Ben Groundwater. Thank God. If it wasn't for that, San Sebastian would be huge. British retirees would have colonised it years ago, the same way they have Spain's southern coast. There would be pockets of San Seb where people only speak English, where the pubs advertise curry and chips and the latest games from the English Premier League.
The backpackers would have arrived en masse too, setting up in hostels, drinking beers and cheap wine, stumbling around the streets yelling at each other, filling up the bars and trying to make themselves understood. It'd be another Lagos. Another Magaluf.
But there's the rain – the sweet, glorious rain. There are the grey skies and the cool temperatures. If it wasn't for that I'm convinced San Sebastian would be one of Europe's most popular tourist destinations, a place Irish blokes would go for a stag do, the spot Australians would pull into on their bus tours to get smashed for a night and lie on the beach.
But that's not the case. San Sebastian, the Basque town in northern Spain, does get its fair share of tourists. You do still see drunken Australians wandering its paved alleyways late at night – occasionally, I'm one of them. And you can usually find somewhere to watch the Arsenal game.
But it's nowhere close to being overrun. At that is despite the city's inherent greatness, and despite the fact that I, and plenty of other travel and food writers, have been doing our best to turn San Sebastian into the world's most popular travel destination via our habit of writing about it so glowingly and so often.
The thing is, I don't actually want San Seb to be popular – in the same way you don't want your favourite local bar or restaurant to start attracting thousands of new patrons – but I do want to write about it, because it's a place I love and am passionate about, and I have done on many, many occasions.
Every time I've done it though, I've thought, is this a mistake? Should I really be telling more people about San Sebastian, about the restaurants, the bars, the beaches, the culture? Probably not. But then I remember the rain. That beautiful, beautiful rain. Problem solved.
This is the paradox of travel writing, and it's also something every traveller faces. On one hand, you want to share with your friends, with your family, with the world, these amazing places you've discovered. On the other hand, however, you don't want to make them any more popular than they already are. An influx visitors will change what made that destination so special in the first place.
I saw this very thing in Tokyo the other day, in the suburb of Shimokitazawa. Five years ago Shimokita was this secret wonder, a cool little area filled with live music venues and vintage clothing stores and quirky bars. All of those things are still there today – however, the difference now is that everyone else has found out about them.
There are now "Melbourne-style" coffee shops in Shimokita; designer clothing stores; burger joints; and plenty of tourists. It was changed by the internet, by word of mouth, by social media, and by travel writers like me.
So now there's this conundrum: how do you balance the job of the travel writer – the task of discovering great places and telling the world about them – with the innate selfishness of the traveller, with wanting to keep these secrets to yourself?
I've never held back. The urge to share discoveries and have everyone else enjoy them as much as I did has always been stronger for me than the need to save these places for myself. And anyway, I've been comforted by the knowledge that writing about a destination doesn't always make it popular.
I've written numerous times about Iran, and yet it's still not exactly challenging Bali for a place in most people's affections. I've written about the Palestinian Territories, but I doubt many travellers are cancelling their trips to Phuket and rebooking for Nablus.
And I've written about my favourite campsite in the world, a place called Third Bridge in the Okavango Delta in Botswana. This would ordinarily be a huge problem, because campers are supposed to be the travel world's best secret-keepers. They're like mafia dons. They ain't saying nuttin'. When campers find a spot they love, they don't share it with the world – they never mention it in public ever again.
But I've broken the code and written about Third Bridge, because the experience of staying there was truly inspiring, life-changing, beautiful. I wanted to share that. I was also, however, safe in the knowledge that Third Bridge is a difficult place to access – you have to hire a 4WD in Maun and then drive about seven hours through deep sand in lion-infested national parks – and is therefore unlikely to ever become much more popular than it already is.
Like San Sebastian in Spain, there are unchangeable factors that will always hold it back from mainstream popularity. Which, as far as I'm concerned, is problem solved.
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