Slow travel in Spain
Harold Wollin story and photos
It’s midnight by the time we pull out of the rental lot in our sweet ride: a brand new Fiat 500.
The streets of Malaga are deserted. We’ve just arrived from Edmonton via Iceland and London, and have been awake for more than 24 hours. We’re hungry, but we can’t find anywhere open to eat, so we go to bed without dinner. But on the bright side, we have a parking spot near our hotel.
We’re carrying big data packages, and Google Maps has features like saying no to freeways, tolls and ferries. The show terrain feature helps us find the mountains so we can find the twisties. We’ll avoid big cities because we love the drive more than the traffic.
The first day takes us out of populous Andalusia and towards Portugal, into the cork oak forests of Extremadura, home of the black pigs destined for succulent jamon Iberico. By 6pm, we are hungry enough to consider catching and barbecuing one of them pigs. We see a restaurant sign and pull in. It appears deserted so we belly up to the bar and wait for someone to notice. The kitchen door opens and the smell of cooking wafts around the lady that steps out wiping her hands on her apron.
“Hay comida?” I ask.
“Si,” she says. “A las ochos.” I pull out my phone for a quick Google Translate to see if we like ochos.
“We open at 8pm,” it tells me. A two-hour wait.
We book into a casa rural and settle in to wait for dinner. The lady in the apron’s daughter, Camila, introduces herself as she serves us the first beer. That leads to another until some time later she asks if we are ready for dinner.
“Si!” we say. She rattles off a bunch of Spanish at us. We’re easy and hungry. We nod and agree. She laughs and beckons us to follow through a door, into a narrow dark hallway, past the busy kitchen on the right. Then through another door we are suddenly in a busy bustling restaurant. We were sitting in the bar!
She points to a table and returns with a bottle of wine, a basket of fresh bread and a delicious garbanzo and tripe soup. A green salad follows, then I’m presented with the conejo, which I must have ordered, my partner gets the lomo de cerdo. His pork chop is fried perfectly, and the succulent braised rabbit has me using my bread to wipe up every drop of the delicious sauce.
I notice neighbours looking askance. Am I committing a food pas? I couldn’t care less because both the bread and the sauce are awesome. Camila mentions that el arte de mojar, which Google translates loosely as the art of dipping, is cool again; it even has a Facebook page. Another bottle of wine appears. Suddenly it’s 11pm and we’re alone in the restaurant.
Next morning we continue on our journey. At a café bar we stop and order ‘dos café con leche por favor.’ Aren’t we just speaking Spanish already! It comes with a mini lemon muffin in a plastic package. Wolfing it down, we ask if we can order breakfast. The bartender smiles and tosses us a second mini lemon muffin in a plastic wrap. Breakfast isn’t big in Spain; the mornings are for café con leche and Twinkies; the afternoons for espresso or café solo. Meal times are strictly enforced. We’re learning.
Eventually we turn the corner above Portugal and head to the coast. Galicia is everything the guidebooks describe. Picturesque rolling hills by the sea with brightly painted houses, there are coffee bars, bakeries, cheese stores, butcher shops and restaurants everywhere. It’s sunny, kind of warm and high noon. It’s too early for a restaurant, so we’re thinking picnic. From a panaderia we choose a loaf of outstanding artisan bread, and from a quesaderia, a few types of Manchego, some chorizo and of course, jamon Iberico. A healthy diet requires some greens, so we pick out a variety of olives.
A nearby bodega offers too many options but we do our best to stock our Fiat’s wine cellar. The sidra artesanal catches my eye so we take a couple flagons of that too. Our tablecloth is the bag the bread came in. We break out the corkscrew, two glasses and a folding knife, all bought at the tienda beside the bodega. Now this is a road trip!
Eventually we crave the city lights.We choose A Coruña for our urban experience. This involves a half hour of bumper cars and super tight navigating as we hunt for a parking spot near our hotel. We end up in an underground lot which costs as much as the hotel.
As we walk through the centre, we’re surrounded by chic city folk, young and old, shopping and enjoying the gastronomic pleasures of Galicia. We make a new rule. One restaurant — one drink — one tapa — repeat!
First stop is called Pulpiera Maria Pita, where fresh octopus, draped over glassware, beckons from the window. Next stop we polish off a pile of fresh, succulent steamed mussels with some chilled Albariño, the next has razor clams in garlic butter. Then we see a cooler in front of a restaurant. Inside, a whole beef loin. A sign says how long it has been aged, and the temperature and humidity gauges seem to work. We’ve blown the wad on parking already, and, we’re on vacation. We finish the night with a gigantic, perfectly-cooked T-bone steak, washed down with a Rioja Gran Reserva.
We are in twisty heaven as we drive across the north coast and through the Basque mountains. The narrow roads wind through colonial villages and past hilltop castles and continue through the Pyrenees. We stop for a few days at the northeast corner of Catalonia, in Cava country. We’ve seen enough traffic in our visit to A Coruña, and caved in to Bilbao for a peek at the Guggenheim, so we decide to skirt Barcelona. Lucky break for us, as close to a million Catalonians were marching that day.
We hunt for windmills as we follow the Ruta del Don Quixote across the plains of Spain. The scenery is reminiscent of Saskatchewan and we wish we had rented our car in Barcelona as the next three days take us back to Malaga in what seems like a straight line.
Without a lot of research, a road trip through Spain is less likely to be a gastro-tour, but it will be a taste of the culture. The menu del dia offers a price-worthy glimpse into the style and flavour of each region. The urban experience is best served by riding the rail from centre to centre. But if it’s forests and farms, vineyards and olive groves, fruits and vegetables, or windmill chasing that strikes your fancy, nothing beats the drive.
