The odyssey begins

Read on if you have time!

2nd May 2026

Breakfast on board the Brittany ferry from Portsmouth to Bilbao, in the Commodore Lounge, was a mix of the good, the bad and the ugly. The coffee and small croissant were good. The bacon and cooked bits were the bad. The ugly bit was the way they laid the food out — not the crew’s fault, more the design of the food stations.

It was an odd circumstance that the time on board the boat was UK time, an hour behind Europe. So your watch had automatically switched to European time, but the ship and its breakfast were on UK time. Suffice to say, it created a few phasing issues for a lot of the middle-aged and, I dare say, elderly travellers.

We disembarked at a murky Bilbao port under glowering grey clouds.

Thank God I had bought the quick-exit option because the Spanish were implementing this new European security protocol. The guy at customs said my photo hadn’t worked, but the fingerprints were fine. It appeared one out of two was fine.

Both Ross and myself had to leave the car and carry out the procedure. There was no concern for what we might be carrying. So much for security.

Anyhow, we escaped the docks area onto very quiet roads. A complete contrast to the M25. It was like the proverbial ghost town: haunted yellow cranes and piles of soulless containers stacked on the quayside. Multicoloured rusting Lego pieces for the world economy model, which appeared recently under constant attack.

Heading to Pamplona took two hours: painless, wide, windy roads cutting through green fields with the backdrop of grey mountains. We wondered if some were still queuing to get through customs even when we were well into our journey.

Ahead, a truck had left the road on the opposite carriageway and was sideways in the central reservation. As we sped past, I voiced a sort of concern to Ross, but it was more lip service. A driver might lie in the cab unconscious, but I guess in that fleeting glimpse one is taught not to get involved or overcomplicate things. Let the Spanish sort this one out rather than some well-meaning tourists.

Anyhow, our hotel was next to the cathedral, high up in the old town. Obviously, it was called the Cathedral Hotel. Not exactly creative, but geographically correct.

Negotiating our laden Land Rover Discovery wasn’t easy up the old town streets. It’s a big old lump and Google Maps doesn’t exactly want to give us a route that is sensible or feasible. This is when old-fashioned “breaking the rules” has to prevail. Wandering up a no-entry street gives us a view of our destination. We turn round and circle onto our prey, going the right way.

It is starting to rain, but thoughtfully somebody has left a spot outside the hotel entrance we can reverse into. Well-heeled visitors clamber into a Mercedes SUV in front of us. A good sign of the type of hotel clientele, actually.

On entering the bright reception with its blue sofas, we are greeted by Silvia and Alberto.

Silvia asked our names and said that we could leave the bags. Alberto would park the car as part of our booking. I explained it was full of paintings. She reassured us that it was safe.

We were going to Greece with a car full of exhibition paintings, and I was the artist.

Alberto helped us with the bags and I gave him a small brochure of the paintings from the upcoming exhibition. We explained that Pamplona was our stop-off en route to Ithaca, paying a sort of homage to Odysseus.

If they were unlucky, they would feature in our story.

Silvia gave us a map and scribbled down the best pincho bars. She also explained that Barcelona football were in town playing Pamplona that evening. Best to book a spot in the best pincho bar early if we wanted a seat.

We made our way to the room on the fourth floor. Modern and perfect for our short three-day stay. We dropped the luggage, visited the toilet and headed out.

The Cathedral Hotel sits on the hill, so we almost rolled down the old town streets, with small bars and an assortment of tabac and local shops sadly now missing in most of the UK. One bar is called Hard Bar. I think I’ll avoid that.

We consulted the map we had been given and headed for the main square to then get a sighting on St Nicholas Street, where a well-known pincho bar had been recommended. Pamplona is famous for bulls and, where you get bulls, you often get Hemingway. No exception here, with a cocktail bar exalted from when he frequented it in the 30s.

The streets are quiet but starting to get busier, almost as if the tide was coming in. We would soon be knee-deep in Barcelona fans, you felt. No sign of the locals in terms of visible support uniform. Even at 11.15am, some are drinking and the game is tonight at 8.30pm.

We wander into a wine shop, resplendent in Navarre wines. Everyone is very proud here.

“This isn’t Rioja,” they declare proudly.

We look at each other and nod. Of course we know that.

What you can’t bottle is the wide selection of wines. A completely superb selection of local produce.

I pop into two shops that sell paints and the like. Ross is keen to show me the various games they sell, which he informs me is mainstream but extensive.

We have popped into the Katuzarra pincho bar and been told it does not open until 12.00pm and we can’t book. Still, the selection looks awesome. The waiter was called Javier. We reassure him we will be back at 12.00pm.

Anyhow, we pottered further, looking at all sorts of shops before we grabbed our seats for the pinchos.

Javier gave us a recommended Navarre wine and we started on the squid and potatoes, followed up with pork and pepper, gambas in batter — a bit soggy — and we over-ordered, six by two. Finished the lot off with a plate of sausages from the grill.

For sure, we felt stuffed now. Thank God we had some water.

We bumped into a great couple who introduced us to pacharán, a drink made with sloe berries. That just about finished us off at 2.00pm.

We went back to the Cathedral Hotel and crashed out for a good sleep.

Circa 5.45pm, we woke up and showered, then headed out in torrential rain for a steak dinner. God knows why in retrospect, but the smell of the grill at the pincho bar and the beckoning of the empty seats in the virginal restaurant beckoned me on.

We arrived early, but with some chagrin were turned away because the place would not open until 8.30pm, even though the pincho bar in front was bursting at the seams with drowned parishioners guzzling beer, wine, pinchos, sausages and God knows what.

We adjourned to a sad place with a lady who served us a local cider. It was poured from a height, similar to sangria, and it was a very small glass.

I looked at the sour-faced lady who served and felt a bit of sadness. She was serving in this downmarket place and it was a far cry from the military style of the pincho bar that served up pinchos from heaven.

As we whiled away the half hour, Ross looked at his phone while I watched various wretches go past with makeshift headgear: boxes, scarves, berets, broken umbrellas. A person wheeled somebody in a chair, which would make a great Banksy solo.

It was getting dark and the lights glistened off the very wet slabs and drainage.

We made our way five minutes early to the restaurant to find the chap we had spoken to earlier in a much more placatory mood. Maybe the disquiet of the earlier encounter had softened him. I reminded him it was “pissing it down”. What that translated to in Spanish, I don’t know.

I had nothing against him, but sometimes my rebellious nature does not care for the system.

Still, we sat in the white dining area with its wooden authentic ceiling. It had drainage stones and old tiles from extant churches curated into its walls. It was, you might say, “perfect” for the retro-chic, traditional-loving tourist.

We were at odds over what to order to drink, having had the assault at lunch. The cider, absurd as it tasted to us, was the option we chose, along with some water con gas. Of course, we got served up the most expensive half-bottle of water. Obligatory for tourists who, it appeared, didn’t care less.

As it would have it, we didn’t.

We chose ham, which appeared perfectly, and mused over the steaks. T-bone, each weighing circa 800g, was chosen. One medium rare, one medium. Fries. A salad to make it appear healthy.

The cider was the full-bottle version of the small glass we had tried at the sad place. It was delivered with aplomb.

Weirdly, when the steak got served, it was another lady who spoke no English. It was unclear which was the medium and which was the rare. In either case, the meat was seared only and sliced a bit. Both were quite rare and, when you ate the meat, it was akin to stripping a carcass on the plains.

The chips were fine and the salad exemplary. Simple onion and lettuce with oil and salt.

Leaving the restaurant part of the pincho bar, we saw Javier, who asked if all was okay. For my part, I didn’t know what to say. The steak was probably good, but needed cooking more.

But what do you say?

It was 10.30pm and Barcelona, it appeared, were drawing with Pamplona. It was raining as we wobbled back through the heaving crowds. If you hadn’t attended the match, you were probably watching it on the local bars’ TVs. It was now 1–1 with five minutes to play.

Getting back to the room, we both rued the day we had eaten and drunk so much.

After a troubled night dreaming…

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3rd May 2026

Weird stuff. I woke at 8.45am. Late for me, but excused by being an hour on in Europe. I drowsily hobbled to the bathroom for a shower and ablutions.

Ross took longer to emerge and I met him at breakfast for the superb spread put on by the hotel. There was just about everything, but we had decided to have more roughage.

I had to ask how the water was dispensed from the digital screen on the automatic drink machine.

A number of happy Barcelona fans tucked in later at 10.30.

We got our coats on and decided to venture into Pamplona centre. On the main square, we looked in on the Hemingway café. It was a sort of Belle Époque money-making machine. The tourists mixing like marmalade with the locals.

We moved on towards the great fortress on our map. A seemingly nonentity of a statue features the man who set up the Jesuit religious order. You realise that this wonderful city has many gems.

The fortress, we read, is one of the most famous in Europe. Honestly, its scale is formidable, as are the multiple long-barrelled cannons lined up inside. We wondered why this was built. Presumably to guard against the French?

We moved on to a great church. The traffic lights allow you a certain time to cross, which is played out in a clock that reduces. Unlike others, we tended to see if traffic was coming.

Opposite the great church, there is a park with a grand statue to an opera singer. It reminds me a bit of Hyde Park.

A coffee is taken, which I have to say I needed.

It hasn’t rained, but we had taken brollies.

We amble back to St Nicholas Street. Being a Sunday, all the shops are closed bar the odd florist or tabac. The pinchos continue to flourish and I contemplate what real creativity is going on.

Somewhat sanguinely, I conclude that drink and food are the lifeblood of Pamplona.

On the way back, we buy a couple of red berets, which are very “bull-racing specific”. They are a decent price also.

We drop into a supermarket to get a bottle of milk, which is soon consumed at the hotel. Alberto gets us the glasses.

Silvia admits she attended the Barcelona match the night before and is whacked, having been on duty since 7.00am. Alberto looks ragged. He says he has done 13k steps, and he doesn’t leave the hotel.

We retire to have an hour’s siesta.

I listen to Bath trying to thwart Bordeaux in the rugby. Unfortunately, they are just too strong, but dodgy camera work also helps the match-day officials decide in Bordeaux’s favour.

El Rincón del Iruña cocktail bar

We had decided to visit the Hemingway cocktail bar. Arriving in the square, we see the doors are open.

The bar stands next door to the main Belle Époque-style café, which is much bigger and serves the droves of tourists who visit the massive square in front.

As you enter the bar, you rise and then descend to see the bronze statue of Hemingway propped up against the bar. His rugged features and whiskers are almost a parade of manliness: drinking, bulls, cigars and, of course, cocktails.

Next to it is a sign:

No drink, no photo.

Facetiously, I make the point: what’s the point of coming into a bar unless you are going to drink?

It draws a smirk from an ex-employee who is at the bar blagging a few freebies from previous colleagues. His name is Mirko and he has a day off. A charming fellow who is very pleasant. He is from Argentina and enjoys the rugby.

We start proceedings by ordering two mojitos. It is clear the guys behind the bar know their stuff. All very physical, and have no doubt it was as good as Cuba — a nod to Hemingway in Havana from Ross and myself.

The bar shelf is more akin to an apothecary shop. The extraordinary mixed with the everyday: Tanqueray 10 almost as a start base, through to Macallan whisky in 12-, 15- and 18-year versions.

The two bartenders, as such, must have this as a job and a hobby. Mirko is used as a sort of experimental lab rat for new concoctions, or even cocktails not often asked for.

We flummox them a bit when we ask for a Painkiller. It isn’t the will that stops it coming over the bar, but no nutmeg. Anyhow, something is missing.

We revert to two from their list. I have the Burgos, which looks a bit like a piña colada.

Others have popped into the bar, including a jacketed chap with two ladies with him. He orders a Macallan and ice. I nod to the cocktail aficionado, who reluctantly places the ice in the glass.

We start to talk with the ladies. One is drinking mezcal from a small bowl. Her name is Elena. She has spent 10 years in London in various spots and, now at 42, is back at university doing sociology, or something to do with humanities.

Her friend is from the south. Almería, I think.

The mysterious chap they came in with pops out for a smoke.

We order a Singapore Sling and a local gin-based cocktail. Expertly made. It is very convivial indeed.

We had booked a meal at the hotel, more a coffee bar. We bade the cocktail crowd adieu and made our way back through the light drizzle.

I had worn some incredibly white trainers/shoes. Somehow, with the small hotel brolly, they were saved the worst.

The meal at the hotel was interesting in two aspects. The lady serving, on her own, was singularly unhappy — or her face and demeanour seemed to suggest this.

The food was pretty good and the wine very middle-of-the-road, but cheap. The décor in this place is very good. You might say curated to perfection.

We had lamb chops, chips and green peppers. Very nice.

A family group in front of us has a chap on the phone. He is incredibly loud, almost disagreeably so.

I left the young lady serving a 10-euro tip. It seemed reasonable, given she had been run ragged by guests popping in and out, not quite guessing the café was where you might need to make a reservation.

We retired at about 10.30pm.

Keeping an eye on the football, it was interesting to see Tottenham beat Villa 2–1 at Villa. While not a football fan, the combination of West Ham losing 3–0 has made the relegation battle interesting.

⸻

4th May 2026

I awoke from a mixed night of sleep. Quickly getting dressed, I debunked to breakfast.

The unfortunate thing was the loud chap from the night before was once more on his phone. Difficult to know what to do.

Anyhow, I had cereal followed by bacon and egg.

We headed out to the cathedral. I didn’t know what to expect, but I have to say the cathedral and museum are magnificent.

Highlights for me are the two giant puppet statues, recently recreated based on 17th-century drawings. So nice to see this place loves its culture.

Pamplona comes from Pompeio, which derives its name from Pompey Magnus, the Roman general. The Roman remains are evident under the cathedral here, and you see mosaics and small statues, etc., reflecting the 74 BC foundation.

Of course, the Basque name Iruña appears everywhere, including the cocktail bar. So you see at the monastery 14th-century cloisters and earlier churches.

The setting of the cathedral against a backdrop of world Catholicism and world events makes this place special. Gregorian references. 1212, the battle against the Moors.

We spend one and a half hours here.

Winding down the hill, we decide to get a coffee and snack at another pinchos place — the fancier version of free tapas, we find out. We learn that the pinchos are much more refined, a sort of art form.

We hunker down as it rains because we had popped into a barber’s we had been recommended to book an appointment at 1.30pm.

The place is called Hanako and is run by a chap and his wife from Fujian in China. She is doing nails while he is dyeing ladies’ hair.

It gives us 50 minutes to pop into another pinchos place called Inuzarra. A chap called David from one of the other places had said it was his favourite.

We got mini burgers and a gambas concoction. Both hit the spot with a mixed fruit drink.

Ross proceeded to get his beard and hair done. At 18 euros, very good value.

As was clear on this day, the rain poured again and I espied an ancient-looking café/bar. This place was a find.

Run by Pablo, it specialises in fried delicacies. The place is called Café Roch and declares a foundation date of 1898.

Pablo is, you might say, the lothario. He has good English and I ask him how.

He declares going out with beautiful women is the reason.

A priceless comment. Bravo.

The establishment is small. The aged founder’s Picasso-like image zings out from the back of the bar.

The fried whatevers come in pepper, ham, mushroom and squid. All are freshly made by a diminutive chef who pops her head from a hatch delivering the delicacies.

Unique and not to be missed.

We drank some decent Navarra wine as well.

On the way back, I popped into a souvenir shop and bought a red beret. For sure, you can see why they are popular.

Later, after a snooze, we visit the bull ring. It is a pinkish colour and, God forbid, it is no longer raining.

We pop back to see Pablo at Roch for one more download of battered delicacy. The place is full. Only five tables, mind you.

Saying adios, we visit a second bookshop and a shop which does sci-fi and progressive books.

As you wander the streets, shops are open till 8.00pm. There are wide roads being paved, so investment in the infrastructure. This place is pretty wealthy. Also lots of smaller independent shops. Not so many estate agents or charity shops. The odd barber, but not overrun.

We return to the hotel via the cathedral. It is still open and selling tickets. No rest for the wicked.

Camino comment

I have not mentioned the Camino shell signs which adorn a few places. We have seen walkers over the days, hunched like dromedaries with packs covered against the rain.

We had even spoken to one in the church. Sixty-five kilometres from France over the mountains, with a storm all the way. Her feet ached because this was the third day.

I am sure, in a masochistic way, they enjoy it.

If I was fit enough, maybe.

But no.

Camino shops selling stuff. Fat Camino derailed because of fatigue. You see it all on the streets.

But they don’t see Pamplona like we have.

A sandwich, fries and a beer finish the health-kick day of food consumption. The beer, which is Alhambra, is very good. It tastes of something.

The lady serving from the night before — Aurela? — has also served at breakfast and tonight. I hadn’t quite worked out the hours. Safe to say this lady was definitely putting in a shift. It’s hardly surprising she looked pensive.

Anyhow, if anything, you learn it’s easy to prejudge without quite understanding the total picture.

That evening, the small café area was invaded by some middle-aged Aussies. Talking about each other’s skin complaints or other medical issues, they were for sure giddy to be allowed off the giant continent.

Loud, yes. Mildly irritating, but not as bad as the uncouth Russians.

⸻

5th May 2026

After a broken sleep, back to breakfast and prepare for a long drive.

David Jackson

06.05.2026