Undoubtedly, Providence, at times, appropriates the role that has always been symbolically granted to the Wheel of Fortune, getting that in an adventure two very ambivalent factors come together, but in the end, and if we look at them with objectivity, they are twin brothers: success and failure.

When we left the Portugalete Metro, leaving the old town aside and heading straight for the Ria, the rain was barely more than what has traditionally been always called pissed off angels; or as they say, here, in the Basque Country: ‘txirimiri’.

Now, it was to embark on 'el gasolino' - a small barge, which possibly misses adventures of authentic seamanship and that for the modest price of twenty cents, crosses you to the other shore, where you say goodbye to Portugalete and say hello cordially to Getxo- and the heavens, no doubt coming to the aid of that bronchial and defeated Neptune that anyone can visit in a small park located a few meters beyond the zipper tram that does the same function as 'the gasoline' but at state prices, began to fall with an intensity, worthy of Homer's epic Odyssey.

It is well true, on the other hand, that going up to the North and not living the rain experience intensely, it could be said that it is an incomplete adventure, returning with a false impression to the place of origin.

In fact, neither the North would be the North, nor would it have that generous and vital natural wealth, without these providential rains, which if we are to pay attention to the assertions of that great literary semantics, Jorge Luis Borges, always occur in the past : that metaphorical illusion, where yesterday is still and also still.

My memory still retains an extensive beach, on whose right side, old mansions proudly look towards the same sea, of genius and sweetness in equal parts, where in the centuries of the industrial revolution, wealthy people found their treasure, kneading great fortunes with the superb resources of its waters.

But leaving behind these indolent remnants of opulence, the truly interesting thing about Getxo, the most natural and what really leaves the curious traveler perplexed and excited, is the wonderful and at the same time humble disposition of its beautiful old fishing district.

Immeasurable in its beauty, crowded its houses, the old port of Getxo is a true poem to that beautiful splendor that springs from the simple, in the same way as the flowers of the earth sprout when spring comes.

The rain that continues to fall on Getxo, is a rain that carries with it a metaphorical glow, which prints to its white facades, the luminosity of a mirror, accentuating even more, if possible, the brightness of the colors of its roofs or providing Brilliantine to the painting of the balustrade woods.

The neighborhood, collected on itself, is a volcano of love and tragedy, whose fiery lava is the stories of greatness and misery of fighting people, whose souls, dragged by the currents of the Bay of Biscay, recall centuries of hard struggle with a sea, which carries on the foam of its waves the genius of an indomitable character.

Perhaps to placate that angry anger, it is not a surprise but a claim to attention, see about the lintels of sailor homes, the fertile presence of a sacred plant, to which the ancient Basques, those who made legend in Roncesvalles and Valcarlos when they thwarted the rearguard of the powerful army of Charlemagne, enshrined their protection, just as the old Christians of Castile did with the cross: the Eguzkilore.

Solar symbol, the Eguzkilore, metaphorically speaking, was the frightening evil or the scarecrow of the Basque people.

And as far as the seaman is concerned, it was the talisman that, for the protection of the sailor, kept away the swells and storms caused by the marine frights that are also part of its rich and varied mythology.

The steps that lead to the top of the neighborhood and are distributed in the four directions, are, comparatively and metaphorically speaking also, like an imaginary wind rose that points the traveler the direction of his visit, without ever losing sight of the center.

This, the center, could be considered, dreamily, as that small space, that approximately in the middle of the neighborhood, allows that air with the smell of saltpeter and the distant echo of the seagulls to run, before the pineapple formed by their houses returns to close, like the shell of that scallop that the pilgrim who goes to Compostela proudly carries on his chest.

Because we must not forget that Getxo, like other places on the Basque coast, are part of that hard but beautiful and exciting Jacobean itinerary, known as Camino del Norte, which later enters the Cantabrian and Asturian coasts, branching out, towards the Picos de Europa, along the so-called Lebanensis or Liébana Trail and continuing through one of the most impressive and recognized sanctuaries in Europe: that of Covadonga.

At present, any traveler can travel to Getxo from the center of Bilbao, in a matter of minutes, as it is connected to the Metro, being the Algorta destination station, located just about fifty meters from the old port, and being part of its tour, also an authentic adventure for all those travelers who love industrial archeology, which you can see along the way, the ghosts of numerous factories and part of the old shipyards that gave Vizcaya well-deserved fame and, at the time, world power in the subject .

In short: Getxo, a place where adventure, much more than impress, falls in love.

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