Bay Of Biscay

After a leisurely start, we set off on the first leg of our voyage home. Skirting Bordeaux, crossing the border and then giving Bilbao a wide berth too, we finally pitched up at a little country hotel in the wilds of nowhere.

Actually it was at Itziar-Deba. Practically the same thing though.

The hotel was very clean and comfortable. The only downside was when we pulled back the bedroom curtains, there was a picnic table full of onlookers peering at us. If they were waiting expectantly for the evening performance, they were to be disappointed!

As were we when we tried to order dinner in Deba. Chicken terminado (the table of Frenchies next to us had had the last of it), croquetas still frozen in the middle, and a piece of beef the size of a brick that had been shown a candle by the chef, who had then thought better of it, not wanting his masterpiece to be overcooked.

Or cooked at all, as it happens.

Still, I ordered a glass of red. ¡No! Only by the bottle. Butter for the bread perhaps? ¡No! once again.

Flan for pudding? ¡Si! Well that was something I suppose.

I hope the waitress didn't expect a large tip. I'd hate to think we'd disappointed the locals twice in one evening.