Bilbao
We rose early the next morning to make our way back towards Bilbao, first stop La Hermina. It was a sleepy village in the shady depths of the canyon, built on the edge of the river cutting its way along the base. It was only 7:30 and no one was around. Carrying our packs, we made our slow way up a road on the western side of the canyon, hoping to reach the sun - a decision Sabine later regretted because she didn't have the opportunity to capture the image of the sun creeping down the canyon walls. I was more than happy, loving the chill morning air and the view of the first rays bouncing down to light up the village. Echoing through the canyon came the sound of sheep bells, or goats as we soon found out. We stopped at a lookout point, near an old run down shack and watched as an old man putted up the hill on a motor scooter. He stopped when he reached us and came over to talk, but his accent was heavy and he obviously preferred Basque. We managed to catch a few words that were either 'I don't understand a thing they're saying,' or, 'they don't understand a thing I'm saying.' Either way, he was right. The only other word we caught in the 5-minute exchange was 'goats.' "He's a shepherd!," Sabine realised. "He's looking for his goats!" She offered him some of the Madeira cake we were eating for breakfast, and said something else he didn't understand. Looking at the sheer rock walls around us, I wondered what he was going to do when he found them. Eventually he got back on his scooter