read.

There, I finished part 1 of my book- which takes up half of the total page count- over a beer and a glass of wine. You can’t beat a book and a view, really.

I showered and put on my very gay outfit: a polo and sweater-vest with baggy cords and boat shoes. We're eating at the hotel restaurant tonight, which should be nice. I’m hoping my application to be a diplomat goes well, I could get used to this.

To start, we shared prawns, anchovies, tuna, sardines, Iberico ham and a plate of squid on squid ink rice. Yummy yummy. With all that fish, of course a crisp white was necessary. Our mains were a giant steak between mum and Theo, steak and foie-gras meatballs for dad, and monkfish for myself. We had a tasty red with that.

I think the food and drink has killed us all off, so we're sleeping now. Looking forward to a Michelin star meal tomorrow.

I’m currently eating some delightfully continental breakfast, and I’ve realised I’ve forgotten to mention the music that has been playing in the hotel all week. Each song is, without fail, a chilled cover of a popular song by either by someone with a soft voice,  or without words at all. We've had ‘Moves like Jagger,’ but the j was pronounced as a y, we've had ‘SAD’ and ‘Blinding Lights’ with no lyrics, but my personal favourite was chilled guitar cover of ‘Gangster’s Paradise’ in the lobby.

We’re currently in the car heading to the restaurant. The Basque country is a stunning place to drive. Towering, jagged green hills on all sides with almost alpine looking towns nestled between them. The towns work with, and are built into the uneven landscape, making for a beautiful variation of heights among the apartment blocks that make them up. These are old, traditional towns- the yellow cream bricks and red roof tiles look somewhat roman. This is a mountain civilisation, and you'd be able to tell even if you were oblivious to the gorgeous peaks surrounding you. Its no surprise that Basque language has no roots in any other modern or ancient language that we're aware of. The landscape is so harshly set against movement that you could quite feasibly imagine a town here going centuries without a visitor, and the possibility of conquering the land in any real sense seems ludicrous.

Looking at the jagged mountains, I think I understand Wordsworth's prelude a little better now. They're sharp, colossal and angry, if I were a 15 year old poet on opium, I'd be terrified of transgressing against them too.

I feel like if you fed a Tangfastic to an 80 year old Basque grandad living on a farm in a remote mountain village, he'd die. Playing death grips or 100 gecs would probably yield the same result.

The restaurant is called Etxebarri, and it was recently rated the third best restaurant in the world.

The village surrounding it looks as though it hasn't changed in a millennium. Again, cream bricks, red tiles and black iron detailing. It even seems as though there's a well in the centre of the town where people get their drinking water from, but its probably just there for the sake of tradition.

It’s flanked by the jagged mountains like the rest of the towns, though there aren't any apartments blocks here, so its far cosier than the others.

The sun has come out more than it has over the past two days, so everything looks especially striking. What I wouldn't give to be an 11th century basque peasant making a living building houses in this quaint village.

I’ve just seen a Spanish toddler twisting a swing around over and over so that the chain coiled up and spun the chair around when she let go. I'm glad to see that even Spanish babies have the universal instinct to twist swings.

Its quite hard to describe just how good the meal was. Everything melted in your mouth when it was supposed to, and held its shape when it wasn't, and popped when that was required. Only the salad wasn't cooked over a flame, so everything, even the ice cream, had a delicious smokiness to it. Supposedly, the chef and owner, Victor something or other, has always lived in the village and built the restaurant himself after working as a flag maker for years.

Anyway, his food was incredible. The type of food that makes you close your eyes and swill it around your mouth as if you know anything about good food. There were 15 items on the tasting menu, including anchovies, a full baby squid, fresh made chorizo tartare, caviar, and red snapper.

This was just a tomato but man it fucked.

Mr Squidward,

I believe this was burrata.

Goat’s milk butter with a lake algae crisp, possibly.

These were definitely clams of some sort.

?????????

This was the snapper.

Mate.

MATE MATE MATE MATE MATE. BEHAVE YOURSELF.

It was all seasoned and cooked perfectly; succulent, full of flavour and perfectly odd. I suppose there's a reason it's considered the 3rd best restaurant in the world, and who am I to disagree. Nonetheless, Theo spent most of the meal with the City game playing on his phone, which was resting between his legs on his chair with a napkin covering it when he felt it was too rude to be watching. Clearly I'm not the only one who lacks basic social awareness at times.

When we got back, we decided it was best to fight the urge to food coma, and went up to the rooftop bar hoping to drink until 9 and then crash, ready for a 5.30 rise.

Everything was going well enough until Theo and I came back down to the room. We listened to music while I packed and got ready for bed. He did neither of these things, instead telling me he was going for a walk. I said that was fine as long as mum and dad agreed, which they did. Two hours later, he called me, very drunk, to tell me that he'd met a group of people who wanted him to come clubbing with them. The clubs open at 1, and we needed to be up at 5, so obviously I said no, to which he responded that he would stay out another hour. I wanted to sleep, and didn't fancy staying up for him, so I told him to be back in half an hour, to which he agreed. However, he also asked my dad how long he could stay out for, and my dad gave him the hour, so he took that instead.

An hour later, he called me to ask me to knock on my parents door then leave in an effort to pretend he'd come home on time. I refused, of course, because it was now 12 and I needed to sleep, so he came home.

When he arrived, he told me he'd text dad to say he was coming back, but asked me to be a "decent big brother" and let him go out again. I told him to fuck off and go to sleep because he was hammered. He turned the lights on, went to the toilet, and threw up for five minutes or so. I was far too angry at him to care, so I paid no mind to him. Half an hour later I was woken by the sound of him either crying or choking, so I went to check on him, and was greeted with one of the most revolting sights I've ever laid eyes on. He was sat, naked on the toilet, and had thrown up a Michelin star all over his clothes, shoes and the floor in front of him.

I won't go into detail about how we sorted this out, but I will say that he insisted he'd only been drinking water, until my dad managed to interrogate him enough that he admitted it'd actually been wine. He's not the messiah, he's a very naughty boy.

I'm now sat in the transfer taxi on the way to the airport, my parents and I are absolutely knackered, and Theo's sleeping soundly next to me. Dickhead. Watching the purple pink sun rise over the sea isn't so bad though.