A meander through hidden heartlands

Soak up the highlights of Spain on this epic circular tour from the Basque north through the glorious centre to the southern coast and back again

Discovering Jaizkibel campsite, where we were intending to stay at is closed, Seán reverses, slaloming around motorbikes, cars and vans, accompanied by the enthusiastic gesticulations of a bar full of drinkers until, finally out, they applaud. The sat-nav then sends us up Jaizkibel’s winding road before directing us down a goat track.

My partner in crime coolly informs me he hasn’t got round to downloading the app alerting us to narrow roads or, in this case, goat tracks. I’m convinced it’s just so he can execute a hair-raising three-point turn.

San Sebastián’s Camping Igueldo is on a bus route to the centre and on the Camino de Santiago’s pilgrim footpath.

We walk the four miles of the Camino to the old town, with the Pyrenees as the backdrop, and goats scrambling in lush fields above Atlantic coves.

Surfers ride the waves in front of San Sebastián’s tree-lined promenade. Revellers pack the old town’s bars, which radiate from the Baroque basilica. We feast in the

Ambigú Bar, the food living up to the city’s gastronomic reputation, especially the banana crisp dessert filled with vanilla and apricot mascarpone. Constitution Square is breathtaking, with its intricate iron balconies, arcaded walkways, sherbet lemon walls – the old bullring’s numbers still on the apartments.

Mount Urgull’s summit offers up 360-degree views of port, beaches, mountains and ocean, but my technical companion is absorbed by the metal step ladder up the back of the giant statue of Jesus and the lightning conductor that tops it. I move him on swiftly lest he disturb the

Sunday strollers’ meditations with his engineering fact file.

Seán’s dismayed when I suggest walking six miles west along the Camino to Orio. He forgives me as we cross heathland, woodland, nature reserves, trickling streams and meadows full of donkeys, horned cattle, pied wagtails and purple ragged robin.

The original pilgrims’ paved footpath is on Orio’s outskirts.

I’m lost in contemplation, descending the wooded slope; I think of the millions of pilgrims who’ve travelled this way, each on a spiritual journey.

Seán studies the ancient gutters. He’s suitably mystified when I talk about spiritual journeys… and I’m equally mystified when he explains the intricacies of the drainage system.

Orio offers up colonnaded St Martín’s hermitage, and ashlar houses (a type of stone masonry), complete with wooden beams and arched doorways big enough for past owners to ride their horses into the courtyard. We lunch on salt cod stew, watching trawlers head out to sea and the long Basque rowing boat powering down the River Oria.

The AP-1 motorway takes us towards the Douro River and medieval Tordesillas. The honeyed stone basilica, aristocratic houses and convents are impressively stuccoed.

A statue of Queen Juana I stands resplendant on a globe, marking the spot where the Spanish and Portuguese monarchs divided up South America.

Storks sit atop their roof nests and collared doves swoop. Murals stare out from the walls, my favourite being a young girl looking quizzically at her mother. ³