Iberian return, day eight: Vigo - Donostia

Because I'd had a massively decadent power nap yesterday afternoon, I went to bed slightly later than was perhaps wise.

I was awake at about 5 a.m., though, thanks to some commotion outside that required the involvement of the Spanish rozzers and their disco lights right outside my window. The Vigueses, I have noticed, love their cars. It's an incredibly walkable city, steps and slopes aside, but they enjoy driving everywhere, at all hours, and every single car comes with a free, fully functional horn. I'd surmise it's something to do with the Citroën facility, but it's not like Plzeň, where Škoda is the predominant marque, so perhaps they're just petrolheads.

I planned to wake up at six (then snooze until half past), have a shower, and then check by seven, giving me time for a leisurely walk with a breakfast graze along the way. The long and short of this is that although I was awake early in the morning, my alarm mysteriously didn't go off at six as I'd thought I'd set it for, and so when I woke up at 7:12, just thirty-six minutes before my train was due to leave from a station a fifteen-minute walk away. I was not – you'll be shocked to hear – in the most happy-functioning-traveller mood ever.

Most other people probably pack their bags the night before, but regular readers will be aware that I am a seasoned traveller, and therefore such things never happen to me. Anyway. I now know that it's possible to cram a fortnight's-worth of life into a tactical backpack in next to no time, and by about twenty-five past, I'd thrown the key at the lovely man on reception and was power-marching downhill (thank you, Noodles) towards the station. Google suggests this should take about fifteen minutes, but I managed it in twelve as it was mostly downhill, and at 7:37, knackered but triumphant, I was on the platform.

The second problem to present itself was that I had booked first class until León, as the original plan – imposed on me through lack of tickets – was to spend a night there before going to Donostia on Sunday. However, before I went to bed last night there was a change of plan facilitated by the last-minute appearance of a few seats in second to Vitoria-Gasteiz, where I could change and take an onward train to San Sebastián.

I tried explaining this to the train manager before we left, and he looked very confused that I had two reservations but agreed with everything I said and smiled sympathetically. The nice lady controller I found later spoke a leetil Engleesh – more than my Spanish – and suggested the best thing would be for me to ask the train controller once we got to Ourense, thereby deftly communicating that it wasn't actually her problem without actually having to say so.

We pulled out of the station a few minutes late (all that panting for nothing!) and I settled down for the five hours and twelve minutes of blissful peace and quiet that the big leathery seats suggested were guaranteed until León – which quickly mutated into too many hours of an infant with a screen and no headphones. To be fair, it was actually better-behaved than the grown-ups on the train as it at least had nobody to shout at through a telephone. It quickly became apparent that I should just give up now and let go of whatever tenuous grasp of my will to live remains.

Outside the window, the view was morningy (i.e. dark and cloudy) for the first few hours and there was very little to see. However, my belief that odd-numbered seats are the best aligned with windows in first class on Spanish trains proved to be correct, and so when the lots of pretty was finally sliding past seat 7A and its massive window, I was ready for it, with an ethpretho and a muffin which I'd procured from the friendly man from the platform (who I now know was not the train manager after all).

In Ourense, the new train manager was a very friendly woman whose aroma and cackle suggested she was fuelled uniquely by Rothmans and who put me in mind of a Spanish Yootha Joyce. She was adorably helpful and spoke French, which meant we understood each other. As far as her little tappy machine could tell, the train was full from León and I'd have to move, but she took a note of my seat number and promised to come back and find me if the situation evolved.

At Montforte de Lemos, the train changed direction and the world now started slowly slipping backwards past my window. I don't know where there have been fires in Spain but there was definitely charred evidence that some mountain-sides had not been spared along the route. Outside the window on the other side of the train, the colour of the landscape suggested heat. Somewhere around Astorga, Yootha came to announce that in her tappy machine seats 4A-C had become free and I no longer had to change class or compartment.

My new seats were Kafka seats – technically window seats, but a pillar in practice. We weren't facing in the direction of travel so this didn't really seem to be a problem. At León I was on the edge of my new seat, worried perhaps that someone had bought a last-minute first class ticket to Vitoria-Gasteiz, but for the next three hours and twenty-five minutes, the infant with phone had gone and was now replaced by an elderly couple who'd obviously never used a telephone before and whose ringtone and notification sounds were set to a volume that could be used to shatter glass if we needed to evacuate.

In all, the journey on the Alvia from Vigo to Vitoria-Gasteiz takes eight hours and thirty-seven minutes and, despite the Spanish lack of concept of quiet, was glorious. The first few hours were a bit murky, but once the sun came up, things became increasingly spectacular and, as with the journey south from Donostia to Málaga, the colours, the breathtaking valleys, the omnipresent mountains, and delightful stone villages made for a wonderful journey. The train changes direction twice along the way, first in Montforte-de-Lemos and then in Olmedo (if I remember correctly), and with the light and views I'd probably suggest sitting on the right of the train rather than on the left, which is where my individual seat was.

By the time we arrived in Vitoria-Gasteiz, we'd picked up a twenty-minute delay and I was slightly worried I'd miss my connecting train, but that turned out to be a replacement bus service which was waiting for us. I only had a fleeting moment to stop and admire the stained glass in the station before finding my seat at the back – someone cooler than me had claimed the whole back seat but I was in one that had legroom thanks to the absence of anyone needing to place a wheelchair – before we set off again.

The road from Vitoria also passes through some spectacular scenery and I'm starting to suspect, as a non-Spanish speaker, that the only reason the Spanish are so loud is that they are just trying to outdo each other in excitedly talking about how beautiful their country is.

The bus arrived into the coach station in San Sebastián thirty-five minutes earlier than the train was scheduled to, leaving me plenty of time before check-in for a cheeky beer and pintxo at Bar Amazonas, now apparently my favourite pintxo place. I had a half of Ambar and a tortilla pintxo which melted in the mouth. I have never worked out what the Donostiarras do to their potatoes to make them so lovely.

Once again I'm in A Room in the City and it's not as busy as last time. Check-in was painless, and once I'd got everything into my lockable drawer I set off in search of pintxos. After a little wander around near the sea-front, contemplating an ice cream, I walked in the opposite direction and explored the part of the city on the other side of the Urumea. There were indeed tasty treats to be found, and in more squares that jump out unexpectedly like an Inquisition, children were playing on swings while hungry people sat behind beers, loosely observing them.

On my way home I had a final gourmet pintxos experience. I had wanted a repeat performance of the patatas al ajillo from two weeks ago, but I got there just a little too late. Instead I walked to Antonio – a place I've often observed busy from afar – where I had two fishy things that were way better than the amount of money I paid for them. The first was a little dish of grilled scallop with truffled purée – om-actual-gees – and the second a spicy tomato delight with green peppers and a cheeky anchovy. Even though I generally consider that humans are not designed to stand to eat, I'm starting to think the Basque dining experience infinitely more sophisticated than that of southern France, and enjoyed leaning against the bar while I grazed.

Back in my room after a final cerveza and some olives, I found my room-mate eating a kebab who introduced herself between mouthfuls. I explained to her in English and broken Spanish that it was forbidden to eat in the rooms, but she apparently didn't seem to let this bother her more than just saying sorry and continuing to eat. Rather than actually report her, I asked reception for some air freshener because there was someone eating in room three. That did the trick, and the guy behind the desk assumed the Mantle of Karen from me and went to investigate, tutting.

She didn't speak to me again.