An englishman came to bilbao and other tales by Bilbao Turismo

AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO

BILBAO d other tales an

AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO

BILBAO d other tales an

Edition: 2015 © Bilbao City Council Publication and coordination: Bilbao City Council Plaza Ernesto Erkoreka, 1 48007 Bilbao Texts: Jon Uriarte Lauzirika Illustrations: Iratxe González Villaluenga Translation: Bitez® S.L. Printed by: Grafo, S.A. Legal Deposit: BI-444-2015 PRACTICAL INFORMATION Tourism in Bilbao: www.bilbaoturismo.net Tourism in Bizkaia: www.mybilbaobizkaia.net Tourism in the Basque Country: www.turismo.euskadi.eus TOURIST OFFICES Bilbao Turismo Plaza Circular, 1 Terminus Building 48001 Bilbao Tel.: +34 944 795 760 Bilbao Turismo. Guggenheim Museum Alameda Mazarredo, 66 (Guggenheim) 48009 Bilbao Bilbao Airport Tourist Office Bilbao Airport Arrivals floor Tel.: +34 944 031 444

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AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO

BILBAO d other tales an

An Englishman came to Bilbao (02) Bilbao, lord of the ring (04) Full steam ahead (06) Our mothers’ flags (08) Legends of two shores (11) A not-too-distant island (12) On never-ending tracks (14) ‘La Bilbaina’ dreamt of by Phileas Fogg (18) Graves in english (22) United by war (24) We are football (27) The cable between London and Bilbao (30)

“An Englishman came to Bilbao / to see the Estuary and the sea / and when he saw the local girls / he didn’t want to leave. / And he said... better a Bilbao girl / with her pretty face / with her charm and her grace / than all the American girls / with their immense richness...”.

AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO

BILBAO

Bilbainadas are pages in

song about the life of old Bilbao. They were born with a botxera soul put to habanera strains, given the combinations so dearly loved by the port world. And they were taken, from bar to bar, from txakoli to txakoli, by the txikiteros and groups of men who, txapela or beret firmly in place on their heads and glass in hand, would sing them between gulps.

But the ‘bilbainada’ travelled and settled beyond the rivers of grape. Above all from 1898 until 1917, years when songs were composed for the Carnival based on the local “susedidos” or occurrences. A sort of look back over the major events of the year. That’s why we’re never quite sure where this one came from, dedicated to a mysterious Englishman. Remember that, although it had existed prior to that time, the 18th, 19th and 20th centuries confirmed the special relationship between Bilbao and the British. So much so, that in the Bilbao Lexicon, or, as we like to call it, the “Botxo language”, the visitors who came to exploit our mines or on shipping business were known as “yonis”. And the Basque ship-owners must have seen something good in them when they sent their children to study in those northern isles. But how the name “yoni” came about is a mystery. Some say he was a mining engineer and others that he was a sailor working for a Bilbao shipping company.

The only thing we do know is that many are those who have sought to find traces of his identity in that old bilbainada song. In fact there’s another version that mentions a trade and a place name.

“An Englishman came to Bilbao / to purchase minerals / and when he saw the local girls / he didn’t want to leave / (chorus) Better a... etc. / Twice a day the sea / rushes in through Olabeaga / to sprinkle the girls of Bilbao / with two little handfuls of salt / (chorus) Better a... etc. / This travelling lord of England / saw so many lands, came to Bilbao / he couldn’t believe his eyes / at our shops, our wealth / and our nobility!” So you can see that the name of farolines, or people “proud of themselves to the extreme” dates from way back. That’s the only explanation we can find for the fact that we sing about an Englishman who couldn’t believe how great we were. But something else makes this bilbainada unique. If you ask anyone in our City to sing you one, they’ll either burst into the song about the Athletic Club or into the other one about the smitten Englishman.

Oddly enough, both refer to our relationship with the British Isles. There must be something behind it! In fact, both the capital of Bizkaia and the entire Basque Country share folkloric traits with Great Britain and Ireland. Starting with two Basque Christmas carols adopted as their own in England. And all thanks to the Protestant minister Sabine BaringGould. In addition to being religious, he was also erudite in History and Literature. Having heard one of our Christmas carols, he transformed it into Gabriel’s Message and, taking the musical basis of another, created The Infant King. If you ask someone in England, they’ll tell you the carols are native to the isles. And that may well be the case. At the end of the day, the ocean laps at both shores, connecting them to one another. This guide is but the tip of the iceberg of the many things that once united, and continues to unite us today. There’s something mysterious about the relationship between this proud hole with the heart of an island and those islands with the spirit of a hole that so stubbornly refuse to give up their former glory. Perhaps the key lies, as Sherlock Holmes said, in “When you have eliminated the impossible, all that remains, however improbable, must be the truth”. And sometimes that same truth disguises itself as a legend. Or as a bilbainada.

AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO BILBAO and other tales

BILBAO, LORD OF THE RING

“When Bilbo Baggins from Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton”. That’s the opening line of the first chapter of Tolkien’s

iconic work, The Lord of the Ring. And that very name, Bilbo, has philologists, historians and fans of the holder of the ring of the Middle-Earth scratching their heads in puzzlement. Each has their own personal theory, but almost all of them conclude that Bilbo, the Hobbit behind the whole tale, owes his name to Bilbao.

This is not a conclusion drawn by ourselves, but by others. And it makes sense. John Ronald Reuel Tolkien was a British man born in South Africa. That’s something known to anyone with the power to see, hear and understand, because his name has spread universally, extending far beyond literature, thanks to the world of cinema. You may also know that, until 1945, he was Professor of Anglo-Saxon at Oxford University and that, from then until 1959, he taught English Language and Literature at Merton. In other words, he was an educated man, erudite in his own and other languages. And there’s another detail we mustn’t forget. Having lost his father first and then his mother, he was educated as a Catholic by Francis Xavier Morgan. A Jesuit born in Cádiz of Welsh origin. We refer to times when relations between the UK and Bilbao were more than evident. Commercial ties and the iron & steel industry connected both shores. This is one of the arguments maintained by those in favour of the idea that Bilbo was named in honour of the Biscay or Biscayne dagger. This latter term is used in English to describe a sword made in and around Bilbao that enjoyed great popularity in England and America. Commonly found in the 16th century, this was a short sword, admired for its versatility. It was a useful resource in countering powerful enemies and a smart way to surprise them. But Bilbo also appears, as such, on swords manufactured in other places. In fact there are Bilbo swords in museums in San Petersburg, Milan, Turin, at the Royal Armouries Museum in Leeds or in the enigmatic Tower of London. It therefore seems to make complete sense that Tolkien would have named his character after it. A hobbit who in fact comes across a similar sword at a key moment of the narration. And as if that wasn’t enough, references are also made to the same sword in certain works by William Shakespeare. In The Merry Wives of Windsor, for example, mention is made of a Bilbo sword. In Hamlet too, except in this case using the word “Bilboes” and referring to shackles manufactured in an excellent metal that made them very strong. Their use of Bilbo rather than Bilbao may be due to the fact that the Basque place name was often found in

texts, particularly religious, until the 18th century. And here we recall the education and religious order to which Tolkien’s professor belonged. But since we’re revealing the whole story, let’s add that there was a game in France somewhere around the 15th and 16th centuries called “Bilboquet”, also known as “The Ring Game”. However, for whatever reason, those who study the creator of The Hobbit and later adventures, point towards our City as the origin of the name. In fact, there is another detail rarely mentioned yet rather interesting. In the prologue, Tolkien refers to the Hobbits and their village, describing it as a simple, ancient hamlet. For them there was no better place than a field well tilled and organised. They would eat and drink, often and heartily. They had their own language, or several of them, but ended up using the so-called Common Speech, yet they kept a few words of their own, as well as their own names of months and days, and a great store of personal names out of the past. They reckoned up their relationships with great care and were proud of their origins and family. But all this changed when Bilbo lost himself for a while in the “black Orc mines deep under the mountains”. Because it’s there that he put his hand on the floor of a tunnel... and found a ring. Thus, the green land of people dedicated to farming and livestock saw its life and future changed by the mines and kilns that turned the subsoil into powerful and much-coveted “treasures”. And, here it is, the strangest thing of all, Bilbo finally escapes death at the hands of the loathsome little Gollum, thanks to a powerful Elfish dagger he uses as a sword. Don’t tell me you can’t see at least one connection with this City, the famous weapon and its people? If we bring you this theory today, it is because there are voices from the UK that research into, ask and debate on the origin of the famous Hobbit’s name. And the key may always have been right here in Bilbao. At the end of the day, Tolkien’s work, The Hobbit opens with the words “In a hole lived a hobbit...”. Who knows if that hole isn’t a metaphor for another “botxo” bored into the Shire region to the northwest of the Middle-Earth. The one they call Bilbo, also known as Bilbao. Perhaps this is only a local theory, but it is certainly one worth taking into account. AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO BILBAO and other tales

FULL STEAM AHEAD

The Titanic lies at the bottom of the sea with a treasure from Bilbao. But before diving down to find it, let’s study a little history. The one found in the pages written on both shores of the Bay of Biscay and the English Channel. Newport and Bilbao, for example, share several of them. On the one hand, both have transporter bridges. The one over the bilbaina estuary, called Bizkaia Bridge, was the first of its kind, and visiting it is always a pleasure because it so generously allows us to climb on board to observe the water running by and the world around it. But there’s more. The Welsh city in question is home to the wreck of a Basque ship. That’s how the sea reminds us that sails and propellers plied the water from shore to shore for centuries. In fact, the term Bay of Biscay is largely defended by the British people of the sea. For example, the leading international authority in sea, ocean and navigable water charting, the International Hydrographic Organization, considers the Bay of Biscay to be a sea. In its publication, Limits of Oceans and Seas, the Bay is assigned number 22 and is defined thus: “A line joining Cape Ortegal with the west extreme of Ushant (Pointe de Pern) through this island to the East extreme thereof (Lédénès) and thence Eastward on the parallel 48º 28’ N to the coast of Brittany”. So our seas obviously deserve 6

AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO BILBAO and other tales

respect. It’s not us who voice such a claim, but those who know about these things. Think about it when you come along to our beaches and cliffs and look out at the waves. That sea has a name: Bay of Biscay. Make no mistake about it. Having said that, let’s get on with our voyage to the remains of the Titanic. And to do it, we’ll travel back through time to the year 1912.

From Bilbao to the ‘Titanic’ The Campo Volantín looked splendid that morning in March. But the treacherous wind was about to blow off her hat. Turning onto the Gran Vía, she smartened her pace and made her way through the sea of trams and pedestrians until arriving at her destination. When she walked through the pastry shop door, voices and eyes stopped in their tracks. Firstly, because of her elegance. And secondly, because of her unusual order. A whole kilo of toffees. Such a lot for a lady. But the strangest part was its mysterious destination. Someone was to pick it up in Madrid, and take it to America, on a “long sea voyage”. Weeks later, the Arrese family discovered that the box in question was for one of the passengers on the Titanic. Ramón Arteagaveytia. Son and grandson of Santurtzi and Barakaldo. That’s what Concepción

Think about it when you come along to our beaches and cliffs and look out at the waves. That sea has a name: Bay of Biscay. Make no mistake about it.

Arrese was told, and what she later passed down to her grandson Gonzalo. The client who had ordered the sweets was the grandmother of one of her friends, Patrick Marcuartu. There are texts and even a book about the voyage of Arteagaveytia on the Titanic. Of course there is no actual confirmation that he received the said toffees, but everything seems to indicate that he did. Furthermore, his voyage had a rather peculiar preface. Ramón Bernardo, his father, was born in Santurtzi’s El Mello neighbourhood in 1796. Orphaned, he immigrated to America and in 1814 he arrived in Uruguay. He worked first of all as an oarsman and later in a printer’s shop until he succeeded in creating the first sea transport between Montevideo and Buenos Aires. In 1826 he married Mª Josefa Gómez and they had ten children. The fifth was born on 7 July 1840. They called him Ramón Fermín. The man who, by then in his seventies, would finally embark on the Titanic. And that despite suffering nightmares due to an occurrence in 1871. Crossing the River Plate, on the ferry América, a fire had broken out. His decision to jump into the water and swim for hours saved him from death by burning or drowning. The experienced marked him for life, but it didn’t stop him from sailing. And even less so from purchasing a ticket for the maiden voyage of a ship declared to be “unsinkable”. Arteagaveytia planned to

travel to Cherbourg, Normandy, in time to embark on the Titanic and arrive in the USA. We know this, because he sent a last letter before leaving. In it he refers to family matters and the size and fabulous luxury of the impressive ocean liner. He was travelling first class, of course, rubbing shoulders with tycoons such as Benjamin Guggenheim, the Astor family, Strauss and the self-same Bruce Ismay, director of the line. But there were others. Like Manuel Urrutxurtu, a Mexican of Basque origin, who shared his table and voyage. This brave man finally left his place in the lifeboat to a woman. In exchange, he asked her to tell his widow what had happened. Years later, sobbing loudly, she kept her promise and confessed to Urrutxurtu’s wife that she had lied to him about her life and circumstances to make him feel sorry for her and give up his place. In fact she didn’t have to. Urrutxurtu, like Arteagaveytia, was a man of principles. And both chose to give up their lives. The latter, despite his 71 years of age, held out for hours on a sunbed doubling as a raft. There is proof of this fact: his watch. It was rescued along with his body and read 4 hours, 53 minutes. The moment both the mechanism and his heart stopped beating. But this is only an unfinished story, because his life and work live on in the memory of the most legendary and famous shipwreck in human history. The one that would have a small, rusted box of toffees hidden away among the remains of the mythical ocean liner. AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO BILBAO and other tales

‘

mothers Our

flags

Very often visitors, particularly Anglo-Saxon, enquire about the origin of the Basque flag. It’s rare to find a flag representing a country, region or city that doesn’t remind you of another one. But the Ikurriña (Basque flag) inevitably reminds us of the Union Jack, or maybe we should say the ‘Union Flag’. Its design was no coincidence and, although there is no specific proof of it, the influence of the Union Jack on the Basque flag is obvious.

A flag, the ikurriña, born precisely in Bilbao. To discover the exact spot we’ll go down to the Seven Streets. But first, we’ll make our way through the Ensanche, stopping at a particular place on the way. Today’s Basque National Party HQ, formerly home of the Arana family.

Luis and Sabino Arana Goiri were born into a

family of Carlist supporters in the mid-19th century. Sabino made his appearance on 26 January 1865, the youngest of eight siblings. He was largely educated in France. In Bayonne to be exact, in the so-called Pays Basque. Years later, he returned with his family to Bilbao, where he was sent to a boarding school run by Jesuit priests in Orduña. We will discuss his figure, legacy and debates on both subjects at another time, including the Basque nationalist movement he headed. But today we’ll focus on the matter of the flag. Although we should say ikurriña, since this is the word used colloquially to designate the Basque standard. For all other flags, the term ‘bandera’ is used. The ikurriña is a relevantly recent introduction. In fact, it was born for the sole purpose of representing the region of Bizkaia. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves; instead, let’s talk about our mothers’ flags.

Although the Romans already used the vexillum, a standard not unlike a little sail, it wasn’t until the Middle Ages that flags actually started to take hold in Europe. Their use was above all naval or military and took the shape of a banner, royal emblem or standard. Until, between the 18th and 19th centuries, the nations and regions of the Old Continent gradually started using them on a regular basis. But they changed in name and meaning with the different kings, and the area covered by countries or their politics. Something that also happened to the ikurriña. It was born and lived alongside other flags until AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO BILBAO and other tales

Flags, like the people who wave them, have their own lives. And just as the same wind never blows twice and we never know where it will take us, the ikurriña continued to fly independently of the path marked out by men.

taking on its final form. However, the time has come to head for the Seven Streets, and specifically to number 22 of the Calle Correo. The Basque flag was raised for the first time in Bilbao on 14 July 1894 to celebrate the opening of the “Euskaldun Batzokija”, on the balcony of what was the first centre of the Basque Nationalist Party. It hung in the Calle Correo, on the corner of the former Boulevard, and was raised by the oldest member, Ciriaco de Iturri. From then on, its presence became increasingly commonplace as its design and content were gradually modified. In the civic demonstration held in Paris on 27 February 1881, the one that stood out most among the 324 flying standards and banners was the Basque flag, according to no less than Victor Hugo. Said flag had the following characteristics: “Two parts: vertical colours; red, alongside the pole representing Navarra and white, the remainder, representing the other Basque regions. At each corner, a gold star, one for each region. In the centre a coat of arms portrayed four heads of Moorish kings against a gold background. The Laurak-bat emblem on a ribbon with red and yellow colours.” Years later, on 18 February 1894, a commission from Bizkaia made its way to Castejón, Navarra, to participate in a demonstration against the attempt to abolish the fueros or privileges by a minister named Gamazo. It was there and then 10

AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO BILBAO and other tales

that the representatives of Bizkaia waved a flag reading: Jaun-Goikua eta Lege-Zarra. Bizkaitarrak agur eiten deutse Naparrei. [God and Ancient Law. Bizkaia greets the people of Navarra]. But how can we explain the choice of design and colour? If you look closely at an ikurriña, you will see that it has a red background with a plain white cross and a green saltire cross over it. According to its creators, the Arana brothers, it is based on the Bizkaia coat of arms. Thus, the red background was taken from the background of the aforementioned coat of arms. The green cross represents the St. Andrew’s Cross, which also appears on the regional coat of arms. And lastly, is the white cross, symbol of the Christianity that forms an intrinsic part of the principles of Basque nationalism. What nobody missed then or now, above all given the close relations between the Basques and the British people, was the similarity of the design to that of the Union Jack. But what happened to that flag raised in Bilbao? They say that an ikurriña was flown from the stern of a sloop from Bermeo, called the Aketxe, shortly afterwards. The flag was also seen at the fiestas of Legendika on 9 September 1897, near the Kafranga farmhouse, flying from a pole raised for the purpose. It wouldn’t be the last time it would be seen flying in the mountains or in squares. Until in 1931 it was granted the category of the flag of all Basques. Oddly enough, the Arana brothers, and particularly Luis, insisted on the need to create another flag to represent the Basque people and its region, because the ikurriña had only been created as the symbol of Bizkaia. In fact, in 1912 an attempt was made to adopt another flag with a red background and six horizontal stripes in keeping with the nationalist idea of uniting the six historical Basque states. But it didn’t take off. Flags, like those who wave them, have their own lives. And just as the same wind never blows twice and we never know where it will take us, the ikurriña continued to fly independently of the path marked out by men. As if it had its own life. That’s the only explanation for the fact that it survived the desire of its creators, the passing of time and those who tried for years to veto and get rid of it. Maybe it’s all because the ikurriña has as much history as it has mystery. Which is, in fact, also the case of the “Union Jack”.

LEGENDS OF TWO SHORES Given the common elements existing in the past between the British and the Basques, it is something of an obligation to talk about the lauburu. This symbol, so widely used in the Basque Country, is Indo-European in origin. It exists in other civilisations too and has been put to both good and bad uses; it encompasses as many symbolic aspects as it does mystery. There is therefore nothing unusual in the fact that people coming from the north are surprised to see the lauburu on doors, cloth or drawings. Above all those who know the petroglyph of Woodhouse Crag, on the Northern edge of Ilkley Moor, West Yorkshire. It is known as the “Ilkley Swastika”. But it is identical to the lauburu. That’s why it’s a good idea to travel into the historic past to understand the days of yore. A visit to the Bilbao Basque Museum will suffice. This museum is located in the Seven Streets and occupies a building which is a treasure in itself. It dates back to the 18th century and was the “St. Andrew’s Church and School”, owned by the Society of Jesus. That’s where you’ll find our “Mikeldi”. A sculpture of uncertain origin, linked to Basque mythology. Perhaps it was related to land boundaries or to funerary rites. But it is one of the mysteries to be found in this museum. Realities and legends, so entwined with one another, sharing a space in popular culture. Like the one about the first Lord of Biscay. A man of ... Scottish origin? We find the first mention of the Lords of Biscay in 1040, with Iñigo López. A member of the nobility under orders of the King of Pamplona, which in 1076, became dependent upon the Castilian monarch, Alphonso VI. Although certain voices would have it that in the 10th century there was a Count of Biscay, called Momo, under orders from the Kingdom of Navarra. But the legend is far more beautiful. And it refers to someone who spoke English. A woman from Scottish lands.

Her father, King of Scotland, sent her here to prevent her from falling into enemy hands. And the beautiful princess arrived in Mundaka, round Ízaro Island. The one on which Franciscan monks built their convent in 1422 in the search for a solitary existence that never fully came to be. Even Drake landed there and set about killing them. Later, in 1596, it was attacked yet again and burned by convicts from La Rochelle. But that’s another story. Here we are interested in the one that happened before that. Thus, the said princess is said to have taken up residence in another island. Txatxarramendi, in Sukarrieta. It may have been a young boy or, as oral memory would have it, a devil going by the name of Culebro. But something happened during her first night there. The result was the birth of Zurian, known as Zuria, “White” in the Basque language. The years passed and the boy grew into a man. At that time, Alphonso III of Leon was demanding yearly payment from Bizkaia. An ox, a cow and a white horse. When they refused to pay up, he sent his son Ordoño to collect it. But the king’s son had to fight an opponent equal to him. So the people of Bizkaia turned to Zuria. He led them into battle, which culminated near Bilbao, in Padura. The victory went to Bizkaia, whose inhabitants chased the losers to the Luyando tree. So much blood was spilled that they called the place Arrigorriaga, coming from the words “stone and red”. Upon winning, they proclaimed Jaun Zuria to be their Lord. There are other versions, but this is the longest. Just imagine that it all started with a Scottish princess... The strangest thing is that the historian Mairin Mitchell says that the first king of Kerry, in Ireland, was Eber. A man who came by sea “from the north of the Iberian Peninsula”. Which once again goes to show that legends too have two shores. AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO BILBAO and other tales

A not-too-distant island In a straight line, including the distance across the Bay of Biscay, past western France and over the English Channel, 941.35 kilometres lie between London and Bilbao. Less, for example, than to Cádiz. Maybe that’s why the two lands have so much in common. Sometimes it’s only a question of small details or chance occurrences. Which makes it fun and revealing to draw parallels.

THE CLIMATE “Everyone talks about the weather, but no-one does anything about it”. That’s a phrase perfectly applicable to Great Britain... and to Bilbao. The British, for example, have their typical drizzle. In the Basque Country, and particularly in Bilbao, we have fine rain known as Xirimiri. And, like in the isles, it soaks outsiders caught out by its gentle appearance.

AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO BILBAO and other tales

TEA

DOUBLE-DECKER BUSES

165 million cups of tea are consumed every day in Great Britain.

The double-decker, that famous popular English bus, was born red in colour to match the letter and telephone boxes and with two storeys to carry more travellers with a single driver. It was first used at the end of World War II, taking on its most famous design in 1956.

Few are those that know about the great to-do caused by tea in Bilbao until the 20th century. It was mainly consumed in the homes of upper class families, but was also drunk in cafes and at the so-called tastings, until coffee and chocolate started taking the upper hand. That’s why in Bilbao it was drunk at six “o’clock”.

It came from London to Bilbao in the 60s. And, as happened in the English capital, it had to be withdrawn to the great disgruntlement of users and citizens in general. That’s why, there and here, other two-storey buses were introduced which, while not the same are certainly reminiscent of the old double-deckers.

ATTIRE Neither Beau Brummel nor even Windsor himself would ever have imagined that their ways of understanding manners and dress sense would mark British fashion and style.

FROM THE RIVER TO THE ESTUARY Royal barges have sailed on the Thames, which has always been a river of trade, life and death.

And they would certainly never have dreamt that the English style would be taken up in Bilbao. Fashions in our metropolis always followed the trends of the ‘City’.

The Nervión, whether in its masculine version as a river, or female as an estuary, is a busy waterway of constant to-ing and fro-ing where barges have carried anything from coal to sports heroes so revered they were virtually promoted to regal status.

THE UMBRELLA

SOAP

Assyrian kings are said to have covered their heads with a system that could be considered the forebear of the umbrella. And other cultures of Asia and Africa had similar contraptions. But when the umbrella came to Britain in 1750, it was to improve its design and stay. Bilbao without umbrellas wouldn’t be Bilbao. Which is why it can usually be found in hands and bags, even on a clear day. You never know. Hence, in the late 18th century, there were already 8 umbrella-makers in our city. More than vets or upholsterers, and equal in number to the blacksmiths.

SPRING BOAT RACE The Cambridge-Oxford boat race is an annual rowing competition between the universities of both cities held every year on London’s River Thames. Taking its inspiration from the event, and in its honour, since 16 May 1981 a boat race takes place on the Bilbao Estuary between the University of Deusto and the Faculty of Engineering. Only one condition. It must be in spring.

BEER

Pears soap, with its unmistakable scent and oval shape, is as much a part of British homes as Kent brushes or Mayfair scented waters.

Thwaites, Adnams, Everards... in England every town or neighbourhood had and has its own brewery and brand.

Chimbo is as much from Bilbao as it is difficult to soften. A bar can outlast the hands that use it. Victor Tapia founded the factory in 1863, on the Deusto river bank; in 1988 it moved to Zorroza, and in 1996 it was demolished. But it continues to remain alive in the neighbouring Getxo, proving that no-one can beat this soap of toffee-like appearance and multiple properties.

In Bilbao, with apologies to wine and our popular txakoli, beer was and is the queen of the bar tops. Now due to the amount consumed. Before due to its origin. Ships arriving from northern Europe since the 16th century would bring barrels of beer. And by the 18th century there were already two breweries in Bilbao, run by the Dutch men Pedro Beekvelt and Gullermo Volt. By the 19th century, the number of local breweries and brands had multiplied, not to mention bars where you could enjoy the local beer and gastronomy. AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO BILBAO and other tales

On never-ending

Tracks

Railways are often described as two lives forever condemned to travel alongside one another without ever having the chance to meet. That may be why they dedicate their existence to connecting places and people. It’s the same story with wheels. And it so happens that in our own and Shakespeare’s land they know something about that sharing of horizons with no need to come together. Because Bilbao and Bizkaia have always had a ‘British’ look about them as far as transport was concerned, despite not sharing a flag or an island, and particularly the capital. That’s why old photographs of the ‘Botxo’ show streets packed with black taxis and red double-decker buses. Just like London, even if it wasn’t. Being Bilbao, but looking like something else. And that past has its explanation.

We have always preferred wheels to shoes. The

TUB, Tranvías Urbanos de Bilbao, was created in the late 19th century and went on to become the second company in the Peninsula, after Porto, to have an electric tramway: the Bilbao-Santurce line opened in 1896. Later came the trolleybus. And in this case we were the first. On 20 June 1940. Its route, Santiago-Misericordia. What an adventure that was! It went out of circulation in 1976, and only survives today in old photographs. Images that contain stories, and what we call “sucedidos botxeros” or the Botxo goings-on. Like those of the famous Line 1. The first to have capital letters. The one that showed how modern we were.

It would leave from the Plaza Circular and took an hourand-a-half to get to Santurtzi. It was never an easy journey. Particularly in wintry days on icy hills. The conductor would have to get out with a sack of sand and empty it over the tracks to stop the wheels from skidding. It was also common for the drivers and conductors to keep an eye out in case the trolleybus would come unhitched. And then they say that Fernando Alonso or Hamilton have a hard time! As for the landscape, do you remember the song “From Santurce to Bilbao I come all along the river bank”. Well that long walk was immortalised in the famous Bilbainada, while the sardine sellers decided to put tracks to their travels. Which is why their presence marked the times. It depended AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO BILBAO and other tales

on the load. If it smelled of fish it was the train for Bilbao and if there was no detectable fishy smell it was on its way to Santurtzi. But if it smelled of cigars... there was a game on. Football Sundays at that time were complete mayhem. Hordes of people and hardly anyone taking fares. So noone would pay. Although you had to be smart off your feet to jump on and off while it was still going. There was one feisty character in Zorroza who had a wooden leg. On afternoons of several rounds of wine when he was in rather merry fettle, or as we would say “iba perfumado”, he would cause a commotion by throwing his leg under the wheels and derailing the tramway. Just imagine the scene! Somehow, transport and its travellers always got along famously in the old Bilbao that could never have imagined the day it would see itself being pedestrianised. But at that time it had another thought in mind. To be the capital of Europe, alongside London, with the greatest variety of transport modes on its streets. Sometimes with the same characters. Like the red double-decker of our British years, whose modern version travels today from the Peña to the Sagrado Corazón. If you’re lucky you’ll catch sight of it. The first versions came from the British Isles and decided to stay with us. As if the City rain reminded them of their days travelling up and down Oxford Street. It’s impossible to forget their doors. Being English, for us they looked “back to front”. And we also remember their sound. A tune struck up by their diesel engines, compressed air, doors and brakes that wrapped itself round and protected the old Town. The soundtrack of a world filled with red buses, grey tarmac and black taxis. The three colours for which Bilbao is remembered. Only one thing strikes a wrong chord. A blue dot. Calling it a bus is almost laughable. But that’s what it was. And it was greatly loved too. El azulito. Born in the 60s, it stayed with us in the 70s and 80s. El azulito had the charm of all things small. It was also known as cielito or ‘little heaven’ , because it was blue and could only take “the just”, referring to its very small passenger capacity. Sorting out the world’s problems was a natural part of the journey. And kids loved 16

AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO BILBAO and other tales

it. Maybe because it was different. You couldn’t travel standing up in it, it stopped where you wanted it to, if it was full it went straight past you, and its plastic seats were always cold. You may come across it in other places. Because there were, and are, mini and midibuses in several parts of the world. Like the so-called liebre in Chile, the custer in El Salvador and Peru, the buseta in Ecuador and Colombia, the camionetica and autobusete in Venezuela, the combi in Argentina and the pesero and ruta in Mexico. And although Bilbao was the first to introduce them, cities and towns such as Madrid had and still have them. But the double-deckers and English taxis once found in the streets of old Bilbao didn’t share the same luck. They all belong to the past now. Although they are reluctant to go completely. In fact yesteryear continues to exist in some places. Like in the Indalecio Prieto Station, christened Bilbao Station and popularly known as Abando Station. It’s certainly not short of names! Construction work began on 18 September 1859, and it was completed four years later. Given that these were years when England was more of a reference than ever, they appointed Charles Blacker Vignoles as head engineer, who gave it the British look we can still see today. It was superb and even had access ramps for the most eminent carriages. But after going into receivership, it was absorbed by Norte, the railway company nationalised in 1941. As you can see, the years went by like stations, leaving little time to alight or change platforms. It therefore began to lose its splendour. In 1940 it was demolished, to be replaced eight years later with a classicist building subsequently given two facelifts, one in the 80s and another in the late 90s. All in the name of modernity and progress. What it lost in charm it gained in platforms and passengers. The stained glass looking down from above knows this only too well. 251 square metres and a height of 14.59 metres. A giant of 301 panels, created in 1948 at the Unión de Artistas Vidrieros workshop in Irun. The one that today bids farewell and welcome to departing or arriving visitors, or to the prodigal son as he leaves, dreaming of his return. But there’s another British remnant. And it runs beneath our feet.

It could have been born in 1920. Or in 1970. Because a proposal and attempt had been made. But it didn’t see the light until 1995. The excellent City transport network and its size made the idea of building a suburban train service little more than an extravagance. But the path to modernity and the need to convert Bilbao into city providing all kinds of services prompted the birth of the metro in the mid-90s. And like everything that sees the light in the Botxo, and is deemed worthy of it, it gradually earned the title of “De Bilbao de toda la vida”, as if it had been there forever. An honour not lightly conceded. But then no-one said that this was just any old metro. Starting with its sea snails. You might not be able to hear the sea in them, but they’ll take you to it. They are the entrances leading into the underground world where the iron worm runs along its rails. So here we have more tracks. And yet again with an English air to them. Because their father is called Norman Foster. And he knows only too well that theirs wasn’t an easy birth. There were two key points in its construction. So let’s visit them. One was on the river bank at Deusto, across from the Calle Iruña, site today of the Euskalduna Bridge. The other, the Arenal Square, across from the Arriaga Theatre. The estuary, that eternal tongue of water, once again represented a challenge. To cross it a monstrous machine called a ‘hydromill trench cutter’ was required. A 70-ton machine that drills through the ground like a mole, but vertically. If you make your way from Deusto to San Mamés, or from Abando to the Old Quarter, just remember that the estuary is overhead. And of course, determined to be noticed, it impregnates the air with its unmistakable odour. It is the only slip-up permitted by a metro of surprising cleanliness and elegant stations. A bit like a lucky kid’s toy train. And just as Austerlitz, a character in the novel by W.G. Sebald, tried to find clues to his identity in train stations, we suggest that you look in the metro for stops on the tracks of time. In fact, several love stories flourished during its construction between workers and locals. And sometimes, that passionate love had its destination in an object. The aforementioned sea snails. The ones that see you in and out. Christened by the people of Bilbao as Fosteritos. One of the most recent additions to the

city’s list of symbols. In a land that always had a place for the English railway... and for its most elegant steering wheels. Did you know that one of the biggest and most spectacular private Rolls Royce collections is to be found in Bizkaia? Precisely 31 kilometres from the centre of Bilbao. Travelling to this strange place is in fact an adventure packed with surprises. The hills and the land gave their all to a man from the Encartaciones region and he repaid them by creating his dream on a hilltop. His name was Miguel de la Vía, an entrepreneur from the said area, a man of sharp business instinct that earned him great success and fortune. But he was also a talented painter, pianist and accordion-player. A man of many interests. Which may be why he decided to build a unique place and fill it with unusual things. In the evocative setting of the Concejuelo de Galdames stands a defensive tower raised on foundations dating back to the time when the local nobility was constantly embroiled in a struggle for power during the so-called “War of the Bands” in Bizkaia. A few towers still stand from that time, such as the one corresponding to the Ochoa García de Loyzaga line. Don Miguel drew a series of sketches which, in the hands of artisans and stonemasons, took on splendour even greater than the original. In the meantime, De la Vía’s peculiar hobby led to his creation of the “Ancient and Classic Car Collection”. And, among them, the outstanding “Rolls Royce Collection” with its 45 vehicles. Here we refer to models among the first and last produced by the company, including a few that belonged to important historical figures. Representatives of the Rolls-Royce Enthusiasts’ Club were able to see the collection for themselves, and they named Miguel de la Vía lifetime Honorary Member of the Club during their visit. If you’d like to see why he was given the title, simply make your way to the museum. And when you come out, look at the trees and the hills. They hold the secrets of these cars that travelled the world until the decision was taken to bring their wheels to a halt here, in this beautiful spot. One world inside another. The one travelled by these cars every time they are started to keep their engines turning over, for ever and ever. AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO BILBAO and other tales

La Bilbaina’ dreamt of by Phileas Fogg

’

In 1872, when Jules Verne wrote ‘Around the World in Eighty Days’ and published it in instalments, there were still 38 years to go before the first stone was laid of the building that Phileas Fogg could well have frequented. In fact, this outburst in the shape of a wager to demonstrate his theory, makes him a ‘Bilbaino’ even if he didn’t know he was one. 18

AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO BILBAO and other tales

I remember a film made in Bilbao in the

early days of cinema featuring a wager with a dish of baby eels as its stake. And the time when the Atlantic was crossed in a yacht purpose-built for the mission, with a crew of 9 men who fled the grey years of the post-war period to convert the voyage into an unprecedented exploit. We’re talking about Barinagarrementeria and his 8 sailing companions on board the Montserrat . And we could continue with other adventures good and bad, not to mention bets worthy of Mr. Fogg. But today we must visit the building and time is of the essence. “La Bilbaina” awaits us. Work began on the building in 1910. It was born from the desire of certain Bilbainos with power, position and prospects, to have a place like the clubs they had seen on their travels to Paris and, above all, to London. Until then they had always used their homes and mansions for meetings, social events and banquets. But something was missing. An exclusive place of their own for members only. Given our ancestral love of the txoko, a meeting place where men gather to share their love of gastronomy and recreation, this was a natural move. The club had its first premises in the Plaza Nueva. However, years later land owned by the Banco de Bilbao and a site of 2,000 square metres came onto the market for anyone

AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO BILBAO and other tales

who could afford it. And the members of the Sociedad Bilbaina bought both of them. Emiliano Amann was commissioned to do the work. The result can be seen in the Calle Navarra, next to the Arenal Bridge. Three and a half million pesetas and two years of work later, it opened with great pomp and circumstance in 1913. Since then its revolving door has welcomed illustrious members and distinguished visitors. The elegant stairway and the old lift that looks as if it has stopped at as many floors as it has decades will take you to any part of the building. Among them, a library that could well come straight out of Hogwarts, home to budding magicians in search of their fate. 40,000 works containing treasures worthy of a museum. Incunabula snooze in the display cabinets waiting to be woken from their slumber. Among them, a complete and impeccable collection of Basque literature and a newspaper library that takes us back to bygone days. And there are even a number of books locked safely away in an armoured safe. The books in question are incunabula, works printed from 1450 to 1500, including the Alfonsine Tables prepared under the patronage of Alphonso X, the Wise, printed in Venice in 1483, or the iconic and said to be best work of its time, Nuremberg Chronicle, with almost 2,000 engravings. The safe also contains the first edition of the ‘Fuero de Bizkaia’ on the

‘La Bilbaina’ is one of those extravagances that make the city unique. A sort of English club with the heart of Bilbao. The kind that Phileas Fogg would have loved so much.

local law of the time, dated 1528, and the first book printed in Bilbao, De gloria libri, dating back to 1578. Literature that can be visited, never better said, in the Tranvía; a reading room precisely named after a tram for the distribution of its seating. But if it’s parlour games you’re after, there’s also a snooker room. Its baizes have witnessed evenings that have gone down in the history of this discipline. Not to mention the Bilbao Chess competition, when Master Anatoly Karpov played against 20 opponents all at once. In fact, his signature can still be seen on one of the tables, defying the passing of time like a king resisting defeat. And all amid paintings and sculptures by famous artists. Sometimes, more than works, they feel like testimonies. Fragments of the life of a Bilbao that was. The stories overheard and stashed away in the walls of the Bailén or Senado lounges, where discussions literary and otherwise tantamount to art ended in the Arenal lounge with a feast for the stomach and the eyes. The former thanks to the gastronomy that laid, like few cuisines, the foundations of fine dining in the City. The latter, for the views. It was here, in this unique club, with its links and agreements with others of enormous prestige worldwide, that business deals were signed and all of the top-level agreements to have taken place in the last century were

sealed. The men whose portraits hang on the wall played a hugely important part in the industrial, social, political and commercial progress of Bilbao. But not let’s forget the sporting aspect. The top floor of the Club conceals another treasure. Alongside a neat little gym is possibly the strangest and smallest pelota court in the world. One of those extravagances that make “La Bilbaina” unique. A sort of English club with the heart of Bilbao. The kind that Phileas Fogg would have loved so much. The one that was born at a time when Bilbao was making the shift from tea to coffee. Yes, you’ve read correctly. People from the capital of Bizkaia sent many of their children to study in the old and stately England. And they returned home with a taste for the leaf and the ritual of its drinking on British afternoons. Tea time. And that’s how it went for centuries, until coffee started taking over from chocolate and tea in the 20th century. And although the former is still there, today the latter is struggling to make its return to new salons and lounges. Places where Phileas Fogg could have had a cup of tea at his required precise temperature before setting out on the voyage of a lifetime. Although perhaps he would have preferred to stop off at the Sports Club before leaving. At the end of the day, most of the sports played there then and now came from the English-speaking islands. He might even have made a visit to the cemetery that has as many graves as it has secrets. AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO BILBAO and other tales

GRAVES in English

They called it “Seven Tree Cemetery”, as if everything in our land had to be measured and governed by these wooden giants. It smelled of seawater, mud and suburbs. When Britain’s Consul Horace Young arrived, he wanted to visit the place where his fellow countrymen were buried. The blustery rain pouring down onto the spot emphasised the phantasmagoric image of Bilbao’s rundown British Cemetery. The one where people from the northern isles had been buried since the 18th century. It stands only metres from the Guggenheim, on the way to the Padre Arrupe footbridge taking you to Deusto University. A plaque commemorates the spot. It is also the place where the first ball was kicked, germ of the Athletic Club, formerly used as a landing strip and as a site where locals and outsiders could go about their sundry business. But today we will recall the time when it was a graveyard packed with stories. By the time Young disembarked in the port of Bilbao, the cemetery had long been left to the mercy of flooding and the passing of time. To discover the reason for its existence, we will have to travel back to the period when English, Welsh, Scottish and Irish people would come to the city to trade or work. Their deaths posed a problem, particularly in the case of the first three nationalities due to the fact that very few of them professed the Catholic religion. The need for a place adapted to their doctrine led to the creation of a special cemetery alongside the Bilbao estuary. If it was in dilapidated condition when Young arrived, it was because the British residents in the city neither had the money to

maintain it, nor the certainty that it would be theirs for many years to come. But the arrival of more people to build the Bilbao-Tudela railway meant the British Consul was able to witness a key moment. Transfer of the land to the British in perpetuity from 31 December 1860, an occasion he made good use of to collect money for its restoration. It seemed as though nothing more would disturb the peace of the dead. But then the 20th century arrived. Times were changing, and with it, the law. And this affected locals and visitors alike. Starting with the cemeteries. Bilbao was no longer in favour of the deceased sharing space with the living. So from then on the graves were dug outside the city centre at first and later in nearby places such as Derio. The days were numbered for the British cemetery. When its owners realised that it was impossible to maintain the original site, in 1926 they acquired a piece of land in Loiu after anything but easy negotiations. To make it more functional, they built two chapels, one Protestant and the other Roman Catholic. The buildings were consecrated by the Anglican Bishop of Gibraltar and the Loiu parish priest in May 1929, and the human relics were moved there over the four following months. And there they remain. With time they were joined by others whose lives had given rise to as many stories as they had good and bad luck. There are soldiers buried there who fell in battle during World War II. But not all are British. There are other nationalities too. Given the difficulty of finding an appropriate place, members of the Commonwealth and allied countries chose it to bury their own. There are even seven graves of fighters who fell in World War I. Today it is above all maintained thanks to private investment. The British Consul acts as the unofficial chairman of the Cemetery Committee. To find this unusual graveyard you will have to leave Bilbao and head for Loiu, not far from the airport control tower. If you look around the area, you’ll come to an elegantly sober black plaque. For a few years now visitors have been allowed in. And it’s well worth the effort. Walking along its narrow paths you will discover the graves of English, Scottish, Welsh and the occasional Irish person, more than one German, Scandinavians and even the odd Chinese from the times when Hong Kong was a British colony. Sometimes there are only names. At others, they are accompanied by doves or the acronym MN. The former indicate that the deceased was an aviator. And the latter, that they belonged to the navy. But there’s more. So we strongly recommend that you take a trip out there. It’s not as famous as the Prague cemetery or the Recoleta in Buenos Aires. Nor does it have

the big names of Paris. But it is as pretty as it is mysterious. In fact, as we said, football shared a space rather close to the deceased when the sport came ashore from that British ship. Today too, very near the Loiu cemetery, there is a football pitch and a small park. Perhaps to remind us that other generations will follow and that life will continue to roll like a ball, on and on. You win some, you lose some. Time will tell. Sometimes surviving is a victory in itself. Particularly in hard times. Like those in the life of someone who prevented many of these graves from being filled. Her name was Andrée de Jongh.

The Comet Line August 1941 was one of those months when the four seasons go by in a single day. That typical crazy, changeable summer weather of the Botxo. It was on one of these mornings that a Belgian nurse appeared at Bilbao’s British Consulate. She was accompanied by an RAF pilot and two Belgians she had helped out of a Belgium wounded and occupied by the Nazis. This was a woman with a secret. She was a member of the resistance. Just like her father, who was arrested and executed by the Gestapo two years later. Her mother too was sentenced to death by a German court in WWI. So her fate seemed to be written in stone. That’s why she decided to head for Bilbao. Her decision was closely linked to the high numbers of allied soldiers arrested in the Pyrenees when trying to flee from occupied France who were promptly returned to the Nazis by the authorities of the Franco regime, when they weren’t thrown into Spanish jails. Hence Andrée decided to create an evacuation route to Gibraltar and, from there, to England. She therefore made another trip to Bilbao in October. The costs of the operation were to be paid by the British and MI9 was to coordinate and supervise the evacuation. In two years 118 pilots were evacuated. And there would have been more if she hadn’t been arrested in 1943 in Donibane Garazi. Having been sentenced to death, she was “accommodated” in the Ravensbrück and Mauthausen concentration camps. But the evacuation system continued to operate. At one stage the Comet Line had as many as 1,700 members. 216 of those brave people died. Three were Basques. And they succeeded in evacuating 770 people between 1941 and 1944. We’re talking about the most successful Resistance escape route of World War II. You may not be aware of this chapter in the sad and famous war, but it was born in Bilbao and that’s why we have included it here. And that wasn’t the only time we were united by war. AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO BILBAO and other tales

United by war

—The farther back you can look, the further forward you are likely to see—. Ane remembers the phrase every time she looks at the old sepia photograph. Her father would say it and she thought he’d invented it. Until she discovered that it belonged to a man called Winston Churchill and it was therefore universal. Phrases, like everything, finally lose their owner to gain in meaning. That’s why we remember it here today, before setting out on a tour of our land, estuary and bay on the trail of the marks left by the Civil War.

—We’re united by it— Ane’s father would say to her on the rare occasions he would mention the cruel battle. And she would look at him, failing to understand how fighting in another country could affect him so closely. Until she discovered the photograph. Her father was a child of the war. Today’s story could apply to any part of our land. Because absolutely all of it experienced the drama of the Civil War. Although Gernika is the obligatory visit for understanding its consequences, in Bilbao too there are corners that recall the events, including the bloody bombings of the civilian population. Like those of 1937. The city was first bombed on 25 September 1936. And the initial anxiety caused by the attack gave way to even greater indignation after the next one, on 4 January 1937. Its belligerence was such that some took justice into their own hands and executed jailed prisoners not on the side of the Republic. Those bombings caused the exodus of girls and boys, above all to France and the United Kingdom. Like Ane’s father. Little could he have imagined on 18 April 1937 that his days in Bilbao were numbered. That

morning the Condor Legion flew in from the skies with the mission to destroy the capital of Bizkaia. They were Heinkel He 111 and three Dornier Do 17 planes. But the boy didn’t learn that until years later. In Southampton. The place he was sent by his mother when his father died in the trenches and she could think of no other way to save him. She took the decision that day, as the bombs rained down on Bilbao from the planes of the Third Reich. She had gone there with her son to visit a relative and hopefully find something to cheat the hunger. When the sirens sounded she felt her mind go numb, but her legs were running. Until she found a place to take shelter in the Calle Prim. The “Cotorruelo” rubber and shoe factory. In the basement, beneath the machines, mainly women, children and the elderly were packed in, their arms round one another, praying in the terrified silence. The factory owners closed the doors, but that didn’t stop them from hearing the explosions and the cries of the fallen. But the worst part was the smell of burning. None of them wanted to know what that smell was, because they had a good idea of the answer. The flight of the planes over the city and away, past Begoña, left a trail of AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO BILBAO and other tales

death and destruction. Meanwhile, air in the basement was becoming unbreathable and the flames from the upper storey were threatening to spread. Among those who made it out of that and other shelters was Ane’s father, still clinging on to his mother’s skirt. It was as if he knew that the day was coming when he would no longer be able to do it.

They always believed that it would take them beyond the heart of darkness. But even dramas sometimes have a happy ending.

Her father was one of the 32,000 children of the war. He set out on his voyage on 6 June 1937, on board the Habana. A ship requisitioned in the port of Bilbao months earlier for conversion into a floating hospital. But the war was becoming harsher by the day, making the need to evacuate the children obvious. Ane remembers how her father told her the story of a girl with grey eyes who didn’t let her go of her brother’s hand for the entire crossing. A 2-day voyage in heavy seas on the deck of a ship meant for some 500 passengers, but packed with 4,251 souls. Of them 2,337 were boys and girls who were forced to grow up overnight. Because that voyage changed everything. Today Ane lives in the outskirts of Edinburgh, guided there by love and fate. And now she’s back here on holiday. And, like the other travellers, she too will look for places, flavours and customs. But also for fragments of that life shared, sometimes without realising it. In those same quays that see the big liners mooring today, hands rose skywards, waving farewell to the little Argonauts. It wasn’t just a question of leaving for other lands. But for other times. For a “temporary situation” that eventually lasted for a lifetime. —My father was one of the 250—. Ane still remembers the figure on that old document. She’s referring to those who were never claimed. Whose families disappeared in the fighting. Some were on the Habana. Others, on Ramón de la Sota’s Goizeko Izarra, the Carimare, the Château Margaux, the Château Palmer, the Paquillac and the Cabo Corona. The voyages took place between May and June 1937. The children were accompanied by the elderly and 26

AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO BILBAO and other tales

the odd adult. Teachers, doctors and nurses. Their second families. The third they would find or create years later, with time and effort. The name of the operation “Expedition” was certainly well chosen. They always believed it would take them beyond the heart of darkness. But even dramas sometimes have a happy ending.

Some of these children of the war were taken in at Cambria House, South Wales, in Caerleon, near Cardiff. And they decided to create a football club, ‘The Basque Boys AFC’. Chronicles of their exploits exist on both shores of the Bay of Biscay. But also of a man who caused a revolution in the position of goalkeeper. Raimundo Lezama. Born in Barakaldo, he was a child of the war sent to England. To Southampton. He arrived on 23 May 1937 and was sent to the Nazareth School. Aged barely 15, one of the centre heads, an RAF commander, appointed him to be his personal driver. After the British had entered World War II, first of all with the “Phoney War” and later with the Battle of Britain over the Channel, men were scarce and the boy ended up with a steering wheel in his hands. The Commander was the manager of Southampton and he invited him to try as a player. However, they took one look at his size and put him between the goalposts. At the age of 16 he played his first game against Arsenal. That same year they won the championship. In 1940 he returned to Bilbao with a green goalkeeper’s jersey in his knapsack, some unusual foot movements, a fine kick of the ball sending it well down the pitch and a long throw. They say that a referee even stopped a game once when he saw him throwing the ball from the goal area to a player. It wasn’t easy to convince the Spanish League that such moves were legal. With time he became one of the legendary goalkeepers of the oldest football team in the First Division. But that’s another story. The one about a team that’s a religion all of its own. And it has an English name. The Athletic Club.

A BALL THAT SPEAKS ENGLISH

WE ARE

FOOTBALL Let’s say it was an afternoon of grey skies and peaceful waters. One of those little moments life treats us to, a time to do nothing, yet when we paradoxically end up going about things of great importance. No-one told us if he was English, Scottish, Welsh or Irish Only that he spoke English; that he was a sailor and that he came ashore with a threadbare leather ball under his arm.

Sitting among the goods unloaded onto the quay, a group of locals watched him in amazement as he skilfully kicked the ball around. And suddenly something happened that forever changed the course of fate. Maybe it was a poor kick or, why not, an intentional shot in an attempt to break the ice. But the ball ended up right next to the group of men. And one of them kicked it back

clumsily. Although many of the sons of affluent families who had studied in Great Britain were aware of the game, playing it was something they’d never done. But after that initial contact and encouraged by the love of a challenge, someone decided to suggest a match to those sailors. Taking a bit of a chance, you may say. True. But that’s what we’re like here when there’s any suggestion of a bet, whether it’s

a religion. It’s well known in the football world, but few are aware that the origin of our philosophy is related to an English forward.

It will come as no surprise that we so fondly observe teams with an English accent. Or that so many British coaches have managed our team. Such as

Mister Pentland, who would destroy his bowler hat every time we won a title or cup.

for money, objects or honour. The match was played on 3 May 1894. The place, the Lamiako fields. The result was a resounding 0-6 in favour of the foreigners. This may give you the impression that the locals might have been discouraged. But nothing further from the truth. Four years later a football team was born in this corner of old Europe. The Athletic Club. There are several theories as to the origin of the game. But all take us to the same place. To the islands where leather speaks English. And even if today it rubs shoulders with other languages, in Bilbao it found a place for rebirth in its very first language. Because the Athletic Club wanted then, and now, to remain faithful to the idea that created it. Hence its name. In respect of those who brought to our quays a sport they call art and that we now consider to be 28

AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO BILBAO and other tales

Until 1911, the Athletic had only local players and the occasional foreign substitute, particularly British residents in Bilbao. It was common to find foreigners in all clubs at that time. They weren’t professionals, since the English league rules didn’t allow them to play outside their country. They were required to produce a certificate saying that they would live in the place for at least 6 months to be able to play. Thus, in 1910, the Athletic had three British men among its ranks. Others, such as the neighbouring Real Sociedad, had another 3 Brits, a French man and two players from Madrid. The other teams too had foreign players. But in 1911, Athletic signed three Englishmen for a game and the Real failed in the attempt. Following a bitter discussion, the red & whites accepted to withdraw two of the foreign players, leaving Martyn Veitch, a forward, because he had been a champion with Athletic the previous year and was considered to be a fellow Bilbaino. And they won 3-0. But both Real and other rivals insisted in the irregularity of the line-up. They also added that the Englishman had scored the first goal. Thus, with its pride in tatters, that day and year, the Athletic Club proclaimed that it would never play foreigners again, no matter what the other teams did. And so our philosophy was born, the one that says: “To play for Athletic you must either have trained to play football with the club, or with a Basque team, or with an approved club or have been born in our land”. That’s the rule. Also, that we would keep the original name, even if it hasn’t always been easy. After the Civil War, the Franco dictatorship prohibited the use of names and terms in any language other than Spanish. We lost the “H” and they added an “O” to become Atlético de Bilbao, until we were able to recover the original name with the return to democracy. But it was always Athletic to us. Because that’s how it was founded in 1898 by a group of 33 sportsmen who would meet in the Gimnasio Zamacois to practice and talk football. Those who spontaneously gave it the name it has today, even before it was legally established. There was another team. Bilbao FC, which was dissolved in 1903, after which both its players and management joined the Athletic Club. Hence our insistence that, although we love our City, we’re not fans of “el Bilbao” but of “Athletic”. And that’s not the end of our relationship with Great Britain. Did

you know that our strip was born twice, that both times it was on British soil and that it is related to two clubs in the Premiere League? Well keep reading.

Origin of the red & whites One 9 January 1910, a very special game took place against the Sporting de Irún at the Amute ground. It was the first time we’d played with the red & white top and black shorts. The culprit: Juan Elorduy, a Bilbaino and student of Mining Engineering. At that time he played for the Athletic Club Madrid branch. That’s right, no need to read it again! Today’s Atlético de Madrid was founded by Athletic fans studying in Spain’s capital. And that’s why they shared both strip and players. The point is that Elorduy went to London for Christmas and the managers of the Bilbao team asked him to buy new shirts. The British ones were better because the colours didn’t run. And they wanted the Blackburn Rovers strip, blue and white, our colours at that time. They say that the first ones were donated by Moser, a former Irish player with Athletic. However something ‘happened’ to Elorduy. They say he was spirited off into the London night. And he ended up buying them at the last minute, somewhere between Portsmouth and Bournemouth. But there were no blue and white ones left. So he bought the red and white Southampton strip. Given that they were the same colours as the Bilbao city flag, he thought it would be fine. That’s why our first strip is the same as the Saints and that more than once our second or third uniform still has the Rovers’ colours. So it will come as no surprise that we so fondly observe teams with an English accent. Or that so many British coaches have managed our team. Like Mister Pentland, who would destroy his bowler hat every time we won a title or cup. Which didn’t stop us from putting our all into games against them. On 5 November 1959 Athletic became the first continental team to beat a British opponent in their islands. It wasn’t Real Madrid, Barcelona, Juventus, Milan, Bayern, Borussia, Ajax, Feyenoord, Dynamo, Porto, Benfica, Steaua or the Red Star. It was Athletic. Its rival, West Bromwich Albion. The result, 1-2. And right there and then we also played with our red & white shirt. The one that came from the English coast. And we did it with our own name. That’s why we proudly declare to the world: “We are Athletic, we are football”. AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO BILBAO and other tales

THE CABLE BETWEEN LONDON AND BILBAO

“The Lord Mayor of London and the Mayor of Bilbao congratulate themselves on the facilities of the new direct cable communication, and trust that it will boost business relations and friendship between the two countries”.

This text which you can find in the Internet, well known in the neighbouring town of Getxo, documents an old story I was told one day by the Chief Engineer of the Marine Navy, while we walked our dogs along the Arrigunaga cliffs. —That’s where the cable was— he said, while his setter sniffed at invisible scents in the wind. Later he told me the story. The message sent by the leader of London didn’t arrive by telegraph, but by magazine. The one dedicated to the trade and that recorded the deed in January 1873, on completion of the work in December 16 and of the tests on the 24. The exploit was the work of the Company “India-rubber, Gutta-percha and Telegraph Works”. It wasn’t the first. The electric telegraph had been in operation since the 2nd Carlist War. As far back as 1852 an underwater cable had run between Bilbao and Portugalete, making it the first ever telegraphic connection in Spain. It was intended to serve the Port of Bilbao. But making its way underwater to old England was quite another matter. Hence the importance placed on it by the authorities. The rates varied according to the country. A message of 20 words to England, Scotland and Ireland cost 11 pesetas. A rate more or less similar to other countries, except for messages sent to Germany and Austria, which cost 18.50 pesetas. And

since there had to be a sender and a receiver, two points were chosen. On the one side Arrigunaga, from where the cable made its way to Bilbao. And on the other, Porthcurno, in the south-easternmost point of England, which still has a museum dedicated to telegraphy, given its importance as a receiver of underwater cables. And it’s there that we find a large part of our common history. Including an unusual fact related to the Bilbao-London cable: it was the first of its day to experience a change of shore and hands. In 1947 the Franco regime patted itself on the back for acquiring sovereignty of the underground cable mooring. The fact was widely and fully reported on in the newspapers of the day. Underlining, more than its technical qualities, the return to a connection with England and the world making it possible to avoid relations with the dictatorship. There was also the technological landmark. Because the cable, or cables, had been rendered useless during the World War. It was therefore in the interests of both sides. Thanks to that cable, Bilbao and London were separated by a telegraphic distance of 5 minutes. And it didn’t end there. In the 70s another cable was enabled between Algorta and Goonhilly, in England, not to mention others centralised in the Uribe Kosta. But that cable between the damp fog of London and Bilbao’s deceptive drizzle has always held particular interest for the author of these lines. That’s why, years after that stroll, no longer in company of the aforementioned neighbour and with no dogs to walk, I made my way down to Arrigunaga beach. I was looking for a clue. Remnants of the British flag that had flown until it was taken down in 47. Or remains of the hut from which the cable issued. But I found nothing. So I looked out at the scene, trying to imagine the cable making its way along the seabed. Across the Bay of Biscay and into the Channel after leaving the little island of Ushant to the right, known by the Bretons as Eusa, continuing gradually on its way until coming to the sands of Cornwall to send and receive. Today it’s all much simpler. But there was a time when the skill of a few people laid the foundations of communication. Like that cable which not only joined two shores but also closed the gap between yesterday and today, at that time called tomorrow. And that’s how it unites two lands that always had a lot to tell one another. AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO BILBAO and other tales

AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO

BILBAO d other tales an

AN ENGLISHMAN CAME TO

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