We left Pamplona behind, winding our way toward San Sebastián, looking forward to beaches, pintxos, and hopefully fewer life-threatening sausages.
“So,” I said, gripping the wheel, “bull running. Tradition or cruel?”
Mary, staring out at the hills, didn’t answer straight away.
“It’s both,” she finally said. “It’s brutal. But you can feel how much it means to them. It’s not some random tourist trap, Kev. It’s history.”
“Still,” I muttered, flicking the indicator, “watching those blokes run for their lives…it’s a miracle they don’t get flattened. I swear some of them had absolutely no idea what they were doing.”
Mary snorted. “That one guy in flip-flops? Darwinism in action.”
We laughed, but the whole thing stuck with me—the push and pull of what’s acceptable, what’s just “tradition” and what probably shouldn’t still be a thing. But anyway. Not the kind of question you can answer on one road trip.
Right about then, Mary’s face changed.
Emergency Pit Stops and an Uncooperative Stomach
“Kev,” she said, urgent, “pull over. Now.”
I didn’t argue. Slammed the brakes at the next blessedly empty service station.
What followed was a two-hour relay race between me, the van, and every rest stop from Pamplona to San Sebastián. Turns out, Navarran sausage and Mary weren’t getting along.
“Could be worse,” I said, handing her a bottle of water.
She glared. “Could it?”
“Well,” I shrugged, “at least we’re in Spain. Not, say, the M25 in rush hour.”
Mary, green around the gills, did not appreciate my wisdom.
Eventually, she gave up on the whole “soldiering through” plan and floated an idea that neither of us wanted to say out loud—
“Kev, I can’t do another night in the van.”
Hotel Debate—Or, How to Justify Spending Money When You’re Technically Living for Free
Now, we’re not fancy people. We’re not against spending money when it’s worth it, but the whole point of this trip was to be in the van.
“That’s two hotels in a row,” I pointed out, as gently as possible.
Mary, looking miserable, sighed. “And do you want me projectile vomiting all over the bed?”
Fair point.
One hasty Booking.com search later, we had a room at some small, family-run place just outside the city. A tiny splurge, but worth it when Mary saw the ensuite.
“Oh my God,” she sighed, arms outstretched, “a bath.”
San Sebastián: Fancy, Expensive, and a Bit Out of Our League
While Mary recovered, I wandered.
San Sebastián is another world. The beach looked like something off a postcard, and every third person seemed like they owned a yacht. Not exactly Hull on a Tuesday, but a nice place to stretch the legs.
By dinner, Mary was tentatively human again, so we ventured out for pintxos. Now, I get it—this region is famous for its food. And sure, the little fancy skewered bites were great. But honestly?
After the fifth plate, I found myself fantasizing about a proper bag of fish and chips, the kind that burns your fingers through the paper.
“You’re hopeless,” Mary laughed, shaking her head.
And, yeah. Fair.
Final Thoughts, Before We Inevitably Have Another Mishap
Later that night, as we strolled back to the hotel, Mary slipped her hand into mine.
“Even with all the stops, all the hiccups… I wouldn’t change a thing.”
I gave her hand a squeeze.
“Yeah. And who knows? Maybe tomorrow will be easier.”
We both knew that was a lie.
But where’s the fun in easy?
Next stop: Gijón. More driving, more questionable food choices, and hopefully… fewer emergency pit stops.