Eurotrip Leg 2: Basque Country - Valencia

France felt never ending, especially to a Brit that doesn’t like driving more than a couple of hours at a time. The signs welcoming me to Espana then, were particularly sweet, and my endurance was rewarded with – you guessed it – another toll booth. It didn’t look like the Spain I was used to seeing. Black clouds swirled through valleys, dividing the steep hillsides of the Basque Country. They wore a shade of green surpassed only by the Emerald Isle herself. The temperature was mild, and a dank drizzle coated my windscreen as I pulled up in yet another glamourous car park, this one beneath a busy overpass that encircled the city of San Sebastian.

A first introduction to a place is never a fair one when the weather is miserable. I’d heard a lot about San Sebastian; how it combines Spanish exoticism with French class, visible in both its architecture and foodie culture. As it was, the ornate balustrades that lined the promenade reminded me more of Bognor Regis, only with better looking people strolling pensively alongside them. If I wanted to reminisce about my Under-13s football tour to Butlins Bognor, I needn’t have driven the best part of three days. It certainly grew on me though. If you’ve ever been there you’ll surely concur: it’s a city that oozes cool without being stuffy or pretentious. It has that holy-grail combination of beach/nature and the conveniences of a modern city. And don’t get me started on the pinxtos (Basque style tapas) – I’d come back 100 times for the pinxtos alone.

So San Sebastian was a grower, but I knew I could do better than showering in a car park under an overpass. So one Friday evening after work I blasted down to Pamplona, via the Basque country’s impressive network of high-rise bridges connecting steep ravines, and tunnels that burrow for miles through hillsides. I’d stopped to cook dinner enroute – such is the beauty of towing your kitchen/bathroom/office with you wherever you go – in what was my first attempt at a somewhat sophisticated meal in the van (i.e. not rice and eggs, which I’d survived on thus far). It was a ratatouille pasta dish, and turned out underwhelming to say the least. It is probably what a university student would cook up in halls every month or so, after the stark realisation that it’s time to sort their shit out, you know, eat a vegetable or two. What’s more, I managed to slice half my thumb off with the chef’s knife I’d bought in San Sebastian. Knowing me, it’ll be something pitiful and unspectacular like this that causes my demise. I imagined a Basque farmer prizing open the van doors and prodding my lifeless body a week later. It might make a small section of the Farnham Herald: ‘Local Nomad Bleeds to Death in Onion Dicing Incident’. My years of ‘heroic’ adventure condensed into a small paragraph in the back pages.

I awoke the next morning to the sound of rain pattering against the roof. Pre road trip, somewhat less jaded by the million daily decisions you have to make whilst camping in strange places, I might have pulled my socks up, grabbed a rain jacket, and set about exploring Pamplona in the downpour. This morning I was having none of it, and decided to hit the autopista, eating up the miles whilst the weather was grim. Spain has a lot going for it, but what it can’t claim is the mysterious charm of a rural English village when the weather is grim. There’s just something enchanting about that low-lying mist over cobbled streets, or the moss thriving on the gnarled trunk of an oak tree on a rainy day that inspires the imagination.

Jesus, I’m getting nostalgic about rain, get a grip Pricey. No, Spain is just plain ugly in the rain, and so, uninspired by the view of Zaragoza in the passenger side window, I ploughed on all the way to Valencia in one go.

Cutting the journey up like I had thus far obviously makes it a lot more manageable. But what is so great about travelling across great swathes of the continent, whilst being firmly in contact with the ground, is seeing the landscape and vegetation change so gradually along the way. The deciduous oak and beech trees of the UK and Northern France give way to forests dominated by more hardy heather and pine, in turn making way for the dry, arid plains that appear after the mountains of Northern Spain. It’s like piecing together the jigsaw of Europe’s incredibly rich tapestry, piece by piece. Having only ever experienced a sudden shock to the system, after stepping off an aircraft into a wall of heat, it was a novel and interesting way to travel.

Valencia had been on my hitlist for a while now. I’d fantasized about living there for a while after nabbing a remote job. It is probably the most densely populated place I would consider living – an interconnected city that somehow retains its small town feel (Florence is also like this) and identity. Because I didn’t yet have 230 volt power in the van, it was necessary to check in to one of Valencia’s only designated motorhome parks, on the outskirts of the city, so I could plug my laptop in for the working week ahead. Motorhomes are big business on the continent. They hug the inside lane of every highway, travelling for thousands of miles across multiple borders, only to pull up three feet from another motorhome, and inhale that sweet smell of freedom – or in this case the aroma of a heavily soiled chemical toilet being rinsed out after a week on the road. In the UK, our boomer generation spend their property dividends on Spanish apartments or widescreen TVs. Here, it seems they spend them on these truly staggering machines, and all meet up in parking lots, for a kind of geriatric dick measuring competition. I saw one so big the other day, I swear to God it had a Fiat 500 hooked up to the back. Hidden cavities house Vespas and electric bikes, deployed like Thunderbirds under the smug gaze of their typically shirtless, balding owner. Another plot is thankfully set aside for me and the Harem-pant-wearing hippies, piloting our lesser vehicles.

Back to Valencia itself. More ‘touristing’ around city centres. Escapades fuelled more by a feeling of obligation than any burning desire. It sounds ungrateful to pass up on the rich melting pots of culture and commerce that are but a short stint in economy class away nowadays. Just a century before I may have never set foot outside my county, yet here I am moping around, contemplating how much my feet hurt in these stupid minimalist, ‘barefoot’ shoes, bemoaning the extortion of an americano in a paper cup. It’s an unpopular opinion, but to me a city break sounds like 48 hours of pure discomfort.

Firstly, to cram in Tripadvisor’s itinerary of things you simply must do in <INSERT CITY HERE> you’re going to do a stupid amount of walking, probably with a stupidly heavy backpack that’s housing your poncho and lip balm, causing little trickles of sweat to accumulate in your arse crack. Don’t get me wrong, I like walking. Doing so on harsh concrete in a pair of jeans however, whilst inhaling the thick soupy exhaust fumes of a bus as it waits at a set of traffic lights, really does spoil it for me.

Second, every attraction comes at a price. Park your car sir? That’ll be £20 for 6hrs. Metro across town? Another tenner. View the city skyline from above? 20 smackers just to ride the elevator. Margheritas in a trendy bar? Ok, now you’re taking the piss. There are certainly times to splurge in life. Spending money is not where I take issue, my gripe is spending money to be only to be seen spending it, to get the Insta photo and accompany it with a caption about how you’re such a free spirit, collecting yet another memory from your travels around the globe.

I take exception to Lonely Planet or the Telegraph telling me everything I need to cram into my stay, otherwise I’m a mug. We live in a crazy FOMO society, where everyone’s collecting countries like they’re Merlin stickers, but not actually enjoying themselves in the process. Crammed into a busy tube carriage like cattle, face pressed up against the armpit of a BO ridden passenger who insists on holding the high rail, all in the name of the photo. I come away from a city break needing a countryside break, which for me refutes the use of the word ‘break’.

So now I’ve done all I can to dissuade you from ever going, let me leave you by saying what a lovely city Valencia is. Truly Spanish, laid back and trendy, home to the humble paella amongst other culinary delights. There, I did the hard work so you don’t have to. Watch a travel documentary instead, visit a high-end tapas bar near you. I can imagine it’s a lovely place to live and immerse oneself, but 48hrs? Forget it mate.