It's the opposite of autumn here

I've always been tempted to try to make some money on the side as a street artist. I can't draw, but I can write. I imagine sitting down with a couple of tourists and carefully composing an elegant word-portrait along the lines of

You are a fat balding German man with expensive but ill-fitting clothes and a wife who's obviously only with you for your money.

That will be €12 please.

The borderline-artistic gentleman pictured above is one of the many street performers who, come Easter, stir from their winter aestivation to take advantage of the visitors to San Sebastián's wondrous world. A freelance trombonist, a serial juggler and an unstoppable mime had hung out their shingles nearby. I narrowly missed snatching a photo of a puppeteer wrangling four miniature Beatles on a tiny stage banging out Roll Over Beethoven.

It's a shithouse time of year to learn to rollerskate.

I think all these planes are headed to San Sebastián for Easter.

Easter for us hasn't been much different to other days. It's busy in the popular spots like the boardwalk along the beach and the Old Town, but in the old-man's bars at which we've become grudgingly welcomed locals it's still easy to grab a couple of pintxos and a txakoli without being jostled.

Plus if you're feeling spiritual, there's a quiet drinking church just down the road.

Somehow, the beach is still quiet. The water is cool – about 16 degrees, like a Tassie beach in November – but you get the impression that to European tourists, if it ain't bathtub temperature then it ain't a beach.

In fact, aversion to the cold is strong here. Today was about 23 degrees, windless and perfect in every respect yet the vast majority of both tourists and locals were wearing or at least carrying a puffer jacket. Many had an umbrella, despite the forecasters clearly stating that you're not going to see a cloud for about six months.

Food wise, we're approaching a kind of nutritional Nirvana. In winter here the fruit and veg offerings are fine because they source it from nearby Morocco, but in Spring the local produce starts to pop its head out. The coveted white asparagus has hit the shelves, and it's sodding incredible.

It made my wee smell like white wine.

In Spain there are more than a hundred words for tomato, or so it seems. I don't have the words to describe what they taste like; it's like trying to think in yellow. One popular dish here comprises a tomato, on its own, with a drizzle of olive oil over the top.

It's Easter Saturday. Tonight we're heading into the Old Town on a pintxo crawl with our American neigbours, One of them speaks fluent tomato.