Trying to find my mojo

In my previous post about encouraging other people to take up writing about beer, or even to start their own blog, I mentioned that I was rarely lost for something to write about. Well, be careful what you wish for, as for the past few days, I’ve been stuck in just such a rut. I’ve got a few ideas formed now, as well as something more concrete, but after scrolling through some of the rambling jottings I knocked out on our return from last autumn’s Atlantic cruise, I realised there was sufficient material for a brief post.

After our departure from Madeira, Queen Victoria headed towards the Portuguese mainland and the sea port of Leixoes. The latter is the entry point for Porto, Portugal’s second largest city and the centre of the country’s renowned port wine trade. It was somewhere I’d wanted to visit for some time, not only because I’m partial to the occasional glass of Port, but because I’m interested in the way this legendary drink is produced, and the maturation process it goes through before reaching the customer’s glass. I’ve got some form in relation to this, because I started my career with a position in the wine trade, and the company I worked for were keen for their employees to expand their knowledge in this field.

I shall leave that particular story for another day but suffice to say I was excited to be visiting the centre, and indeed the home of what is probably Portugal’s most famous export. I'd booked a coach excursion for the pair of us into the centre of Porto, a drive of 30-40 minutes from the coastal port of Leixoes, where our cruise ship was berthed. The day before we were due to dock, I developed a really annoying summer cold which fellow cruisers identified as the infamous “Cunard Cough”. Such bugs are quite common onboard ship, and are probably spread around via the air-conditioning system, but over the course of the intervening sea day my symptoms worsened to the point that I agreed with Mrs PBT’s that I ought to abandon the excursion.

As my good lady wife pointed out, it wouldn't really have been fair for me to be coughing and spluttering over my fellow coach passengers, during the drive into Porto. I reluctantly agreed, and headed down to the Purser’s Office where, I fortunately managed to get cost of the excursion credited back to my account – less a small processing fee. I was really lucky and certainly used all my charm on the lady behind the shore excursions desk, as such trips aren't normally covered by the cruise line’s refunds policy.

The following morning, after a good night’s sleep, I typically felt much better, although I would definitely have been pushing my luck to try reversing my cancellation.  Despite missing out on the Port Houses of Porto, Eileen and I spent a quiet, but enjoyable day on board ship in Leixoes, where we were blessed with the proverbial wall to wall sunshine. The sea was calm seas and there was very little wind blowing. With most of Victoria’s passengers ashore, along with many of the crew, there was a nice quiet feel about the ship, with plenty of space to chill out and relax. I briefly ventured ashore, but only as far as the cruise terminal. There wasn't exactly a lot there, apart from a small souvenir shop, so I called in and bought a tin of sardines (well you’ve just got to, haven’t you?), plus a small ceramic Portuguese knick-knack for Mrs PBT’s.

I could see the beach, stretching out on the other side of the breakwater, and I found out, from one of the women at the shop that I could have got a bus there, into the port, and then to the beach. That would have been nice, if only just for a beer and an ice cream, but I had just gone back through security. I mentioned that to the shop staff, who just shrugged their shoulders in typical Mediterranean manner, and said “Don't worry go back, and then come through again, once you’ve been to the beach”. I didn’t, in the end, as it seemed poor compensation for having missed visiting one of Porto’s wine lodges. I'm rather fond of a glass or two, especially over the festive season and at the time of writing, I had a bottle left unopened, from the previous Christmas.

Our next port of call was the Spanish port city of Vigo, which is almost just around the corner from Leixoes, where the coastline changes from Portuguese, and back into Spanish territory. We’d been to Vigo on a previous cruise and it's a place where you literally walk straight off the ship and into the centre of town – or at least the dock area. Our previous visit took place on a Sunday, and with Spain being a staunch Catholic country, not many shops were open. This time it would be different, and the city would redeem itself as a good place to buy the odd present for the folks back home or, more importantly for us, a selection of Spanish cooking ingredients.

Now I’m going to end this part of the narrative, as I covered it earlier, and not long after we returned to the UK. For those with poor memories, or those who can’t be bothered to refer back, our ship was unable to dock at Vigo, thanks to a severe storm developing out in the Atlantic, and heading towards the Bay of Biscay. Rather than heading into the deepening depression, the captain took the decision to “run for home,” and we arrived safely back in Blighty after having missed the worst of whatever name the local Met Office had assigned to this annoying storm.

Back home, I reflected that there were quite a few places on the northern coast of Spain that probably aren’t affected by these Atlantic storms, as the exposed west coast. Bilbao is one such place, but I was thinking more of the Basque city of San Sebastian, located close to the border with France, and in that corner of the country where the coast heads off in a sharp, northerly direction. I might have referred to San Sebastian in the past, but 50 or so years ago, the previous Mrs PBT's and I spent the best part of a week in this attractive city, before heading south into the interior of Spain and ending up on the Costas – Alicante, to be precise. On that particular trip we travelled by train, after boarding a cross-channel ferry, as foot passengers, from Dover to Dunkirk. An early morning train took us to Paris, and after an overnight stop in the French capital, we took one of the fast Corail services southwards, towards the Spanish border.

For the train buffs amongst you, Corail pre-dated the super-fast TGV trains, and provided a fast, pleasant, clean and direct service between Paris and Bordeaux (and several other French cities). We found a cheap hotel in the city, which was a lot more industrial than we were expecting and, as in Paris, had to surrender our passports at reception, so they could be vetted by the local Gendarmerie.  I’m not sure when this practice ceased, but it was the same in Spain as well, although back then the country was ruled over by that nice man, General Franco!

From Bordeaux we took a slightly slower train crossing the border into Spain, at Irun where it was necessary to change trains, due to the different loading gauge of the Spanish railways. More train geekery coming up, as a change of country meant a change of trains, due to the fact that the Spanish railways operated on a wider gauge than the universal standard. I'm not sure if that still applies to Spanish rail system or whether the tracks have been converted to European standard gauge, but once onboard the local Spanish train, we continued our journey towards San Sebastian. My previous wife had spent for four months living and working in the city, as part of her Modern Languages degree course, so she knew the city well.

San Sebastian had a bright and airy feel to it, partly enhance by it situation overlooking the Bay of Biscay, but also by its fine architecture. I’m guessing the city emerged relatively unscathed from the Spanish Civil War. It did seem a little bit edgy back then, which was due to the activities the Basque separatist organisation ETA, who weren't averse to committing the odd atrocity. 

Their attacks were mainly aimed at government buildings, although there was the occasional bomb, timed to go off in a crowded market square. What was really nice about San Sebastian, was the cuisine, especially the seafood. If you’re a fan of fresh fish, lobster or crab, then this is the place for you, and the local wine wasn’t bad either. I can’t remember a thing about the beer, so if you do decide to visit the city, you will need to do your own research. The thing that was missing was the wall-to-wall sunshine I had been expecting, which of course brings us back to the situation that had preventing us from docking in Vigo, some 50 years later.

It’s time now to say goodbye to northern Spain, but if you’re not put off by strong westerly winds, and the odd bit of rain, then Vigo, La Coruna and San Sebastian are all well worth a visit.