I was on familiar territory as our group set off once again to walk down into Bilbao. We descended the first three lifts that I’d found then were on traditional steps to get most of the rest of the way down. Finally there was a fourth lift but really it did very little to help. We went down the steps beside it. Opposite was a bus stop where we could catch a bus that would return us to the camper van park.

Next we tried a different mode of transport. Bilbao has one tramline with one of it stops being just outside the Guggenheim. We boarded at the hospital station which is where we would disembark a return tram later in the day.

We had our first peek at the Guggenheim as our group left the tram and began wandering beside the river. Francine, who wanted to go into the Guggenheim anyway, was pleased to see that there was an exhibition on by Helen Frankenthaler, an abstract artist with whom she was familiar. We’ll return later to do our own thing.

As we were passing the large spider sculpture outside the museum (which, other than having eight legs, looks little like a spider), some generated mist from the “moat” began drifting adding some atmosphere to the scene.

Via another tram ride, we ended up in the old town for lunch where we had another helping of pinchos at a restaurant in the main square. After a necessary refresher, we all wandered up to an extensive food selection and we each chose three pinchos that appealed to us. I picked a squid croquetta, which was really a squid ink croquetta, a goats cheese concoction and finally a crab salad, which turned out to be my favourite (even though it was more than likely made from crab sticks).

To help our digestion after lunch, Francine and I walked back through the streets to the Guggenheim. We had a bit of a play with our cameras around the outside before Francine went in to get her fill of Helen Frankenthaler, as well as the other exhibits. I stayed outside doing what more I could with the Guggenheim architecture.

After I’d had my fill of pretending to be artistic, I walked over to a pleasant looking garden café with umbrellas for shade. I sat waiting for a few minutes but when a Dutch couple (I think) on the neighbouring table started having a video call for all to hear with a friend or relative, I left my table and wandered back to the Guggenheim to have a more relaxing coffee from the vending cart outside. I do hate modern communication technology and ethics, or lack thereof.

After an hour or so Francine came out of the Guggenheim and found me. We made our way back to the tram station to buy tickets to get us back to the hospital stop and a bus back to the campsite. Tickets are ordered and dispensed by a touch-screen-controlled machine which steadfastly refused to respond to our touches. After several failed attempts I spotted two security guards on the opposite platform and gesticulated to enlist their help. Things didn’t exactly go smoothly for our helper either but eventually she managed to procure us two tickets, which she then had to validate with today’s date. In due course a tram arrived and we boarded, as did the security guards and a ticket inspector, who duly inspected our hard-won tickets.

The bus was a simpler affair with a driver to issue tickets. Simpler, that is, other than remembering which number you wanted,was it 58 or 85? Both served this same bus stop.

We were heading to our first motor-vans-only “caravan park” overlooking Bilbao. I dislike driving around Bilbao, which we’ve done several times on our way in and out of Spain during the halcyon days of having Casa Libelula down in Jalon. I don’t remember doing it without making some kind of a mistake, such are the criss-crossing multi-level main roads making spaghetti junction look like a child’s affair.

As we were approaching, I thought we had yet again taken a wrong turning but I’m still not sure, given the rather tortuous approach. We eventually arrived at the área de autocaravanas. More accurately, we eventually arrived at the rear of the six or seven long entry queue of motorhomes on the single carriageway road outside the site. The road is also used by a public bus service. The bus was blocked behind the motorhome line and the driver was not a happy camper.

After a while, madame came out and wandered up and down the line gesticulating wildly for motorhomes to bugger off, or words to that effect; it seems the park was full. On her second pass, I opened the window and said we had a booking. “Andy?”, she enquired, then shepherded us around the queue into a holding position. Approach to this site was worse than Heathrow with an air traffic control go slow.

After a little more shuffling, the barrier was eventually raised for us and we managed to occupy our reserved pitch.

The plan had been to take in a fine arts museum followed by the Guggenheim. The afternoon was now marching on but leader Andy had rearranged the art museum tickets for 17:00. My companions also marched on, down into the depths of Bilbao. With me being a self-confessed artistic numbskull, this late in the afternoon I chose to stay in the campsite.

A while later, getting a little stir-crazy, I thought I might take a walk out to find an intriguing feature of this part of Bilbao. There is a series of lifts [elevators for any Americans] to help pedestrians make their way down and back up the cliffside to the city itself. They are intended mainly for the inhabitants of apartments built on the cliffside but there they stand for anyone to use.

For a brief, foolish moment, I thought I might then join my fellow campers down below. Not knowing quite what the lifts would look like, I did succeed in finding three of them and rode down. There are glass-sided lift shafts with approach bridges so are quite obvious once you get close to them. When I then saw the mass of Bilbao, still some way below me and sprawling between me and the museums, reinforced by an explanatory note from Francine saying that I stood no chance, I thought again and returned to the relative safety of Frodo. The gang eventually also returned after cutting short their visit missing out the Guggenheim but spending more time in a bar instead.

We’re in Bilbao tomorrow as well and will try the Guggenheim again. Whilst the museum’s contents may not fascinate me, the outside architecture of the building does. Tomorrow I will go with them for a bit of exercise … and a drink.

Camping Igara provides a 9-seat shuttle bus down onto the edge of San Sebastién and back, at appointed times. We piled in to the shuttle at 10:00, with a few of our more energetic travellers choosing to walk down.

We had about a 45-minute walk from where we were dropped off to the more interesting area of San Sebastién, namely the harbour and, a little beyond that, the old town. Beside the promenade was a modestly sized statue of Don Quixote. This was a competition prototype of the larger statue in Madrid. Francine zoomed in on some detail.

The harbour area was absolutely heaving. The population of San Sebastién had grown allegedly by 100,000 because there was an event on in the harbour. It’s called Bandera de la Concha and, to me, resembled Cornish pilot gig racing except these boats have crews of 13. The rowing teams had all brought their respective fans and support groups with them, hence the population explosion. With the crowds and the noise this was not really my natural habitat, interesting though it was.

Having gawped at the rowing for a while our leader was keen to get a table for a lunch of pinchos as early as possible, which proved to be 12:00, when one suitable place opened up. Close to 13:00 the Spanish would all descend on the restaurants and there’d be no tables free, especially given the increased population. We sat at a table to get served with drinks before heading to the counter and selecting some of the restaurants excellent tapas.

After my main event of the day, lunch, there was a bit more wandering about involving window shopping for some, before Francine and I decided to walk the 45 minutes back to wait for our 15:00 return shuttle bus. Others chose to avoid the walk and used one of the city buses.

Francine and I found a bar just near the pick-up point and settled down to wait with a drink or two. Eventually other folks turned up who looked as if they, too, were waiting for the shuttle bus. Then another few of our group, including leader Andy, also turned up. By the time the shuttle arrived were were two too many. A few couples doubled up with ladies perched on laps, probably entirely illegally.

A common problem with such arrangements is that folks drift into town on various buses but then all want to return on the same bus. We’d had exactly the same issue visiting Cordoba and its mosque last year, the last return bus being heavily subscribed.

Francine’s phone reckoned we’d clocked up about 17,000 steps.

It was about a 45-minute run from our campsite in Saint-Jean-de-Luz to our next campsite, in Spain, at San Sebastién [San Sébastian if you’re French]. We didn’t have to be there until midday so we left shortly before 11:00 to allow time to call into a local Lidl supermarket. Unfortunately the car park wasn’t exactly motorhome friendly but we eventually managed to abandon ship and do our shopping. You don’t get sensible BiBs of wine in Spain so they were high on our wish list before leaving France.

Shopping complete, we got onto the French autoroute using our French toll tag, We seamlessly crossed over the border onto what was now a Spanish autopista. There was no welcome to Spain sign; you really wouldn’t have noticed the change. You wouldn’t have noticed the change until, that is, you saw a Spanish toll sign approaching, I suddenly woke up and realized that we had to switch to our Spanish toll tag from the now useless French toll tag. Francine had a swift rummage in the glove box before locating and changing it. We approached our first Spanish toll plaza a little heart-in-mouth but happily it worked.

[Interestingly, our friend in the Netherlands said that he, having a European bank account, has a single toll tag that works in both countries.]

Camping Igara is approached via a narrow, almost single track road running for a couple of kilometres through a wooded area. It’s best not to arrive too early to let departing vehicles leave. Naturally, we met another slightly late departing motorhome coming the other way.

Our tour leader, Andy, had a group booking. We checked in with our passports and got to one of our group’s allotted spaces. As is often the case these days, the majority of this campsite has been converted to cabins but the few motorhome pitches that remain were perfectly pleasant.

Once settled, we began meeting the other folks on our tour; there are five couples plus the tour leader, Andy. Naturally we needed an installation drink or two before we all gathered in the early evening for a group munch on charcuterie and cheese washed down with cider [we are in sidra country] and/or wine and/or beer.

Francine had originally ear-marked a campsite near Saint-Jean-de-Luz but, as it transpired, our friends from the UK had also been working their way down the west of France and were now on another campsite near Saint-Jean-de-Luz. It would seem churlish not to join them. Besides, we’d welcome the company. After a swift replanning of our route we duly arrived at their campsite, instead, and settled down to wait for them get back on the bus from town.

Our friends duly returned from their trip out and helped us relax a few drinks. I clearly relaxed over a few drinks too many and began to feel a bit wobbly.

I managed to recover from yesterday’s excesses we decided to head into Saint-Jean-de-Luz ourselves on the bus, no less, along with our friends who have already braved the trip and know something of how the system works. €1.30 a head each way got us, via a rather circuitous route, down into the bus station in Saint-Jean-de-Luz.

Our first port of call was the market, and oh what a market it is. It had been a reduced market yesterday when our friends visited but now it was in full flow. Along with the meat stalls, the fish stalls were stunning with all manner of spankingly fresh species. Alongside some bonito, there was what has to be the largest John Dory I have ever clapped eyes on. How these places put our supplies to shame. If only I could do justice to something here in Frodo. Instead we treated ourselves to a degustation of 6 oysters with a small glass of Jurançon, a white wine from southwest France. The oysters, from the Basin d’Arcachon, were delicious.

Elevenses over, we continued gauping at the market stalls. Another stall of bottled delicacies soon had me reaching for my wallet again. I could not resist a small jar of foie de lotte [monkfish liver] at €5.50, which we had first tried in a restaurant in Dieppe several years ago. I have also tried cooking it myself down in Mirepoix but it maybe best left to the gourmet specialists. We’ll see.

We were approaching lunch o’clock so friend and I sat down under a sun-shaded bar/restaurant to quaff a beer each while the ladies went in search of a boulanger. Food shops other then the market were proving to be a bit thin on the ground. Eventually the ladies joined us and we all tucked into a sharing plate of local charcuterie and cheeses, with another round of drinks, of course.

We walked off lunch along the promenade overlooking La Grande Plage; it wasn’t a crowded beach but there were quire a few sun-worshipers toasting themselves gently in the rays. There were a few colourfully striped beach tents, as opposed to beach huts, which Francine had a little fun with, though she did not have her #1 camera, so the phone had to suffice.

We made our way back to the bus station and our circuitous return ride to the campsite.

We’ve been making our way down the western side of France using, for us, slightly unconventional stops. We’ve used a couple of CCPs [Camping Car Parks] as opposed to more conventional campsites.

After our somewhat tiring day #1 drive of 400 kms from St. Malo to Taillebourg, we decided to take a rest day to recoup. We really should know better than to tackle such a large chunk after an overnight on a ferry when rest is, shall we say, not of the highest quality.

Taillebourg is on the banks of the Charente river but there appeared to be no footpath beside it. We did, though, manage a walk into the town for a few supplies before rain began in earnest. Given the forecast, we were prepared with umbrellas.

On our return plod the rain did ease off and we found an appealing little bar selling Affligem beer which is always acceptable. Even Francine quaffed two.

We were in what seemed to be rather like April showers weather at home with irritating bouts of rain scattered throughout the afternoon. We amused ourselves podding 1kg of Coco de Paimpol, some of which I used to turn a Coq-au-caravan into a Coq-au-coco. We froze the remaining two portions of beans.

The following day, our next planned stop was originally intended to be St. Jean de Luz but that would be another 350kms stretch and with Bordeaux in the way, to boot. So,Francine decided to break the journey with an overnight stop at Castets, a distance of 260kms.

Our interim stop was our second CCP. This one is just a spit off the A63 autoroute and is a more regular aire de camping car as it is without sanitaire facilities. It proved to be a pleasant location nestling in the widespread pine forests of Les Landes.

Frodo got nicely levelled on a decent pitch, one of 20 all well marked within the pine trees, at a respectable distance from the only other unit that was then on site. We sat under the awning to supplement the shade and to try out our new central awning “rafter”, which should add some stability to the awning in the breeze. At 30°C both the breeze and the beer helped.

The convenience score for this CCP must be quite high; not only is it just 1 km off the autoroute but there is an Intermarché supermarket only about 1km away, which we walked to for some supplementary shopping. It turned out to be a very decent shop, although lugging four litres of beer and three litres of wine back on foot was a bit of a drag.

We were perfectly content with our lot until a Belgian unit with both a trailer and a rugrat in tow, shunned 17 of the remaining 18 empty pitches and set up immediately beside us. The rugrat seemed to have distressingly free rein for the most part as he went to fiddle with the only unit other than us on his little scooty bike thingy. Mother eventually retrieved him, though she was a bit slow off the mark. Then a frisbee was produced.

That was enough, we moved pitches and re-levelled Frodo to put some distance between us and Les Belges.

This was the start of something new for us. We are heading for a 3-week escorted motorhome tour of the northern coast of Spain, beginning at the east end in San Sebastián near the French border and ending at the west end at Baiona, which is just above the Portuguese border. We need to be at San Sebastián on 6th September.

We’d chosen to take almost a week driving down through France before crossing the Pyrenees into Spain, so we’d booked a Brittany Ferries crossing from Portsmouth to St. Malo, actually overnight on 31st August. After treating ourselves to a table service meal, washed down with a very decent bottle of Chablis, and a restful night’s sleep, we landed in St. Malo at 08:15 local time this morning. The crossing was excellent.

Luckily we were pretty much in pole position for the formalities as we disembarked; only one other van was ahead of us at the passport control. The French official was pleasingly swift and we were soon picking our way through the streets of St. Malo; rather too swiftly for our satnav’s hopeless GPS receiver to have located us. Navigation Officer [NO] Francine resorted to Google navigation on her mobile phone until Frodo’s eventually kicked in.

Route Planning Officer [RPO] Francine had picked a potential first stopping point about half-way down the west side of France at Taillebourg. Here was a CCP [Camping-Car Park] site that was apparently a small [19 pitches] erstwhile camping municipal site. As such it has facilities, whereas many CCPs do not.

CCP is an organization that you join to get a membership account. Access to the campsites is barrier controlled using an automated electronic system. We have previously used them only once, a few years ago, when Francine’s membership card operated the barrier. The system enables you to see what the site’s usage and remaining capacity is like. Our target at Taillebourg was fine with 17 of 19 spaces being free.

With an interim supermarket break to buy three days worth of supplies and feed our caffeine needs, we headed south on the main autoroutes. Our toll tag worked a treat. Waiting for the ping as the first barrier rises is always a bit heart-in-mouth since, on one memorable occasion, our tag had mysteriously become de-activated.

Autoroutes are great for covering distance but can be notoriously sleep-inducing. I needed to stop for some more caffeine. After 280 kms, with the satnav route wanting to do a dog-leg around Niort, essentially two sides of a triangle, to our destination, we chose to dive off and do the remaining 100 kms on a more cross-country route, the third side of the triangle. That should be less sleep-inducing and a more direct route to Taillebourg.

Good though Google may be, its navigation is missing a trick. The satnav in Frodo allows us to set size information for our vehicle, thus helping it to avoid single-track roads with grass growing up the middle – at least when the GPS receiver knows where we are, it can. If only it didn’t tend to lose us with tedious regularity.

A mobile phone seems to maintain GPS much more reliably but has no concept of vehicle size. NO Francine switched to Google to home in on our campsite. With no available size information, Frodo found himself on a distressingly narrow, rather rough, single track “road” with grass growing down the middle. One vehicle did come the other way but we managed to sidestep it and finish the 4 km crossing of agricultural land. Frodo was shaken but not stirred.

We needed another sidestep in a typically tight French village to avoid an articulated low-loader threading its way in the opposite direction. We collectively breathed in and missed, finally arriving at our automatically controlled CCP barrier.

Francine waved her CCP card in front of the machine. It asked how much money to load but never got to a step that would open the barrier. Being slow learners, we tried again with much the same result. There was a second machine beside the first. This one had a keypad to take a “code from your app”. Francine found one, entered it, and at last the barrier raised. It seems the app has rather taken over from the membership card, which now just seems to enable you to add money.

Rather as expected, there did seem to be only one other van in residence. We picked a pitch in the open to avoid drips from the trees and got hooked up. Other than having to be careful not to exceed the 6 amp supply, we were in situ.

The rain began.