In which there is a whole lotta beautiful and a whole lotta sheep.

*August 2012

 

After two nights in San Sebastián, there was still one eve between us and our tentatively scheduled landfall in Bilbao, the great culmination destination of several weeks' adventuring. Technically we didn't have very far to go, so we took our time, turning left out of the campground and heading west along the mountain crest, drool dripping down the windows obscuring the unreal ocean/cliff landscapes to the north and sweeping mountainous terrain to the south. Horses oblivious to their prime real estate, tiny farms perched on distant peaks, wildflowers ablaze, and all, all the blue.

 

All roads eventually lead to the ocean and this one was no exception. Down we twisted, careened, joyrode of the soul until the car parked itself in a dank, green, underground parking garage for beachgoers in a coastal strip town. Here the sand divided water and shore, stripey, blue-green huts separated the sands from the city anew, and big and little people of all flavors played between worlds.

It was clear that our last wild camping adventure was going to require particular pizazz. Therefore fresh fish and other fine fodder was purchased before trickling further down the coast, eyes always peeled for paths with slumbering potential.

 

Then there it was -- an inconspicuous side street pointing up toward more inconspicuous side paths, topped with a cherry of delicious, inconspicuous, dreamy plot of land upon which to park our worn wagon and weary bones.

Needless to say, we were pretty excited with the find. It was a remote area amidst fields, sparingly dotted with villages and ripe with fleecy sheepies. Oh, the view -- the view! My gut was still a bit twisted about not having permission to camp there, as I wouldn't be able to explain myself in case anyone came knocking on our tent flap in the middle of the night. When a truck actually did pull up next to our vehicle while in the middle of Operation Dinner, I didn't know whether to feel more worried or relieved. A rough, buff-looking gentleman hopped out, nodded in greeting in our general direction, and went about his business, tending to the fields and flocks and all that. Spanish-inclined Fellow Roadtripper approached him to ask if we could camp there once he finally made his way back to the truck, heaving a dead sheep into the back. There was some gesturing and some nodding and when he finally figured out what we were trying to say, and he answered positively with more gesturing and more nodding, "Something something something tranquilo something something!". That was good enough to put me at ease. Not only was he down with us camping there, he even pointed us a bit further down a grassy road to a location he found even more ideal, describing the view with arms sweeping out widely and an expression of great satisfaction creasing his leathery face. We thanked him as best we could and I sent many grateful vibes along after him as he disappeared down the trail of the setting sun.

After the most magnificent meal the GDR-era Gas Cooker and our ingredients could provide, we collected our wine and chocolate and perched beneath a tree upon Sunset Hill, fleecy sheepies munching monotonously below. At one point I stood to take some photos from further up, which the sheep apparently found to be VERY exciting as the whole flock stampeded in one motion toward me, stopping suddenly in a line just a few feet away, their eyes all fixed on me, wondering which sort of edibles I could provide. I was very surprised and felt, very, very observed. However, the grass beneath their cloven footies soon became the main attraction and my two seconds of fame were over before I had even figured out what was going on.

The night fell as it does, the moon rose as it did, and we fell asleep to the sounds of a village party in a valley below. The so-called calm before the storm.