Category Archives: Travel

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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

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Postcard from the Guggenheim, Bilbao

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We flew into Bilbao with no real idea of what to expect. All we knew was that we had a hire car to collect on the edge of the city. The weather was fine, and our hotel room not available until the afternoon, so we decided to visit the Guggenheim.

Our first sight of the art museum was from the bridge as we entered the city. The museum’s titanium bulk rose up beside us but we had no view of the whole. That we saw for the first time after parking the car, and even then we could see only what our approach would allow, much of our view taken up by a giant, plant covered puppy, designed by Jeff Koons.

The sun was bright. The day was hot. We were tired. Rather than go into the museum to stare in a daze at works of art, we decided to walk around the outside, recrossing the bridge to get a view of the building from the far side of the Nervion River.

It was like unwrapping a parcel, one layer at a time. With every step the museum seemed to unfurl another sinew, its shape changing from crumpled paper, to majestic ship depending on the shadows and our bearings.

Our route, back over the river by another bridge, wound us around to the main entrance where we could not resist touching the scales of the giant. As we gently stroked one flank, a young man ran over to do the same, his excitement so great that sparks seemed to fly from his fingers as he touched it. He was a student of architecture, over from Peru, and beaming at just being there.

Here is a link to an article that tells you more about the museum, which turned 25 a few weeks after our visit.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023