Rouen, Reflexia and the Open Road
page 2 of 5
by Peter Gumbrell, 22 December 2008
continued from part 1
It was now Monday morning and a bank holiday. Following instructions, I made my way down to the corner of the bay in Donostia (the Basque name for its capital, San Sebastián), which was full of locals promenading. A couple of daring ladies in their fifties even donned swimsuits and went for a dip, though it was a decidedly nippy, grey December day to do so. Asier arrived with his girlfriend, and we admired the sculpture named Peine de los Vientos wedged into the rocks by the sea, where crowds gathered nearby to stand atop blow holes that send vertical gusts up the public's trousers and other clothing as the tide rushes in under the rocks below. I imagined this would be a more interesting place to appreciate during the summer when hordes of unsuspecting ladies arrived in ill-advised fashions.
Asier had, as promised, brought along his blue classic, out of its garage for the first run in a while. We took a tour heading up onto the cliffs above, but since these were shrouded in mist which spoiled any chance of a view over the bay, we retreated and instead parked the vehicles at a spot down by the waterside (above and below). There could be no doubting which of the cars had been most spoiled during its lifetime in terms of maintenance, though I like to think that my Reflexia nonetheless appreciated my giving her the chance of a holiday in Spain.
Asier's car, the 'Blue Star', was his second current Renault 4, and the third Renault vehicle in his possession at the time. Keeping all these motors, in addition to his two motorbikes, was putting a strain on his time and his finances, so he was facing the dilemma of having to wave goodbye to some of his spoils. The Blue Star, a 1977 model, was immaculate, and had been taken good care of by both Asier and the previous owner. It was special to him due to the year of manufacture also representing his year of birth, though he wasn't so happy about the 'M' at the start of the number plate, designating the Spanish capital Madrid, which was something of a dirty word in this region. He had been considering changing it to a local 'SS' variety, but his mother had been advising not to do so since the original plate was a part of the car's history.
The standard 850cc engine of this TL had been replaced by the former owner with a more powerful 1,108cc version from a GTL, and just for fancy effect it had even been fitted with a push-button start, located under the dashboard. This was quite a peculiar thing to witness on a Seventies generation R4. I was privileged to experience a short ride in the car, but declined the offer to drive it, for fear of driving it against a grain of dust or ruining the tyres by passing over a discarded peanut.
We went for a stroll through the town, stopping for a quick pintxo in a local bar, and admiring a few sights of a city that I love more each time I go there. In fact, the experience was starting to make me question whether France is really the place I want to be at all, since it is relatively dead when it comes to bars and people on the streets, outside of its biggest cities. When we returned to our cars at the seaside, Asier was furious to discover parking fines had been issued, which he believed was not normal practice for a bank holiday. He would have to pay his, though the chances are I might get away with mine by living in another country. The number plate had been recorded, but whether the authorities would chase it up remained to be seen.
Later that evening, I arranged to meet Asier and his friends down at an Irish bar at the back end of town. The latest downpour was heavy and made driving conditions very dangerous. Even armed with a map of the city I managed to get lost twice in crossing it diagonally, as my wipers once again struggled to cope with the onslaught. Wisely, Asier had decided not to come in his Blue Star on this occasion. We sat watching the final of an odd Basque sport on the television, although the actual game was being played just over the road in an indoor arena. Named Esku-Pilota in the Basque language, it involves two male opponents who smack a palm-sized leather ball against two walls perpendicular to each other. This particular variation of the sport is the most famous in the region, and tonight's game was the annual live final.
The game was difficult to watch, since only minimal hand protection is afforded to the players who must whack the ball so hard against the main wall a fair distance away, such that their hands swell up to enormous proportions. Asier is a regular player himself, but of a lighter version that, thoughtfully, allows the use of bats. He once tried the real thing and his hand was sore and swollen for days afterwards. Just to make the whole thing more bizarre, though the game is played on an indoor court the audience sitting along one side of the playing area are all allowed to smoke, and of course they all do since Spain is still a heavy smoking nation. Some male audience members sport the traditional large, flat Basque cap, and they throw bets around, over the heads of other onlookers, making last-minute or even last-second gambles on the result. I certainly felt that this was an authentic Basque experience, and it was more interesting than watching yet another game of football.
Following the match, with the rain still hammering down, Asier and his girlfriend were glad of the chance of a lift in my Renault 4, although they were at first puzzled when I opened the door on the opposite side of the car to what they normally expect. Reliable Reflexia got everybody back safe and sound, and Asier suggested we meet once more the following morning before I depart the city, for a last chance to see his original 'Red Devil'.
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