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.
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