Cantabria, Spain

Santander was full of places to eat. Even vegetarians could dine in public. It reminded me a little of Brighton; the royal-patronised seafront shielding lanes of bars and cafes. In front of the town hall was a shock though; a large statue of Franco astride a horse [admittedly Brighton doesn’t have one of these]. Red paint splattered the horse’s flank, so perhaps not everyone was happy with it. I only stayed a single night because Santander didn’t have the atmosphere I was looking for. Instead I headed west through rural Cantabria, and back in time, to medieval Spain.

The bus dipped among hills of snooker-baize green to Santillana del Mar. Jean-Paul Sartre thought Santillana the loveliest village in Spain. He wasn’t alone; coachloads swarmed through the cobbled streets and perhaps Sartre’s hell is other people quote was also formulated here. I walked to the caves at Altamira; an expertly presented recreation of the original, yet minus the thrill of walking through ancient history.

I stayed in Santillana’s honey-stone Parador [my tenth!]. Across the plaza an English wedding was in full flow and later that night the Parador’s lounge was full of sloshed relatives. I headed to a local bar to watch the Madrid derby; drinking Asturian sidra with the aid of a small pump-barrel to oxidize the bubbles. It looked daft and tasted great.

West of Santillana lies Comillas, a seaside town full of outrageous architecture. The Casa Capricho had an extensive menu, quickly whittled down to a single vegetarian option. The waiter seated me out the back and round a corner just in case my vegetable dish frightened other diners. In any case, I didn’t really come for the food. The Casa Capricho is an early Antoni Gaudi building; swarmed in tiles and turrets, and topped by a minaret.

I walked off lunch along the beach, rolling up my trousers and dipping my toes into the ocean. Cantabria is heavily promoted as Green Spain but today the autumn skies were blue and the sun hung in a haze over the coast. I fell in love with Spain all over again.

Albania - Gjirokaster

From Sarande we folded ourselves into a stuffy bus for the journey to Gjirokaster, high in the hills. Our hotel was a restored Ottoman house, full of charm and cheap as chips. Stone arches, carved wooden ceilings and lacy white covers ran throughout. Our room, unfortunately, had none of these things, so we moved our books and music into the lounge and made ourselves comfortable.

The old town had a brooding presence, swamped in mist and rain. Steep cobbled streets plus sharp corners equaled exhausting walks and juddering taxi rides. The call to prayer drifted over the wind from a rare surviving mosque squeezed among houses. In Enver Hoxha’s time Albania was officially atheist and the country’s brand of nutty communism had its origins in Gjirokaster. A huge statue of the dictator has been toppled, replaced by a restaurant car park, but fresh pro-Hoxha graffiti was sprayed in the streets.

Perched above the old town sat an Ottoman castle. The silver shell of a US fighter jet was on display in the courtyard, ‘shot down’ in the cold war and left as rusting propaganda. Beside the plane but tucked inside the castle was a bar selling Turkish coffee in espresso cups.

There’s no clearer proof of Hoxha’s paranoia than the thousands of concrete bunkers which freckle the landscape. Regimented lines of these grey domes strike across the valley floor between Sarande and Gjirokaster, ready to repel invasion from Albania’s enemies [of which there were plenty]. Yugoslavia, Russia and China were Albania’s only cold war mates. Hoxha then fell out with all of them. Shops in Gjirokaster sold miniature bunkers converted to paperweights and ashtrays; the whole surreal spectacle reborn as tourist tat.