Béhasque, Sauveterre de Béarn, Jaureguia... Place names with historical nuances and mountain echoes that sound quite familiar to me: I am in the French side of the Basque country, a region I find to be both similar and disimilar to its Spanish counterpart. On one hand, villages are quite alike on both sides, as are gastronomy and some habits, the atmosphere, people walking up and down the street or drinking wine with a tapa. Also the same font type of signs and notices. But on the other hand, the Homo Basqus seems more tamed here in France, less wild; and I haven't yet heard any Euskera spoken. Apparently these Basques do not mistake (as ours do) folklore with nationality; they are ok with speaking French. Or perhaps France considers their language sacred and is not ready to tolerate any region pushing French to the background. Whichever the case, bi-lingual road signs seem to be the major concession to Euskera here.
My sleep in Navarrenx was unbeatable. Thanks God insomnia gave me a night off. Now I'm passing the Pyrenees via one of the less trodden and most winding by-roads I've found. The French side seems to be a lot less industrial than ours, and the environment is better taken care of — to no one's surprise, of course, knowing how admirably France, compared to Spain, respects its countryside. They rather rely on agriculrure and farming than on factories and mining; and if there is some industry, it's well out of sight, or better integrated with the environment.
For staying overnight I have chosen Vitoria, where I lived one year and still keep a few acquaintances to spend an evening with. Luckily, two of them were free, and we went out for a few wines & tapas, catching up with our news, sharing a laugh and a good chat. Then, back in my guesthouse, whose bar was shutting down, I had an argument with the employees because I accidentally step on the just-mopped floor, and they bad-mannerly scolded me; so we had a row, and I got untimely upset. This is Spain, a country of rude and cocky folks. For 150 days around Europe I haven't had any trouble (except for those Polish assholes in Gorzów), but the moment you step here you come across some brazen guy.
And it's another day's morrow. I've had a bad night - though actually not worse than a few others this week. Maybe I’m subconsciously feeling the failure, the uselessness of this Journey to Nowhere which, indeed, will end tomorrow without having actually got Anywyere. And perhaps this certitude, this feeling of a misused time, is making me anxious. But there's yet another factor: while all broad Europe was ahead of me, not knowing where to go each day but living under the vague, unfounded illusion that everything was still to come, it was relatively easy for me to shun the pessimism derived from my life's wearisome uncertainty; but since for the past two weeks this journey's conclusion has gotten nigher, darker thoughts began to haunt me like wolves sensing their prey’s weakness.
From Vitoria I head south towards Treviño county and the well-trodden roads that often saw me riding my bike hither and thither along a series of routes I took the year I lived there. Past the polemic county, I reach Herrera mountain pass, natural border between the Basque country and Castile, and from where one of the most majestic panoramics can be seen of the upper Ebro fertile valley known as Rioja, a renowned wine region.
Right after the provincial limits, and a bit before Logroño, I pull to the right and take route N-111 to Soria, one of Spain's most spectacular roads; so much so that it would take a stop every quarter of a mile to photograph all of those fascinating landscapes; for which reason I rather opt for not stopping at all, lest I never reach my destination.
One decade ago, Soria was my residence for one year, whereof I keep pleasing, soothing memories. Today I don't hesitate to stay, out of nostalgy, in the old-times guesthouse I used to live in: Casa Diocesana (Diocesan Guesthouse). How fondly was I always received and treated there! The staff became a bit my own family and Casa was like home. There reigns a total calm in that centric building, where even nowadays you still get the blessing of a TV-free room! This is a luxury nowadays: the only no-TV hotel during my whole journey. Well done! I was afraid that time and modernity had spoiled Casa Diocesana's retreat atmosphere, but I gladly see it's still the same endearing place it was back then... though good old Basilia is gone, they tell me she's retired. I keep you near my heart, Basilia. You so fondly used to feed me when I, disregarding the dining room, rather came to the kitchen and sat there with you ladies. Pilar, though, is still around and so are the director and receptionists. And even that scatterbrain, that crackpot boozer Luis still lingers on, granted full board out of sheer charity.
In the afternoon I take a long walk to Saint Saturio (beyond the river Duero's bend) for rescueing some memories from my pouch of recollections. Not memories from that very far off trip I took with the classmates when at highschool, when the world was young and snow covered the city, but of my last stay; so I can indulge myself in the bittersweet pleasure of remembrance.
The leafy riverbanks are beaming now under this afternoon's warm fall sunlight. On my return to town, going past the cemetery, I step in and stop for a few minutes by Leonor Izquierdo’s tombstone, Antonio Machado's young and short-lived wife, died twice as many years ago as my age is today; and (despite not being a believer) I pray within myself a short prayer for both. How briefly they got to enjoy their life together!
In the evening I go out for some wine & tapas, a serving of croquettes, and then back to my room. I'd have liked to come across any of my old acquaintances, but I wasn't lucky. The workmates I used to go out with are gone, and I am almost a stranger to the rest of them.
Today, October 17th, I pronounce finished this Journey to Nowhere. In about two hours I'll arrive to Madrid, from where I set off, so this will be my last note. It is a windy day, partly overcast. The clouds drag their swift shadows over Soria's empty, barren land.
I am looking at poor Soria's arid, sad fields between Almazán and Atienza, where only a few stunty and ashen sunflowers grow. Sterile, ferrous fields burnt by the sun, lashed by the wind, you are like this soul of mine...!
