Category Archives: Spain

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A glass of sagardoa in Oñati, in the rain

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We visited Oñati on a wet weekend. It was a place to stop en route to the monastery just beyond the town. Hoping for lunch we parked the car, and went off in search of the main square.

In the end it was easy to find as we could hear it before we could see it, and most people seemed to be heading in that direction.

The square’s porticos were old and imposing, with music pounding out from one corner, where a large group of parents with pushchairs seemed to be registering for an event. Avoiding the rain we squeezed through them, and made our way round to one of the less crowded cafes on the far side of the square.

We chose the first one we came to. We were early customers, and a table in the corner was free, so we settled in with a bowl piled with olives, a plate of hot, paprika-spiced chips, and some sagardoa (cider) to try. The sagardoa was served by a young woman, who poured the golden liquid from about a foot above the glass, explaining that it always had to be poured from height.

Slowly we dried out, lingering over coffee, and enjoying the warmth and the chat as the bar filled up behind us.

Here’s a link with a sagardoa example.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

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Postcard remembering Guernica

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The man with the guitar is Basque poet and songwriter, José María Iparraguirre (1820 -1881)

Guernica is a place we did know something about. We knew of its horror … but not all of it.

It was grey the day we were there, as grey as Picasso’s painting that we’d seen in Madrid almost two decades earlier. His painting had been a response to this town’s devastation by aerial bombardment – the first town in history to suffer such a fate. The attack took place on April 26, 1937.

It was a Monday afternoon, when the aeroplanes came over. They belonged to Hitler’s Germany and Mussolini’s Italy, and were flying in support of their Spanish ally, Franco, who wished to destroy Basque resistance to his rule. The bombers’ mission was to obliterate the infrastructure of the town, and anything that moved.

Hitler was keen to see how well they did, and whether he might use similar tactics against other nations. He liked what he saw, and he did go on to assault others.

Author Mark Kurlansky describes that day, and its context, in his book The Basque History of the World. The details are shocking. It is almost impossible to believe that human beings could order, or carry out, such an attack. But they did. It lasted three hours, and included incendiary bombs, and bullets fired from above to kill anyone trying to escape.

The day we visited there were displays in the main square featuring photographs of the damage caused in 1937. It felt surreal to see the billboard reminders at the heart of what seemed to be a large and prosperous town.

The streets were busy, and some of the pintxos (bar snacks) in the cafes were the most creative and tempting we’d seen. We could not resist. We found an outside table, and had our lunch, surrounded by the to and fro – the business of being alive.

Here is a short clip, including English journalist George Steer’s account of the bombing of Guernica. He arrived in the town the day after the attack

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

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Postcard from the fishing port of Lekeitio

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Lekeitio was as unfamiliar to us as the Guggenheim. All we had were memories of some encouraging snippets we’d found online before we left.

Our route from Bilbao began on motorway, and then turned off on to smaller roads, that wound down through wooded hills towards the coast. After a little over an hour we found the signs that told us we’d reached Lekeitio, but we couldn’t find the place we were staying. Instead we plunged into a neverending squash of apartment blocks, with no hint of the sea or our hotel.

Thankfully, by the time we retraced our route, a laundry van had moved to reveal the stone archway leading to the hotel. We drove through into a world of green, with golden cows lazing beneath the trees beyond the lodge. It was an old building (17th century) with rough beams, and stone floors – everything full of character and welcome.

The next day, we went in search of the ocean, and met it on the far side of the built up core of the town. It stretched out to either side of the harbour, beneath cliffs in one direction and along sandy beaches in the other. We chose the high route, but took our time, lingering outside cafes in the sun, enjoying crusted bread, filled with jamón ibérico, or slices of pale, salty goat’s cheese.

At night we strolled the streets again, between the apartment blocks, and around the churches and squares. We ate in crowded bars, where the food and wine were fresh and delicious, and orders taken at such pace that the end result was often a surprise.

On one night, which happened to be over the weekend, we ate and then walked down to the port in the dark. We passed the bars, and the winking gleam of fishing boats and water, and went on towards the high wall that held back the waves. Behind us the town hummed with laughter and chat, voices merging, echoing off the buildings, rolling down the streets, and out to sea. I cannot recall being in any town, where voices dominate all other sound – happy, rooted and at home.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023