Arantzazu

It's lucky, now that our serious traveling days are numbered, that we found a place we want to go back to again and again. It's called Arantzazu, has a population of about forty monks, a couple of families, and two inns. One is called Goiko-Benta, and it is the best place in the world.  

The little inn is 400 years old. It shows. Its common areas upstairs look rather like a blown up version of Van Gogh's room at Arles (huge floorboards, light spilling in). Its tiny rooms have deliciously hot showers and big mountain views.

It has been in the family for ages, and the family is as lovely as the inn. They have a spaniel and a vegetable garden, and generations of the family share the house.  They took a strong interest in the smallest Halpern; as we were leaving, they presented us with gorgeously crocheted baby booties, knit in secret while we were there. 

Trails start just outside the door and thread all over the mountains. We ran all over the place.

Through forests.

High up, overlooking huge vistas.

Past megalithic stones & graves peppering the hills.

Up to precarious stony perches.

And through cow meadows (cows have lovely bells).

So, incidentally, do the sheep.

Of which there are many. Most days, we saw more sheep than people.

During the week we were there, we straggled repeatedly up a steep little path to a mountain hut amid the sheep fields, where we found blazing fires (even in summer it can get chilly!) and tremendous lunches.

But it was also easy to come back down around lunch time. Because Goika Bentu has the best food we've ever tasted. No exaggeration. It  was hard to determine which meal we looked forward to the most. It all began with breakfast: omelettes, almond breads, yogurts, peaches, and coffee. 

We went to bed each night excited for the breakfast to come. But lunch is equally serious business. Sit down outside after a long hike and a hot shower at around two or two thirty. Funny amuse-bouches will trickle out, maybe a carafe of wine, some delicious bread...and then three glorious courses. They are all perfect, every last one of them. (And surprising -- among other things, the kitchen appears to have mastered the home-made Bugle.) 

Come five (or six) pm, you will feel the kind of contentment that comes from being outside all day, suffused with the extra dose of well-being that comes from being on this particular veranda, having finished this particular lunch. You might be ready for a stroll, a game of gin rummy, or a chapter of Moby Dick. 

Whatever you decide, all will be right with the world. 

Let us know when you're going. We'll meet you there.