San Sebastián - Orio and back

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On my second hiking day I walked past La Concha bay and picked up the Camino heading towards Orio. I hadn’t even reached the edge of San Sebastián when it started to rain heavily. Because it had been dry the day before, I had left my umbrella and rain pants at the hotel, though I was wearing my yellow raincoat.

Walking along La Concha, it became clear why Isabella II of Spain chose San Sebastián as a place to take sea baths in the mid-19th century. The place is beautiful. When Maria Christina of Austria, widow of Alfonso XII of Spain, moved the royal court’s summer residence to San Sebastián in the late 19th century, the city’s bond with the royal family grew even stronger. Donostia flourished as a fully fledged seaside resort, and even Mata Hari is said to have visited.

It took a while before I reached anything that felt like nature. Being a Monday, there were no local runners or dog walkers, only a few long-distance pilgrims on the Camino. They would greet me with “Buen Camino,” and I would simply nod along, not feeling the need to explain that I wasn’t really walking the Camino in the traditional sense, despite my wide-brimmed walking hat, an amazing tool in the rain.

I noticed I was moving faster than most other hikers/pilgrims — perhaps because my day pack was very light, or perhaps because I was on some kind of mission. At one point, as I overtook two hikers, the girl in front of me shouted, “Man with a mission coming through!” I called back that my only mission was to find a glass of cider in the next village.

I wasn’t particularly preoccupied with the bones of the apostle James the Greater. When Spain was largely under Muslim rule in the 9th century, the story of the discovery of the tomb of Apostle James the Greater can be seen as something close to a political necessity—helping to unify and strengthen Christian resistance against Al-Andalus. The story is a medieval foundation legend but there is no 9th-century evidence that proves the bones were those of Saint James.

At one point, the water was flowing over the path in a thin layer. The sand turned to clay and became incredibly slippery. I always look like I’m not having fun in photos, but I can assure everyone: I was having the time of my life. The rain only added to the challenge — and I actually enjoyed it.

The man with a mission.

Orio is a small town on the Oria River, not far from the sea, with fewer than 6,000 inhabitants. I hadn’t drunk much during the trail, so the first thing I ordered was a glass of sidra. The glass itself is much bigger, but when you order one, they pour only about 100 ml in the traditional txotx-like style. Pouring the cider this way aerates it and gives it a slightly fizzy feel. To be precise txotx refers to the pouring in the Basque cider house directly from the wooden barrels.

The other option is to order the standard 700 ml bottle and practice txotx yourself. The local Basque apple varieties are sharp and high in acidity rather than sweet, and most traditional Basque cider (sagardoa in the Basque language) is fermented with wild or native yeasts, which gives it a very distinctive character. I don’t think I can drink sweet cider anymore.

Next came lunch. I found a place with a huge television permanently tuned to football. That’s always a good sign — it usually means the place is local. I ordered a whole bottle of cider and started with lacón. I had looked up what it meant beforehand and expected something light: thin slices of cured pork, maybe. Instead, a big plate of fried fatty bacon and potatoes arrived at the table. I was hungry, so I ate it quickly anyway.
For the main course, I ordered chipirones en su tinta — baby squid cooked in their own ink. I love the disconnect between what your eyes see and the smell coming from the plate: deep black, yet the lovely scent of the ocean.

After lunch in Orio, it was clear I had drunk too much cider. The stuff is 6 percent alcohol. I was cold and wet, and the next village, Zarautz, felt just a bit too far. I also hadn’t figured out where the train station near Zarautz was. In hindsight, I could have made it there without much trouble, but I decided instead to walk back to San Sebastián. The landscape grew increasingly green, as if the recent rain had given the plants a sudden growth spurt. At the same time, the path became muddier with every step.

It turned out to be a rather tiring return journey, with more rain and growing hunger. I was relieved to finally get back to my hotel, exactly ten hours after I had set out.

After a hot shower and an hour’s rest under the blanket, all I could manage was a short walk to the old town for a glass of white wine and a couple of pintxos for dinner. By then the sun came out.

Day 3: Orio - Zarautz - Zumaia

On the third day, I took an early morning train to Orio so I could pick up the Camino del Norte where I had left off the previous day. It started out sunny. This time I could see Orio from the opposite side of the river, with a small shipyard used for repairs nearby. Vineyards began to appear in the Windows XP themed landscape.

As I arrived in Zarautz, the path followed the beach. It was time for lunch in a small pintxos bar, accompanied by the customary glass of cider. I considered having these few pintxos as a before lunch, but when I found a restaurant it looked a little too fancy for my hiking clothes, which I had been wearing for the third day in a row. On a whim, I walked in anyway and reserved a table for lunch the following day—I also wanted to take a break from walking and do something else. They accepted the reservation, and I continued on toward Zumaia.

Zarautz in the distance

More vineyards appeared along the way, but also a large thunderstorm rolled in. At one point, I counted only two seconds between lightning and thunder—about 600 meters away, and I was completely exposed. Nearby was a Bronze Age burial mound. If I had been struck by lightning, they could have just buried me there.

Below the megalithic funerary structure, known as jentiletxeak, erected by pastoral groups during the Copper and Bronze Ages, approximately 5,000 to 3,000 years ago.

When I arrived in Zumaia, it was still raining. The place looked a bit dull, though that may have been because I was cold. I had my raincoat, but I hadn’t packed a warm sweater—just a thin hiking shirt underneath.

After some pintxos and cider (I’m not going to publish a photo of every pintxo I ate—that would get boring), I took the train back to San Sebastián. There were no more photos that day, so I must have ended up back in my hotel room watching YouTube.

Camino del Norte: Zumaia - Deba

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Before my fourth day of walking, I had a day off and my lunch reservation in Zarautz. But since I had plenty of time, I started the morning in the Gros neighborhood with a café solo and a very good bread roll filled with a slice of cold brawn (or head cheese—pork scraps set in a sour gelatin), blue cheese, and anchovy. It was a perfect combination: sour, salty, and bitter coffee all at once.

I Shazam’d the music playing in the background.

Voy a escalar,
La Torre Picasso.
Como un titán,
Sin miedo al fracaso.
Esquivaré los disparos, la metralla,
Las balas y el fuego.
Para mirarte, uh-uh,
A los ojos de nuevo.

Outside, it had started raining again.

Kirkilla in Zarautz

I don’t know why modern beachfront architecture is usually so ugly. The artwork is a painting by Juan Luis Mendizábal, known as “Mendi” — a local painter from Zarautz. He is said to have committed in July 1992 to painting every single day for 365 days, going to the seafront each day to paint Zarautz beach and the iconic Ratón de Getaria.

The restaurant I had reserved is called Kirkilla. It opened in 1983 after originally functioning as a warehouse. The chef, Xabier Zabala, joined at the age of 21 and stayed for 15 years.

The tasting menu wasn’t available for lunch—something I hadn’t checked beforehand—and the lunch menu was fairly limited. For the starter, I chose the Itsaski eta arrainarekiko krema arrain puxketekin (seafood and fish cream with fish croquettes), which was essentially a bisque. For the main course, I had frijitutako otarrainskak, sesame ajoblanco, almendra frijitua, tipula ozpinetan eta marroia (fried Basque shrimp, sesame ajoblanco, fried almonds, pickled onion, and tarragon).

It’s easy to see that the Basque language is a true isolate. There is no demonstrated genetic relationship to any other language in the world, and it predates the arrival of Indo-European languages in the region. At the same time, Basque has clearly borrowed vocabulary from languages it has come into contact with since Indo-European languages spread into what is now Spain—for example almendra frijitua (“fried almonds”), where almendra is of Latin origin.

However, arrain, the Basque word for fish, is generally considered native vocabulary, with no clear connection to Latin, Romance, or Germanic languages.

I was a bit shocked when I got the bill—it came to only €23.90. The lunch menu included bread, mineral water, a glass of white wine, and even the glass of cider I ordered.

ETA was founded in 1959 during the later years of the dictatorship of Francisco Franco, so the post-war Basque independence movement can best be understood in relation to Franco’s regime, which promoted a centralized Spanish nationalism. Even public use of the Basque language (Euskara) was restricted. It was not until 1968 that ETA carried out its first lethal attack. This escalated during the late Franco era but did not end with Franco’s death in 1975.

After the transition to democracy, ETA was heavily targeted by the Spanish state, and its public support declined over time, particularly due to civilian casualties. In 2018, ETA declared its complete dissolution without a negotiated political settlement. Even though there are still around 130–200 former ETA-linked prisoners, the phrase “96 free them all” likely refers to a local or more specific subset of those prisoners.

ETA is relatively recent history—the Basque independence movement itself is much older. Modern Basque nationalism began in the late 19th century, especially after the Spanish state gradually abolished many of the Basque fueros (traditional rights and privileges). Basque nationalists did not need to invent an entirely “imagined community” in the sense described by Benedict Anderson (Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, 1983), since there was already a strong linguistic and cultural foundation. Nevertheless, the Basque flag (Ikurriña) was created in the late 19th century, in the broader context of emerging European nation-states and modern nationalism.

Ozeanoen aurkikuntza / the discovery of the oceans

Back in San Sebastián, I realised I had seen little of the city. I visited the small maritime museum, Euskal Itsas Museoa, which had an exhibition on Juan Sebastián Elcano and Andrés de Urdaneta.

I learned about Ferdinand Magellan in school, but he was Portuguese. In the Basque Country, the hero of the first circumnavigation of the Earth is not Magellan, but Juan Sebastián Elcano, who was born in Getaria.

The exhibition also told the story of Andrés de Urdaneta and his discovery of a return route across the Pacific, sailing northeast toward the 38th parallel from Asia to New Spain. This “tornaviaje” made it possible to complete regular transoceanic navigation and helped open the Pacific to sustained global maritime trade. Below is a scale model of an “Indonesian” ship. Urdaneta and Elcano were both part of the Loaísa expedition to the Spice Islands, which are now part of modern-day Indonesia.

Monte Urgull is the hill overlooking the old city of San Sebastián. It has long been used as a military stronghold, dating back to at least the 12th century. Today, it still contains a fortress—partly in ruins.

During the 1813 Siege of San Sebastián, the site sustained heavy damage, partly due to ammunition magazines exploding. For good measure, I climbed Monte Urgull, and the view was quite impressive. I wasn’t especially excited by the fortress itself, though—once you’ve seen one ruined fortress, you’ve seen them all. The history is more compelling than the remains: the city was held by Napoleonic French troops and besieged by British and Portuguese forces during the Peninsular War.

This is the Thucydides Trap that France and Great Britain fell into. The rise of France as an emerging power led to war with Great Britain and its ally, Portugal. The term was coined by American political scientist Graham Allison (Harvard University). It gained global attention when Chinese President Xi Jinping mentioned it to Donald Trump during his visit in May 2026.

Above, the small harbour is now used mainly for pleasure sailing yachts, while in the foreground are modern txalupas—open boats used for mixed purposes such as coastal inshore fishing and leisure trips. In the maritime museum, there was also a list of local Basque fish: sardine, horse mackerel, hake, conger, monkfish, tuna, bonito (albacore tuna), anchovy, and mackerel.

For dinner, I opted not to go to a restaurant. After walking around for a while, I returned to the pintxos bar I had visited on the first day. The more famous places had long queues of mainly Asian tourists waiting just to get inside—not for me. Instead, I had the best battered shrimp, cider, and a glorious Gilda.

On my walk back to the hotel, I photographed the last few seconds of the sun as it set. The next day, my fourth and final Camino walk was waiting for me.

San Sebastián in the morning sun.

Zumaia - Deba

The section between Zumaia and Deba is said to be the most beautiful—and most difficult—stretch of the Camino del Norte. How hard can it be? I thought to myself.

I took the train to Zumaia, stopped at a café for breakfast—more pintxos!—and then set off along the path. It was a sunny day, around 20°C, warm enough for a T-shirt.

Basque Coast Geopark

The cliffs between Zumaia and Deba are like a walk through deep time. You can see multiple flysch layers of hard limestone and sandstone alternating with softer mudstone. Formed in an ancient deep-sea basin, these sediments were later uplifted by tectonic forces, which in places have tilted the layers dramatically.

The cliffs expose strata ranging from the Middle Cretaceous period (100 million years ago) to more recent Cenozoic layers (tens of millions of years old).

One particularly important feature is a thin layer enriched in iridium. Across this boundary, about 75% of marine species disappear, marking the mass extinction event linked to the asteroid impact in the Yucatán Peninsula, Mexico.

On my Wise Pilgrim app, I noticed two parallel Camino routes—one closer to the sea and more scenic. Many pilgrims apparently choose the less scenic inland path, because on this beautiful day I saw very few fellow hikers along the coastal route. Between Zumaia and Deba there is no village.

Amazing tectonic forces—coral fossils have been found on top of these 600-meter-high hills, where the area was once a shallow tropical sea.

I arrived in Deba after just 4.5 hours of walking. The Camino here overlaps with the Ruta del Flysch (GR-121), or at least the Camino del Norte shown on my Wise Pilgrim app runs alongside the GR-121.

The elevation gain between Zumaia and Deba is around 660 metres, with a similar amount of descent. It’s not too extreme compared to a typical hiking day in the high Alps. I reached Deba early enough to enjoy a proper lunch.

The Guindilla de Ibarra were in season, so I ordered a plate. These long green peppers are traditionally grown in the Basque Country, especially around the town of Ibarra, which gives them their name. They’re typically either lightly fried in olive oil or pickled in vinegar, and are also a key ingredient in the classic Gilda pintxo.

So during my week, I ended up walking roughly half the distance between Irún and Bilbao. The full route is about 151 kilometres, and I walked the 71-kilometre stretch between Irun and Deba. If I had devoted all my time and energy to walking, I could have made it all the way to Bilbao — but I would have missed out on the food, the museums, and the feeling of actually being on vacation.

The day before, I’d made an 8:30 p.m. reservation at the restaurant Muka in San Sebastián. After lunch it was already 3 p.m., and I still had to take the train back, shower, and get some rest. I figured I’d be hungry again by 8:30. I was wrong.

Muka

I was trying to get ready by 7 p.m. for Muka, but I just wasn’t hungry. Suddenly, I felt very tired and really didn’t feel like eating at all. The reservation had been secured with a credit card, and not showing up would have cost €30, so I went anyway, arriving around 8:30 p.m.

Because I was dining alone, I was given a seat at the bar — tables are usually reserved for couples or larger parties. Originally, I had planned to go all in: the full seafood tasting menu, wine pairing, the whole thing, regardless of the cost. But once I got there, I changed my mind. I didn’t even want alcohol.

Instead, I ordered a ginger-apple juice, the fried flatbread with three dipping sauces, and the springtime special of peas, broad beans, and erretxiko — the Basque name for the St. George’s mushroom (Calocybe gambosa). These mushrooms are considered a luxury item and can cost up to €99 per kilo.

The waitress warned me that the peas, beans, and mushrooms were a very, very small dish. I waved away her concern. The flatbread turned out to be surprisingly filling. Later I read that it was actually meant for sharing, but being alone: with whom?

The erretxiko arrived in a tiny cup. Even so, I was happy, although the price — €28 for such a small bowl — gave me pause. Still, after dinner I felt as though I could not possibly have eaten another bite.

I felt there was some kind of life lesson in it all. It reminded me of the time I stayed at a Korean Buddhist temple and a monk scolded me for leaving literally five grains of rice in my bowl. I should be happy, I thought, with my tiny bowl of fresh, sustainable peas, beans and expensive mushrooms.

Muka was conceived by chef Andoni Luis Aduriz and the IXO group, the team behind the renowned Mugaritz.

The name “Muka” comes from the Iparralde — or French — Basque word for “ashes from the fire,” reflecting the restaurant’s central idea of exploring fire in all its forms. Much of the cooking happens over an open grill. Sitting at the bar, I had a full view of the cook preparing the food over fire.

The restaurant is part of the Kursaal Congress Centre and Auditorium complex. The next day, I had to travel back to Bilbao to catch my flight home on Saturday.

Bilbao and the Guggenheim

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I had waited too long to book a hotel for my last night. The cheapest regular hotel room I could find was well over €150, far beyond my budget. There were plenty of hostel dormitories for around €30, but I hadn’t brought pajamas and I wanted privacy. Then I found a capsule hotel for €55 — exactly within my budget.

I arrived early in Bilbao by bus from San Sebastián, stored my bag, and headed straight to the Guggenheim Museum. I had noticed there was a retrospective of the American artist Ruth Asawa. Admittedly, I had never heard of her before, but I immediately liked what I saw.

I am not the biggest fan of Jeff Koons, but this was the best-smelling dog I had ever seen. His giant Puppy (1992 — stainless steel, soil, and flowering plants; 1240 × 1240 × 820 cm) was acquired by the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao in 1997.

The sculpture was almost blown up during the museum’s opening period. Spanish police officers spotted a suspicious van parked on a side street near the museum. Three ETA members, disguised as gardeners, were allegedly trying to install flower pots containing twelve grenades that were set to explode by remote control.

Ruth Aiko Asawa

Ruth Asawa was born in California in 1926 to Japanese immigrant parents. In the 1940s, discrimination against people of Japanese ancestry prevented her from becoming a teacher. In 1946, she joined the avant-garde artistic community at Black Mountain College in North Carolina.

During journeys to Mexico in 1945 and 1947, she became inspired by the country’s colors and craft traditions. On her second trip, she learned the knitted-wire loop technique from a Mexican artisan. That technique would later make her famous. Over the course of her career, she created countless sculptures woven from metal wire.

But her practice extended far beyond those wire sculptures. She also made drawings, collages, watercolors, and daily sketches. In addition to her artistic work, she was politically active in promoting arts education.

When I exited the Guggenheim and checked into my capsule hotel, I had the whole afternoon and evening to explore Bilbao. I wanted to do it properly. It was time for a txikiteo — the Basque tradition of bar-hopping for small drinks and pintxos before lunch or dinner.

I asked AI for a list of local aperitifs and got this:

  • Marianito — the classic Bilbao aperitif

  • Vermú preparado — basically dressed-up vermouth

  • Txakoli (Txakolina) — a lightly sparkling, very dry Basque white wine

  • Kalimotxo — equal parts red wine and cola

  • Zurito — a tiny beer locals drink while bar-hopping

My plan was simple: just start and see how far down the list I could make it. I began with a marianito, which I immediately mispronounced as a marianita. Confused look from the bartender.

On the next terrace, I ordered a zurito, which was nice since I hadn’t had a beer all week. The beer looks big but the bread roll is pinxtos-sized, therefore tiny. I’m not a big drinker, so after the zurito I could only handle one more — and I wanted to make it count.

After some googling, I found a place said to serve the very best marianito: Ander Etxea. I expected it to be packed, but at around 4:30 pm it was almost empty.

I ordered a marianito, making sure I pronounced it correctly this time. The woman behind the bar prepared it like a professional cocktail bartender: a mixing glass filled with ice, then she poured two different drinks from unlabelled bottles — later, I figured out it was vermouth and gin.

Next came Campari and Angostura bitters. She stirred everything carefully with a spoon to chill the drink, then strained it into a cocktail glass and finished it with an orange peel on top.

This marianito was in a completely different league from the first one. This one was, honestly, perfect. I paid only €4.00.

I didn’t want to spoil the perfect moment by ordering a second, so I left the bar and stepped outside—only to notice heavy, dark clouds rolling in. Soon it started raining so hard I ended up buying an umbrella, even though I already had one back at my hotel.

I decided to wait out the storm in my 3 cubic meters capsule, and in the process completely forgot about going back to a bacalao shop to pick up some quality salted cod for my kitchen.

Around 7 p.m., the rain finally cleared. All I had left to do was find a place for my last dinner. I didn’t want to spend too much, so I wandered around the gritty San Francisco neighbourhood when I suddenly spotted plates of rice and fried chicken on display in an obvious African restaurant.

The fried chicken wasn’t available, and the man pointed me instead to the only available dish: some kind of meat stew. From the music I’d Shazam’d during my meal, I could tell it was a Senegalese place. A pleasant coincidence since I almost flew to Dakar for this holiday. My stew was likely thiou—I don’t think it was yassa (I should have seen more onion) and definitely not mafé (peanut stew). I like these kinds of places. I still have plans for a city trip to Dakar, another coastal city with plenty of fish.