bilbo baggins, the basques and stuffing my face

Eeegads. So, Friday night we traveled to Bilbao. "How long is this bus ride anyway?" I asked cheerfully as we got on the bus. "Nine hours..." says my friend Sara. "Oh" I said. And indeed, nine hours and 700 kilometeres later, I staggered bleary-eyed off a bus in Bilbao and was greeted by a wet, clammy, green city surrounded by mountains and smelling faintly of fish. All in all, very like home.

Luckily for us, my friend Sara has family in Bilbao who were good enough to collect us from the bus station at seven in the morning. It would be the understatement of the decade to say that these people were welcoming.

Over the course of the next 48 hours these people extended to us a form of hospitality that I thought only existed in ancient Greek and Irish epics. The Greeks called it Xenoi, or 'hospitality': the idea being that when a stranger arrived at your door, you provided food, shelter and welcome before ever asking them their name. This is pretty much what we got. We were given a full (Irish) breakfast, shown to a bed for three hours and then given lunch before anyone seemed to think it neccesary to ask me who the hell I was.

Then we were whisked off in cars for a scenic tour of the city ('Bilbo' as the locals proudly call it) and the wilder environs to the north, where the Cantabrian sea faces towards Britain and Ireland. The landscape was staggering.

Following that we were taken for 'Pinchos' which are similar to normal Spanish Tapas (small dishes of food) except served on small biscuits with red wine. "OK. Now we have lunch.." Rafa (our host) informed me to my astonishment. 'Lunch', as he casually called it, was a monstrous four course affair of the most beautiful food I have ever eaten, followed by Gin and Tonics, coffee and Cuban cigars. It took almost three hours to finish the food.

Finally, we were taken to see the purpose of our visit: the Guggenheim museum, an astounding feat of engineering and architectural inspiration. Sitting in the midst of the citys' river, the museum looks like a downed mothership from a 1970's sci-fi flick: all shimmering glass and titanium wrapping - a mass of silver superstructure justting in ten different directons, huge bulbous atriums and graceful curved galleries.

Then we had dinner. No. I'm not joking. Next came more booze, drinking, smoking, drinking, dancing and yes, drinking. Eventually things started to get to me and I made an attempt to get to the bar to get a round in. Before I had even opened my mouth to order I was forcibly thrown back in my seat and told that 'no a-guest of mine pays-a for anything when they a-stay wiv me'. I made more feeble protestations, but to no avail. I snuck out the next day and bought them a bottle of Sheridans by way of thanks. When i handed this to them, the fixed me with a blurry eyed stare and trembling lips as though I had just presented them, not as I had done with cheap Irish grog, but rather with the Holy Grail itself.

Considering myself a lucky man to have met with such friendliness, I awoke on Sunday assuming that I would be left to my own devices, having already taken enough of these peoples time. Oh no. Not a bit of it. Over the next five hours I was treated to a uniquely Basque experience.

A Txoko (pronounced 'Choko') is a private members-only club, which originated during the late 19th century as arefuge for Basque men from the then predominantly matriarchal society. Access is strictly reserved for male members and occasionally guests. All of the machismo aside, on Sundays the male members bring their wives and daughters, cook for them, serve them and clean up for them. Women are prohibited from helping in any way.

To put it quite bluntly: the food was spectacular. Possibly the nicest meal that I have ever eaten, and of course washed down with copious quantities of wine and gin.

Sadly, time ran out and all that was left to do was get the bus back. Another nine hours and 700 km's later and I found myself back in Valencia, staggering towards my first class of the day with Jorge, at 8.30 a.m.

I'll be going back.