1991 Donegal

1.4.91 Killybegs, Donegal

Sail Inn, Killybegs.  Nice too after a fraught day.  But a victory – over myself – not sulking, flying into sullen rage etc. - talked myself out of it – by talking.  Now in the bar, having ordered smoked eel and turbot for me.  Turbot with chili sauce – excellent delicate flavour – “very feminine” we agreed, compared to eh “masculine” halibut.  Home-made orange cheesecake after – total around I£40.  

Great place – out beyond Donegal – which looked tacky, full of holidaying yobs (patronising, moi?)  Out beyond Bruckless (where I am now).  Busy port – real boats there, lit up like mini Xmas trees: that sense of voyaging, of futurity (reminds me of Naxos, sitting on the harbourside, drinking ouzo – which I hate, then a typically Greek meal and wine…)

Deserted town (Easter Monday, after all), mercifully the Sail inn lights are on – and what a port in a storm (foul weather – typically Irish – and typical that I put on my spex…)  Through to the bar – walls covered with pix of Hollywood movie stars – old, faded images and advertising for films.  But not just one or two naff attempts – all the walls, covered in the stuff.  Nice demure waitress, loud birthday (?) party of large Irish women, and broken, red-faced men. Lovely view from the restaurant alongside – the harbour in the rain through the window, the room itself quiet.  Good food, great value.  A good end to a dodgy day.

In the drawing room, having had a coffee kindly offered here.  Anne gone to bed. Me left with the sizzling and spitting log fire – lovely smell in the air – reminds me of Lake Dal, and the houseboats.  Very quiet, very peaceful.  More about today, tomorrow – so to speak…

2.4.91 Bruckless House

7.45am waiting for brekkers (typically my watch battery has just gone…) The house name, parenthetically, derived from “Badger’s den” – Brock, that is…  So, after a fine night’s sleep – though the air was cold, the thick eiderdown was sumptuous – broken a couple of times towards dawn by baying dogs, and the crowing cock – I am ready for today in all its pewter-skyed greyness. I can now see the sea out the front, very still, very, well, grey.  A fine situation.

Yesterday: flight OK except that I am at the back of the non-smoking section – that is next to a smoking row – bastard.  Flight short, food nugatory.  To Shannon, pick up car (Corsaro? - new, 600 miles), into Ennis to Queen’s Hotel, where I wait for two and a half hours.  Because, yes, it turns out that Sister Anne is at another hotel, the main one of the town.  Luckily I eventually check these others out.  Stupid me: must give better rendezvous.

Then a race up to Donegal.  Countryside very green, very wet, air thick with rain.  Great for overtaking all the cautious drivers.  My spirits revive as we talk along the way.  Anne in good form, very happy – tired – and excited by her forthcoming trip to California – Oakland, San Francisco, to be precise.

Up through Sligo – which I barely saw, then past a cloudy Ben Bulben – Yeatsland – first glimpse of the sea – the Atlantic, which always raises my spirit – then having booked two rooms here, we look for somewhere to eat.  Donegal itself, pretty scrappy, so taking a chance, out to Sail Inn.  As above, great.

But then back to Bruckless for a near fruitless search for this place.  I phone – the phone dies on me – I phone again, get “directions” – end up down this mud track, with shadowy shape of a house – eventually I stagger in through the rain and ask – miraculously it is.  Worth searching for – a nice, homely sort of place.  Word-processed history by current owner – a few typos…  Read “The Field” – amazing rants about anti-hunting lobby… Terrible tracking.  The clock outside booms wonderfully – 8am – brekkers – the sound full of crazy overtones – like a gothic horror film.

Breakfast with four krauts – yes, we speak Deutsch.  Then out along to Killybegs, grey morning, rain again, but at Glencolumbkille the sun breaks through, hitting the white sea horses full on.  The sea powerful here, the sand a curious dark brown.  Lovely headland to the north,  St. Columbkille.  

Then towards Ardara, rocks glistening in the hills like diamonds on green velvet.  Glengesh Pass (Anne drawing), a great scoop down to Ardara.  Hillsides bright green on the north, sun showing texture to the south.  Sun hot on my neck, lovely pale blue sky.  Barely a car around.  Not actually Glengesh, but before it.  Through Ardara then out along the coast road to Narin.  Idyllic.  Huge, windswept beach, miles long, flat, hard, clean sand, only two other people there.  An island and various spits of land (one with ruins).  Water like turquoise glass, waves roaring in.  High sandbanks at the back of the beach.  Glorious.

Then up the N56, turning right along R252, then left to Churchill.  Magic road through boggy wilderness beauty.  No purples à la Lakes, all russets and browns.  Very narrow road – reminds me of New Zealand for some reason.  Also Hardknott Pass.  But glorious too, the hills rearing up around us, the lakes, tarns etc.  Then along to here, the Glenveagh National Park.  In the restaurant – covered in growing grass.  Anne drawing again, me with the words.  Sun blazing down.  Did someone say “Selig”…?

By bus to the Castle on the Loch.  Fine, steep garden – lots of garden statues – fairly corny, but sanctified y time – Natures always beautifies, whereas Man so often subtracts.  Then we walk through to the viewpoint.  Stunning image – which Anne is drawing on the spot, so I must try to describe (cold – can’t hold pen…)

A gateway – two stone banks, grey doors with lion mask knockers.  This frames a path, straight, down to the water, turbulent, with angry white horses (cf. The Edda…)  And in the middle, framed by it all, one tree, perfect imperfect Nature.  The wind strong, the sun clear, the sky cloudy and blue jumbled up.

Down to the seat by the Lough.  Staggering in its raw, harmonious beauty.  Pines to my right, d’Annunzio, a valley far ahead, pure Lakes.  But the clarity of the ridge opposite is uniquely Donegal on a spring day in the sun.  The spume on the lake driven into long lines of natural spittle, like veins of silica in granite.  A great herd of clouds thunders in.  To my right, through the pines, water met by golden straw-coloured grass on the fell, caught by the sun.  

Along to the Bloody Foreland headland – through rain, to be greeted by brilliant stone-hard sunshine.  I always seem to be going north along the coast with Anne.  In the north-west corner: below us, the sea like cream, bands of it flooding in.  A lone house, three chimneys, two windows, 50 yards from the sea, then two others nearby.  To the south west, low-backed islands vanish into the haze.  The sea granite-grey.  Further back a stream so rich in colour, it looked like coffee.  Through Gortahork, then Dunfanaghy.

3.4.91 Rathmullan 

Both rather dull.  At Falcarragh, I ring the hotel in Rathmullan – Fort Royal – and book two rooms.  Then inland, across to Kilmacrenan for tea and scones in a half echt, half ersatz cottage – reminds me of the The Maltings at Snape – their tea room by the road, all wood and darkness.  Then through the flattening countryside to Rathmullan – beautiful location, alongside Lough Swilly.  Book table at Waterside Restaurant. 

Long walk along huge strand here – couple of miles long, perhaps.  Sand incredibly smooth – the absence of large waves in this tidal lough means few sand ridges.  Lovely firm texture with slight “give”.  Sun strong, low in the sky through the trees, wind keen.  The breakers a constant litany.

Hotel a fine old Georgian (?) place, nicely done up, very cosy.  A thousands daffodils in front of the hotel, a sea of yellow, plus a grand old tree – dunno what (die Schmach) – but looking like a baobab upside down…

Then along to the restaurant.  Lovely situation, hanging out over the water.  But a couple of disappointments.  I wanted oysters: apparently these are kept in beds outside the restaurant – and couldn’t be reached because of “spring high tide”...se non è vero...  Then we couldn’t sit by the window “because Rathmullen town council were eating/meeting here, and we [the hotel] have a planning application for ten luxury houses before them…”.  Se non è vero...  The starter a little uninspired (warm fruits de mer), the sole nice but small.  The apple crumble from a jar – but the Stilton in port good.  A nice dry Graves to complement.  I was about to go for a walk (at 7.30pm).  Good job I didn’t: the heavens have opened quite suddenly again.  

So, with the exception of Northern Ireland, I’ve done this land pretty much.  So where will I buy my country retreat?  I think it has to be Keel on Achill Island.  There felt like the end of Europe (it’s not, quite).  There was stunningly beautiful: huge, unspoilt beach, low houses clustered round it.  Huge cliffs rearing up either side.  Unspoilt, untouched land to the north.  Probably only two hours’ drive (at worst) from Shannon.  One day perhaps…

What a day…  Driving most of it.  To Donegal, Sligo, Galway.  Rain then sun, constantly repeated.  Ben Bulben majestic, its folds like the skin of a whale.  Big mistake: (a) me (I) was trying for a restaurant in a cave at Ballyvaughan (b) no comfort stop, meaning bladder bursting time.  Poor Anne: my driving became more and more desperate, down tiny country lanes. Alas, I missed the brilliant scenery here.  I was conscious only of pain…

Finally get to Ballyvaughan – saw sign for the Aillwee Cave: 4 miles.  Outside the town: one mile.  Then half a mile – each time, a further tease.  Then, within striking distance, what do I see, but precisely what my worst fear was: a flooded road.  I had had visions of the car stalling in the middle of nowhere; here was my chance.  Luckily a bloke said it was OK – and funnily enough, I trusted him.  And it was.  But no toilets in sight – had recourse to desperate measures.

Went up to the cave – restaurant nugatory, deeply tacking – stuffed with bleedin’ toy bears, god knows why.  We not.  To Gregans Castle, lovely Georgian House – who served us lunch.  Alas, time was running out.  I had home-made soup – mushroom – reminds me of an earlier time.  Interesting and impressive: they offered to tell a JCB outside to shut up if I wanted.  Fine view of The Burren – amazing rocks (I was reading a book about the geomorphology of Ireland at the hotel in Rathmullen).  Then a fairly rapid drive to here, arriving 4.55pm – one hour to spare.  

In the lounge now – surrounded by US Airborne Services in their desert camouflages – plus lots of scruffily-dressed Russians (from where? To where? - I noticed an Aeroflot desk in the hall).  Strange study in contrasts...

2023 Bilbao

10.3.23

By the cathedral in the old town.  The smell of drains, and a light rain falling.  A characteristic feature of the houses in this district is the glassed-in balconies – like Turkey and Georgia.  Strange to see them here.

Up early today – 5am – then along to the station to take the train to Gatwick.  Which as delayed, and made things more of a rush than usual.  Flight left late but arrived early – only just over 90 minutes.  Bilbao is near, geographically, but so far culturally, linguistically – which is why I am here, albeit for a flying three-day visit.  To see a place I have heard so much of, with its wonderful, mystifying singleton language.

To the River Nervión, by the huge Erribera merkatua, supposedly the largest covered market in Europe.  Makes me think back to Tashkent and the Chorsu building, and forward to the great central Asian markets I hope to see soon in Dushanbe and Khujand.  The church of St Anthony with its wonderfully uneven blocks of stone, the old bridge nearby. The main market has closed for the day, but the smell of fresh fish smacks you in the face as you enter.  One side full of bars and cafés, most offering the local pintxos – Basque tapas.

A walk along the river, shadowed by trams and (electric) buses, to the Teatro Arriaga.  Alas, at the moment there is only Hansel and Gretel playing, which I have no desire to sit through, even for the sake of seeing the interior.  The outside is enough – over the top French empire style [Wikipedia says "neo-baroque"...hm].

Arriaga is a fascinating figure. Often called the Spanish Mozart, he was more the Spanish Schubert – he only lived 20 years (1806-1826), and coincides with Schubert, not Mozart.  Pretty much forgotten immediately after his death, that has had the happy consequence that the only editions of his works that survive are modern, and freely downloadable.  Sad that we’ve lost quite a few works, but the string quartets plus Overture Opus 20 give a hint of what he could do – and could have done.

On the metro to Indautxu – mostly to validate my 72-hour city pass – only 20 euros.  Metro modern, but with a design quirk: you enter above the two tracks, then descend stairs to the platform you want.  Curious to see the trains under you, with only a low wall.  Signage in the carriages not very good – Barcelona’s far better.  But very cheap – 80 cents with an oyster-type card used by most.

North to the Doña Casilda Iturrizar Park, domainted by the looming and rather incongruous Iberdrola Tower – all 40 floors of it.  The park reminded me of the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont made from a quarry in Paris – similarly slopping.  Indeed, much of Bilbao is hilly – part of its charm.

Now sitting in La Baguerie, a modest little café near Moyúa, which is the centre of the modern part of the city – and where the bus for the airport departs from.  Feels like Saturday, with lots of people out shopping, especially ladies of a certain age.  Nearby the incredible Txabarri Palace – a kind of Basque gothic.  Also nearby the gleaming Iglesia de San José de la Montaña – which is particularly striking when viewed with the Ibendrola Tower in the background.

Back in the old town, which really bustling.  To the Plaza Barria (New Square), which is like a small version of the Plaça Reial in Barcelona – complete with palm trees.  Lots of children here, in contrast to the wrinklies I saw out shopping.  Strong wind getting up, but warm – temperature around 21°C, compared with London’s miserable 7°C…

Back to room to recover, then out into the seething streets – lots of people out drinking, eating.  Great atmosphere.  Along to the nearby Café Lago – I’m too tired to wander far.  Has good reviews and indeed has great buzz.  One thing that surprises me: no one has switched to English when I try to communicate – badly – in Spanish.  Also, I can’t say I’ve heard any Basque, but maybe I’m not attuned to it significantly.  First glass of txakoli – the local white Basque wine.  Very slightly fizzy, but not too much. Nice.

After supper, out along the river towards the Guggenheim.  Lots of people out – and broad embankments just made for walking.  Past the bridge that looks amazingly like the one in Bratislava.  The on to the huge shapes of the road bridge by the Guggenheim, the Guggenheim itself, and the Iberdrola skyscraper.  The Guggenheim not lit up as I expected, but glorious nonetheless.  Then back to the hotel with the tram, getting off at Arriaga.  Walking back through the narrow streets of the old town, there are so many people out drinking and eating pintxos that the level of noise was that of a small, crowded pub.  Lovely end to a great day.

(The cathedral bell strikes ten...)

11.3.23

On the tram to the Guggenheim.  Such a civilised way to travel.  Ripping them out in the UK was such a stupid move…  A grey day, with rain threatened for most of it – typical for Bilbao, apparently.  Outside the Guggenheim, under intermittent rain.  Cloudy, but bright.  The Iberdrola Tower stands sternly nearby.

Inside.  Standing at the centre of the huge Richard Serra artworks – an enormous spiral of metal – surprisingly claustrophobic as you go round and round – perhaps because the walls are so high, and inward-leaning.  And the fact that there is no quick way out.  The long, undulating ones feel like tiny canyons, and remind me of that feeling created watching the film 127 hours… This gallery is amazing because it is so big – you rarely get to experience space in this way, and the artworks articulate that space brilliantly.  Great demonstration of that: I got lost – or rather lost my sense of orientation, and walked back to the entrance thinking it was the end.

A huge Jenny Holzer installation, with nine illuminated strips rising in a giddying fashion.  All in Basque.  Now Spanish.  Very weird effect of the floor sinking… perhaps because the texts move in perfect sync.  One side is in Basque, the other in Spanish.  One blue, one red.  Both hypnotic.  Oh, now in English…

Climbing the stairs, the interior looks like a modern version of one of Piranesi’s prisons – all odd angles, stairs, windows, metal.

In Room 202, a witty four photos by Thomas Struth – Audience 06, showing tourists staring at something in Florence – they look up, so a statue maybe.  Nice to see the watchers watched.  They look posed, but aren’t…

In the upper galleries, “classical” Abstract Expressionism.  Amazing sculpture by Chillida – whom I knew of, but not as a Basque.  A huge, brain-shaped rock, richly veined like cheese, pierced by perfectly smooth square openings, in three dimensions.  Wonderful.  As I climbed up here, looking down, the Guggenheim suddenly felt like La Sagrada Familia.  Interesting echoes.

My feet begin to hurt.

On the way out, popped in to the temporary Miró exhibition – his Paris years.  Lots of good stuff; also lots of meh stuff…  Quite busy here now.

On the tram, straight to Ribera, then into the market for pintxos and wine.  Market open – that fish smell… Great atmosphere here in the food section.  Out to find alcohol – not for now, but to take back.  The light txokali, of course, plus a Navarran/Basque liquor, Patxaran, made with sloes. BM Supermercado well stocked.

Then past Arriaga Theatre, over the bridge and the along the main shopping street – Gran Vía de Don Diego López de Haro – Bilbao’s Oxford Street/Champs Elysee.  Past Moyúa, along Ercilla Kalea – pedestrianised, reminds me of the similar street in Barcelona near La Sagrada (Avenue de Gaudi). Past the Pompidou Centre-like Bizkaia Plaza to here, the very odd Azkuna Zentroa Alhóndiga Bilbao.  Famous for its weird squat columns.  Currently sporting a huge red sun in close up, flames shooting out, projected on to a huge screen hung over a large empty enclosed space.  Always terrifying to think that’s what the sun is doing…  Wandering around, just noticed that there is a swimming pool – above us, with vague human forms visible as they pass over the translucent floor panels.  Spooky…

In the evening, off to the Euskalduna concert hall.  Easy – tram all the way.  So I go to Arriaga, the tram comes, we all get on – and the driver tells us all to get out.  It goes no further today, not clear why.  So along to the metro, up to Deustu.  Down to the river, over the bridge – which reminds me strongly of Bratislava – past the huge rusty iron wall of the concert hall – they do love their iron here, one reason Serra was able to go big on it.  Sitting by the bar in the slightly fresh wind, going in soon.

The concert hall has a really interesting design.  Basically, it’s a huge steel box inside the outer steel box.  Internally, it is covered in a rich golden-brown wood.  Unusually, the side seats are in pews – big sections enclosed on all sides.  I’m at the front of one, since I thought I’d have more leg room, but not with this huge wall I won’t… Fab view, though.  Lots of old people here – well, my age.  Not many young ‘uns.

Programme began with George Walker – Lyric for Strings.  Very strong double basses – maybe all that wood.  Performance slightly spoiled by two noises.  First, just before the conductor began, a man blew his nose very sonorously.  Then, during the quieter passages could be heard squeaky voices coming from the headphones of the two camera operators – of which there were at least five in total.  People started moving to get away from it…

After the Walker, Adams’s Dr Atomic Symphony.  I’d only listened to this a couple of times, before, and this performance was much more convincing.  Perhaps because the conductor was a young (black) USian, Roderick Cox.  Worked for me…  Rachmaninoff Symphonic Dances good too – bass and brass really belting it out.

After the concert, the rain was bucketing down.  But – miracle – people were waiting at the tram stop, suggesting that trams existed.  And they did, so tram to Arriaga for me, back to my room – and to bed.

12.3.23

To the Museum of Fine Arts of Bilbao.  Early rain giving way to broken clouds and sun.  The museum is free.  Nice mixture of old and new.  Van Dyck Lamentation of dead Christ – great study in downward sloping diagonals.  A roomful of dark Goya prints “A rain of bulls”…  Interesting that there are no explanations in English – only Basque and Spanish.  Nice Ribera of San Sebastian cured by holy women.  Striking how many people around here look like figures from a Ribera painting…  Upstairs to a room with two Ruisdaels – one print, one pic.  I haven’t seen his stuff for years.  Still love it.  The painting a wood at dusk – very romantic – no figures, just twisted and broken trees, the usual pond.  Very atmospheric, very moody, dare I say…

Fab Orazio Gentileschi – Lot and his daughters – Lot in red, the daughters in yellow and blue, lots of pink flesh – legs, arms, and breasts – the ladies exploding out of their dresses.  Strong upward diagonal.  Painted in London, apparently.  A sad, tiny figure of Lot’s wife, turned into a microscopic pillar of salt as punishment for turning around to look at the burning city of Sodom.

A room with a horrible twisted gob of meat in the corner – yes, a Francis Bacon.  I avoid looking at it in order to preserve my mental health…  A very unusual Zurbaran, of St Catherine of Alexandria, looking very stern, and yet childlike too.  An interesting work by Xabier Morras, showing the Underground station exit in Holborn.  1969, with suitably old car models.  Number plate DLP 126C – I wonder who was in the car when that photo was taken. Where were they going, what were they doing?  Now that moment has been caught in art, whatever it was…

A video explains the massive buildings works underway outside: they are adding a huge new wing.  At least I think that’s what the video said: it was all in Basque when I saw it, so I had to grab the few words I knew there…  Down to the river, sitting by the Guggenheim, its huge canopy before me.  Lots of people out, lots of dogs.  Weather clearing.

After lunch, on the metro to Areeta metro station down by the sea – quite a long journey, but easy.  Going to see Vizcaya Bridge, the weird gondola contraption there.  From the metro down to the river, where I see the huge gantry spanning it.  For some reason best known to the Basques/Spaniards, the overhead walkway is closed from 2pm to 4pm (lunch for the lift person?).  So I take the gondola for 50 cents.  Short, sweet, and rather surreal.

Then walk out to here, under the mini lighthouse.  Lots of motor boats in the harbour, smell of the sea.  Reminds me of a similarly long, hot walk out to the harbour in Valencia some years back.  Not  much to see here, just the opposite bank, and the sea to my left.  Not many boats moving.

Since the lift man clearly won’t come back early, no walk across the gantry fro me.  To Moyúa for a quick coffee and bun before trying to find the Artxanda Funicular.  Which was not easy, and led me through various insalubrious parts of Bilbao – I knew this from the quantity of dog poo everywhere: in “nice” areas, people pick it up and put it in dinky little bags.  Not here.

Finally I find the funicular station, where I was able to use my 72-hour city card.  Trip only a minute or so, view good.  In fact, the park at the top looks exactly like the one in Bratislava – sans castle.  Overcast now, but still pleasantly warm.

A lone raptor floats over the city – looks big.  Reminds me of the eagles flying of the Caucasus when I was up by Gergeti church…

From here I can pick out the landmarks I know: the cathedral, Arriaga theatre, the bridges, Guggenheim, Ibedrola Tower, the concert hall of last night.  Not bad work for three days…

Back in the hotel.  At 7pm a deranged carillon emerges from the nearby cathedral.  Truly demented, rather wonderful.  

13.3.23

Up early for the trip to the airport.  Out in search of breakfast.  I love walking through old cities before everyone else is up.  Here reminds me of Venice, which I once took a stroll in at 6am when I was on a press trip there. To the Plaza Barria, the Café Bar Bilbao, one of the few places open at this time.  The wind is rising: the palm trees shake dramatically.

As ever, I arrive at the airport far too early, unable to check in.  In fact, checking in was not part of the plan: my ticket is hand luggage only.  It was when I was packing the two bottles of Basque alcohol – the txakoli and Patxaran – that I realised I can’t take these through security.  Various alternatives run through my mind – drinking them now? – tricky, no corkscrew – giving them to the maid?  In the end, I went online and added the case as hold luggage.  Not perfect, but doable.  My fear was partly that I wouldn’t find equivalents in duty free (and looks like I was right).

An amusing social experiment at the check in.  The departure board said desks 23 and 24 could be used, and a few people were already queuing for 23, so I went to 24.  But as more people arrived, they saw many queuing for 23, and only me for 24, so joined 23, making it longer, evidently assuming that I had made a mistake.  I had a choice: stick it out in 24, and risk being forced to go to the back of 23, shamefacedly – or join 23 now.  I decided that if they gave two desks, there would be two desks.  And so it proved, happily.  But quite a tense few minutes there…

My one regret for this trip is that I heard so little Basque spoken.  In fact, the only occasions when I heard more than the odd sentence was in the announcement at the start of the concert yesterday, which told us to switch our phones off.  It’s true that practically every public sign – and even most ads – use both languages.  But it’s sad that more people don’t take pride in and use their amazing linguistic heritage.

More destinations:

1991 Lisbon

2021 Gibraltar

2023 Barcelona 

Moody's Black Notebook Travels