From Donostia to Pasaia: the first steps – Goats & A stone wall

Whe­ther it leads to an absurd­ly shaped reser­voir, a rich seam of mush­rooms, or viney­ards bla­zing in yel­low, hiking in the Bas­que Coun­try is infi­ni­te­ly blissful. The most approacha­ble site for me is Mon­te Ulía, a small but mys­te­rious moun­tain con­nec­ting Donos­tia and Pasa­ia, which in its­elf offers inex­haus­ti­ble exci­te­ment with its num­ber of turnouts.

The urban side of the city ends abrupt­ly – the den­se tumult of the pro­me­na­de is dis­con­tin­ued as a wide, rather drab road, with a petrol sta­ti­on empha­si­zing the indus­tri­al look, distinct­ly takes over. Then a few sta­ir steps and the striking polish is left behind – the marb­le side­walks are repla­ced by simp­le asphalt and the way up Mon­te Ulía beg­ins. The cover used to be cob­ble­s­to­nes, I ima­gi­ne, remem­be­ring the sud­den ascent of the street lea­ding up to the Tomb of Gül Baba in Buda­pest. A mau­so­le­um with a view, it takes a steep walk up one of the city’s tigh­test alleys to reach the tomb – a walk made enchan­ting and mythic by the unru­ly cob­ble­s­to­nes that so harsh­ly varied from ever­y­thing around it. Becau­se the tas­te­l­ess visio­na­ries of Buda­pest equa­te reno­va­ti­on with limit­less block paving, the street, as well as the once wild­ly roman­tic tomb, almost fade into the envi­ron­ment – for­t­u­na­te­ly no muni­ci­pal govern­ment can alter the unli­kely incli­ne. The slight­ly sloven aura of Mon­te Ulía’s bor­ders is defi­ned by the pre­ci­pi­tous croft, lying par­al­lel­ly to the road – it’s an anar­chic ani­mal farm, wort­hy of the lite­ra­ry con­no­ta­ti­on, given how one can­not see any signs of human main­ten­an­ce. The anar­chy only extends to how it looks: the fen­ces, the bus­hes and the rema­in­ders of a shed are com­ple­te­ly expo­sed to the ardent spi­rit of the inha­bi­ting chi­ckens, goats and hor­ses. The poli­ti­cal order, on the con­tra­ry, is kept well in hand by a black, one-eyed goat who rigo­rous­ly war­rants the oppres­si­on of his fel­low ani­mals. Alt­hough tru­ly a com­man­ding pre­sence, he also per­so­ni­fies the inher­ent unsus­taina­bi­li­ty of mega­lo­ma­nia – he regu­lar­ly mis­ses out on some gre­at pie­ces of cab­ba­ge given to him, being too busy to pre­vent others from recei­ving their share. Of cour­se, the lea­der is often away from the fen­ces to gather a com­pre­hen­si­ve view of his land – that’s the occa­si­on to obser­ve peaceful fami­ly life.

Mani­fold eclec­tic impres­si­ons mark my over­all image of the Bas­que Coun­try. Sun­light, crystal­li­ne blue and white, then fog and gray­ish greens, impu­dent palm trees and seve­re pines, hot sand in the wind and the immo­bi­le stark­ness of rocks. The lar­ge-sca­le, distant awe of pan­ora­mas (such as the one ope­ning up right after the goats), and the reduc­ti­ve beau­ty of various sur­faces up clo­se, with intri­ca­te, ever-chan­ging details. Pas­sing by the first loo­kout to the oce­an, the oppo­si­te kind of spec­ta­cle emer­ges. A stone wall cover­ed in moss and flowers, lust­erless and ear­thy, none­thel­ess dis­plays a remar­kab­ly broad spec­trum of colors. Loo­king away from the unat­tainable magni­tu­de of the oce­an, one can turn to the stone­wall to regard and touch some­thing more fathomable.

pho­tos by Anna Babos