I lived in this joyful European city for a year. In my heart, I never left

There are ghosts in San Sebastian, joyful spirits that lurk in bars and stroll narrow streets.

There’s my son on his first birthday, sitting on the grass in Plaza Cataluna, eating an ice cream. Over there, the tour passengers I danced with 20 years ago, a night of discovery of this wonderful place. There are my old Brisbane friends finishing off drinks late one night, singing in the streets.

There’s our old apartment. There’s our favourite bakery. There’s my partner, Jess, sitting on the big stone wall at the east end of Playa Zurriola, watching the sunset over the beach, a gentle breeze tugging at her hair.

Everywhere you turn, ghosts, memories, small parts of me that were formed or expelled.

I’ve been visiting San Sebastian, in the Basque Country of northern Spain, regularly for almost 25 years now. I was inspired to travel here by Anthony Bourdain’s book A Cook’s Tour and its vivid descriptions of food and people and place, and in my heart I just never left.

The people in San Sebastian are grumpy, sometimes rude. The weather is frequently awful (it’s not a case of if it will rain during your time here, but when). It gets crowded. It’s one of the most expensive places to holiday in Spain.

But you just wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. The beaches, the Belle Epoque apartments, the busy streets lined with bars and restaurants, cafes and bakeries, fishmongers and butchers.

The food in San Sebastian is stupendously good. The quality of the produce used, the freshness, the skill with which it’s prepared – and that goes from the three-Michelin superstars to the humble pintxos bars, where you can get a small plate of fine cuisine for only a few euros, paired with a glass of wine that costs the same.

There’s a fever that takes hold on a night out in San Sebastian, an intense fear of missing out on the best stuff. You can’t eat everything, it’s impossible. But can you try?

And so you find yourself skipping from bar to bar on a tour of jubilant gluttony, ordering dishes, ordering drinks, talking to friends, talking to strangers, measuring stomach space, doling out euros, wandering neighbourhoods, wanting more.

Summer is easy in San Sebastian, with the beaches and sunshine and long evenings, but winter forges a true fan. It’s cold, wet and grey for months on end. Storms bring huge waves that crash over the concrete embankments and pound buildings. Locals huddle in small bars drinking Rioja and eating pintxos while “sirimiri”, the Basque word for drizzling rain, soaks the pavement outside.

I lived in San Sebastian for a year with my young family; Jess and I watched as our child grew from a six-month-old baby to an 18-month-old toddler in a foreign place. The memory of him at that age, a person who has become someone else entirely now, is so vivid when I walk the streets and see his tiny face.

We picked up the rhythms of local life during that year-long adventure, the late lunches, the beachside afternoons, the evening strolls, the pre-dinner drinks at your nearest bar, the weekend pilgrimages into the mountains, the endless festivals, the long Sunday gatherings for lunch and sobremesa (the post-meal conversation around the table).

The city has changed over 25 years. Even over the last five years. The crowds have swelled. The prices have swelled. Some of the old haunts have disappeared.

But one of the great things about San Sebastian is that there are so many constants, rusted-on favourites that will never change. The grimy locals-only bar with sawdust on the floor and football on the TV still exists (Bar Rikardo). The bakery I visited almost every morning for a year in 2019 is still there (Ogi Berri). I know that whenever I walk into Bar Desy the owner, Gorka, or his dad Jose will greet me.

It’s a mistake to go back to a place and try to recreate old experiences though, so while those touchstones are vital, there’s joy in exploring the new. This is a city with endless gastronomic opportunities, markets you’ve never visited, bars you didn’t know existed, dishes that have remained local secrets, seasons that bring new produce.

Cast your net wider and you discover nearby towns: Getaria with its beaches and seafood restaurants; Tolosa with its ancient marketplace and steak specialists; Hondarribia with its fierce traditions; St-Jean-de-Luz with its French version of Basque culture.

But I will always be led back to San Sebastian, Donostia to its residents, to the beachside promenades and old-town alleys, the men in their txapelas – Basque berets – and the kids kicking footballs, retirees drinking 9am wines and tourists bug-eyed with pleasure.

There are ghosts in this city now but there are real people too, friends that are as much a part of San Sebastian to me as Playa de la Concha or Plaza Cataluna. Those people add depth to an already complex place, another reason to miss it, another reason to return.