Basque Fact of the Week, Euskadi, History

Basque Fact of the Week: Butrón Castle

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In probably 1996, after I had started this page and met Xabier Ormaetxea online, I visited the Basque Country and Xabier took me to see Butrón Castle. At the time, it was open for visitors, with people in period costume welcoming us and showing us the castle. For me, it was pretty impressive – you don’t get buildings like that in the United States, particularly the west. Since then, the interior has been closed to visitors, though the grounds are still open. I’ve gone back a few times to show my family as we peek inside the little windows wherever we could.

Butrón Castle, photo from Turismo Vasco.
  • Butrón Castle, or Butroeko gaztelua in Euskara, dates to the Middle Ages. It sits in the forest outside Gatika, just 20 kilometers from Bilbao. The castle has an ancient history. It was first built upon the site of the Butrón family house, itself founded in the 8th century by one Captain Gamíniz, upon a rock called either Ganzorri or Gantzurritz. The first castle, really a tower house, was built in the 11th century.
  • The House of Butrón — the family — has a long history with connections to the House of Haro (which was connected to Íñigo López, the first Lord of Biscay), the monarchs of Asturias, Castilla, León, Aragon, Navarra, and Portugal, and even the House of Uppsala/Munsö in Sweden. The first lord of the House of Butrón was Juan Pérez de Butrón, who was born around the year 1210.
  • In the 14th century, it was converted into a proper castle. The owners, the Butrón family, were supporters of the Oñaz family in the War of the Bands. Muñatones Castle, which was built by chronicler of the War of the Bands Lope García de Salazar, was inspired by Butrón Castle. For three hundred years, the castle was at the center of many battles that forged the region. In the 16th century, the castle was abandoned.
  • In 1878, the castle was completely redesigned and rebuilt by Francisco de Cubas, also known as the Marquis de Cubas. He also designed the University of Deusto in Bilbao. The rebuild was financed by Narciso de Salabert y Pinedo, the Marquis de la Torrecilla, who was descended from the original Butrón line. It was inspired by the Bavarian castles and epitomized de Cubas’s architectural vision.
  • In 2005, the castle was purchased by INBISA for 1,629,743 euros (roughly $2.2 million), after the previous owners, who had hoped to turn it into a wedding destination, went bankrupt. The castle was then put up for auction in 2014, but no one bought it. It was sold in December, 2021, to a Russian investor who plans to use it for his “personal enjoyment.”

Primary sources: Castillo de Butrón, Castillos de Olvido; Castillo de Butrón, Wikipedia; BUTRON. Enciclopedia Auñamendi. Available at: https://aunamendi.eusko-ikaskuntza.eus/es/butron/ar-32809/

Adventures of Maite and Kepa, Buber's Basque Story

The Adventures of Maite and Kepa: Part 89

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It took a few moments for their vision to clear. When it did, they could tell they were still in the airport, but it was drastically different. Rather than the relatively sparse and empty hall they had just been standing in, they now found themselves surrounded by people, lights, and displays. Every nook had a different visual display, though where they came from, Maite couldn’t tell. They seemed to float in the air.

All of the people were milling about, dashing from one place to another with intention, as if they all had some place to go. The people around them were both familiar and strange. She recognized the stereotypical Basque features in a lot of the faces – the big noses, the big ears – but there were a lot of other faces as well, African, Asian, South American. It was a much more diverse crowd than she was used to seeing in the Basque Country.

The Adventures of Maite and Kepa is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!

More surprising than the faces were the sounds. Everyone seemed to be talking in a different language, even to one another, but they all seemed to understand. Maite could only hear occasional snippets of Basque, Spanish, or English, but they were different than what she knew. She recognized sounds and fragments, but the accents were… off. Mixed in were languages she couldn’t understand at all and yet, somehow, the others around her could. The cacophony of sounds was almost overwhelming.

And their clothes! Maite wasn’t necessarily as sheltered as Kepa, living in Gernika and going to school in Bilbao, but she had never seen the types of fashion that now flooded her eyes. No one wore anything she recognized. Some had on sleek, one-piece, form-fitting outfits that had no seams or zippers, but covered almost the entire body, hugging it and leaving little to the imagination. Patterns and colors shifted dynamically on the surfaces of some as their owners moved. Others wore even less, their outfits essentially transparent, leaving precisely nothing to the imagination. Maite saw Kepa staring at a few of the women that walked by, almost mesmerized by their curves. Yet others were on the opposite extreme, seeming floating wide-brimmed hats with what Maite could only describe as curtains falling from the brim to the floor. She assumed there must be people behind the curtain, but she couldn’t actually see them.

In contrast, other people were wearing the most elaborate costumes Maite had seen outside of movies. There were people dressed as pirates, as eighteenth century revolutionaries, as ancient Romans, and as native islanders. Almost every period was represented, as if some role playing game had gone berserk. 

And, finally, there were those that simply defied description, outlandish outfits that seemed to come straight from some science fiction story. Some wore large mechanical gloves that seemed able to crush anything they touched. Others, both men and women, had skirts that seemed rigid, as if made from plastic, that formed sharp angles against their skin. Even others wore coats and pants that rippled with spikes up and down the arms and legs, spikes that somehow retracted and extended dynamically as the wearer moved. Many had what appeared to be geometric shapes that somehow floated around them. One woman had circles that encircled her head, tilting this way and that as she moved. Maite saw a man who had a series of pentagons that wrapped around his arms and legs, changing shape and orientation as his arms and legs swung. 

She shook her head and closed her eyes, the visual chaos overwhelming her even more than the audio cacophony. 

She felt Kepa pulling at her arm. She turned, opening her eyes to see him pointing as he pulled her along. He pulled her to a window. It took a moment for her to register what she was seeing. Looking out the window, which covered the entire wall, her field of view was filled with skyscrapers that went up as far as she could see. They had more organic shapes than she had seen before as they twisted into the sky. Some seemed to branch like massive trees while others consisted of spheres attached to a central tower that seemed to rise to infinity. Green vines cascaded down many of them, with flat terraces covered in trees and other plants. Looking down, Maite couldn’t see the streets. Or, rather, there were no streets. The spaces between buildings were filled with vegetation, not nicely manicured but also not entirely wild.

Maite looked over at Kepa. “I think we’ve gone into the future.”

If you get this post via email, the return-to address goes no where, so please write blas@buber.net if you want to get in touch with me.

Basque Fact of the Week, History, People

Basque Fact of the Week: Florentino Goikoetxea, Smuggler of Allied Airmen in WWII

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During World War II, the Basque Country occupied a special geopolitical position which provided unique opportunities to contribute to the effort against the Axis powers. The French side was of course occupied by Germany, but the Spanish side remained neutral. This led to networks to get soldiers, refugees, and politicians across the French-Spanish border and ultimately to freedom, networks such as the Bidegaray network led by Ana María Bidegaray. Many Basques from both sides were involved in these networks. Perhaps one of the most recognized was Florentino Goikoetxea, a humble hunter and smuggler from the Pyrenees mountains.

Florentino Goikoetxea Beobide, photo from Auñamendi Eusko Entziklopedia.
  • Florentino Goikoetxea Beobide was born on March 14, 1898, in Hernani, Gipuzkoa, where he lived until the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War. He took refuge in France, making his home in Ziburu, Lapurdi. He became friends with Kattalin Aguirre, who was part of the French Resistance during World War II, and through her he became involved in the Comet Line.
  • The Comet Line was a network passing through Europe where downed Allied airmen and other refugees would be taken from Belgium, passed through France to Spain and ultimately taken to Great Britain. It was first led by Andrée de Jongh (“Dédée”) and the majority of those involved where women, often teens.
  • Florentino was one of the men involved. Since his childhood, he had been a hunter, and roamed the Pyrenees mountains. He turned his knowledge of the terrain toward smuggling (he was a mugalari) as he became older. He then adapted his deep familiarity of the border to smuggling people on the Comet Line. In 1941, he began working with the Comet Line and, in April, 1942, he became their principal guide.
  • He worked as part of the Comet Line until 1944. During that time, he helped some 227 airmen and French and Belgian agents cross the border and find their way to freedom.
  • He also worked with other networks, including those led by the United States, where he passed mail back to the resistance. On one of his trips, on July 26, as he was returning from a walk, he was surprised by German patrol guards and shot four times, breaking his leg and shattering his kneecap. He was taken to the hospital in Baiona. The Comet Line, in a plan coordinated by Elvire de Greef and executed by two German-speaking Basques who pretended to be Gestapo agents, conspired to help him escape, eventually getting him to Biarritz, where he remained until the liberation of the region a month later.
  • For his efforts, Florentino, a near-illiterate Basque smuggler, received multiple recognitions and honors, but only after Franco died as he was still wanted by Spanish authorities. His awards included the George Medal from the UK and the French Legion of Honor. In one ceremony with the British royal family, he was asked what his occupation was, to which he replied “the import-export business.” He died on July 27, 1980, in Ziburu.

Primary sources: Intertwined: The Tail of the Comet, Vince Juaristi; Goikoetxea Beobide, Florentino. Enciclopedia Auñamendi. Available at: https://aunamendi.eusko-ikaskuntza.eus/es/goikoetxea-beobide-florentino/ar-66614/; Florentino Goikoetxea, Wikipedia.

Adventures of Maite and Kepa, Buber's Basque Story

The Adventures of Maite and Kepa: Part 88

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“We just got home!” exclaimed Maite as she reluctantly followed Kepa to the white light.

“But,” pleaded Kepa, “it’s here. We can’t ignore it.”

Maite looked away, avoiding Kepa’s eyes. 

“There was one, back in California, while you were asleep in the car…” she began.

“Zer?” exclaimed Kepa. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

The Adventures of Maite and Kepa is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!

Maite turned back to Kepa, her face red. “You’d just gotten shot and we’d finally escaped that sheep herder hell!” replied Maite, more angrily than she intended. “We weren’t ready… I wasn’t ready to go through another one, not yet.”

Kepa’s shoulders slumped as he nodded. “Ulertzen dut. I understand.” He looked up at Maite. “How are we going to keep doing this? There might be thousands of these damn things floating around the world. We will kill ourselves if we try to chase them all.”

Maite shook her head. “I don’t know. We can’t do them all, not alone. I hope Marina is doing her part, chasing these things down. And maybe she’s recruited others to help. Maybe we’re not the only ones jumping through time, chasing these zatiak?”

Kepa’s eyes opened wide. “Do you think there are others like us?”

Maite shrugged. “Why not? Why would we be so special? For all we know, she has a whole army, chasing these things through time for her.”

“And…” began Kepa, as his mind raced. “And, do you think de Lancre is also recruiting his own…”

“Minions?” interjected Maite. “I hadn’t thought of that.” She shook her head. “I don’t think so. He doesn’t seem to be one to share power.”

“Why would Marina share?” asked Kepa. “Can’t she take on de Lancre more easily if she has more of the power herself?”

“That’s a good question,” replied Maite. “Maybe she just wants to keep him as weak as possible, and needs us to help her by eliminating zatiak from the time stream. But, we don’t know. Maybe there is something else.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” shrugged Maite, throwing up her hands. “But, maybe, she has a way of sucking them out of us when we collect enough. Maybe we are just temporary vessels, storing the zatia we find until she can claim them.”

Kepa shivered. “I don’t like feeling like a pawn.”

Maite nodded. “Neither do I. But we don’t have much choice right now. If we don’t help Marina, de Lancre might become too powerful for her to stop.”

Kepa sighed. He looked at the white light floating in front of them. He looked at Maite. “Are you ready?”

Maite nodded, her shoulders slumping slightly. “Bai. Egin dezagun hau. Let’s do this.”

Kepa, grabbing Maite’s hand, reached out and touched the white light. The light grew and grew, filling their vision, blinding them, until it flashed briefly and all went dark.

If you get this post via email, the return-to address goes no where, so please write blas@buber.net if you want to get in touch with me.

Basque Fact of the Week, Euskadi

Basque Fact of the Week: Munitibar-Arbatzegi-Gerrikaitz

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My dad, Pedro Uberuaga Zabala, was from Munitibar, Bizkaia. Or better said, Gerrikaitz. At least, he always referred to his home as Gerrikaitz, not Munitibar. This confused me when I went to visit for the first time because the signs for the town say Munitibar. It turns out that this little town, home to less than 400 people but outsized as a source of Basque emigration to the United States, has a complicated history with two different villages that often fought and competed until they decided to merge into one. On a different note, I was also always amazed how this small town could host, at the time, three different bars. How different the Basque Country was from my own hometown…

Photo of the heart of Munitibar, taken by Jon Zuazo and stylized by Blas Uberuaga.
  • Munitibar-Arbatzegi-Gerrikaitz only took on its current name in 1986. Before that, it was known as Arbacegui-Guerricáiz, and even before that, Arbatzegi and Gerrikaitz were separate parishes. Gerrikaitz was founded in 1366 by Count Tello, though it was called Monditibar back then. Arbatzegi and Gerrikaitz merged in 1883 to form the municipality of Munitibar, partially because both were overwhelmed with war debt and they decided to join together to survive. The two parts are separated by the Lea river. Today, Munitibar encompasses the neighborhoods of Arbatzegi, Berreño, Gerrika, Gerrikaitz, and Totorika.
  • Way back in 1402, an agreement was struck between the mayors of Gerrikaitz and the “good men” of Arbatzegi and of Bolibar, to avoid discord and agree on mutual defense. Part of the agreement regarded the sale of timber from the mountains for use as charcoal in the ironworks, which the laborers of Arbatzegi were allowed to help decide. This pulled Arbatzegi into the village of Gerrikaitz. However, in 1630, the residents of Arbatzegi petitioned to split off again into their own town, a request that was granted by King Felipe IV.
  • The population of the small village has declined sharply in recent years. While from 1900 to 1950, it held relatively constant at just over 1,000 people, by 2000 there weren’t 400 people living in Munitibar.
  • Munitibar sits at the crossroads between Amorebieta, Gernika-Lumo, Lekeitio, and Markina-Xemein, though the roads passing through Munitibar are curvy and narrow, often making for relatively slow travel between towns.
  • There isn’t a whole lot of industry within Munitibar itself and most of the residents dedicate themselves to agriculture, timber, and livestock. Back in the 19th century, the town hosted two ironworks, nine mills, and a gypsum mine, but those have since closed up. Even earlier, Gerrikaitz alone had 30 forges dedicated to the manufacture of tools, nails, and ironwork, a dangerous industry that led to at least two fires that destroyed several homes and buildings. Today, there are several small carpentry shops, sawmills, and a factory for building materials.
  • During the Spanish Civil War, Gerrikaitz and Arbatzegi both fell to Franco’s forces on April 28, 1937. They had been bombed and machine gunned the previous two days. George Steer, who told the world about the bombing of Gernika, took refuge in one of the craters created in Gerrikaitz.
  • The feast day of Arbatzegi is San Pedro (June 29) while that of Gerrikaitz is Andra Mari (September 8).
  • One of the routes of the Camino de Santiago passes through the town.

Primary sources: Arozamena Ayala, Ainhoa. GERRIKAITZ. Auñamendi Encyclopedia. Available at: https://aunamendi.eusko-ikaskuntza.eus/en/gerrikaitz/ar-75465/; Estornés Zubizarreta, Idoia. MUNITIBAR-ARBATZEGI-GERRIKAITZ. Auñamendi Encyclopedia. Available at: https://aunamendi.eusko-ikaskuntza.eus/en/munitibar-arbatzegi-gerrikaitz/ar-78718/; Munitibar, Wikipedia.

People

Goian Bego, Egoitz

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Remembering my cousin, Egoitz, who died three years ago today, on his birthday.

My cousin, Egoitz Uberuaga Aranburu, died yesterday, January 13, on his birthday. He had just turned 33.

Egoitz, with his sister and a few cousins, wrestling on the grounds of the family basseri.

Like with most of my dad’s family, I didn’t get to know Egoitz until my first visit to Euskal Herria, back in 1991, when I went to Donostia to study Basque. Egoitz was only 6 years old back then. I remember how, at a big family dinner at the family basseri, surrounding a table in the foyer just in front of the doors leading to the barn where the animals were kept, Egoitz and his sister, Eneritz, with some cajoling from their parents, pulled out their trikitixa and tambourine and played for their American cousin.

Egoitz grew into an amazing young man. He had a giant heart, always full of life. He was often the center of attention because of his outsized presence in the room. He was full of a restless energy; his Facebook page was full of photos from his travels all over the world. His work was to help others less fortunate than himself.

Egoitz, my daughter, my wife Lisa, my friend Gontzal, and me, in the Parte Vieja of Donostia, March 2018. Photo courtesy of Lisa.

He always went out of his way to make time to see me when I visited. During our last visit to the Basque Country, he joined us during a day trip to Donostia, hitting the pintxos bars and sharing a few drinks during a break in classes. His smile was infectious, just as it had been when he was 6.

As I watch his Facebook feed, it was obvious how many lives he touched. He had spent the night before his birthday with his sister at a Gatibu concert and people were wishing him Happy Birthday. It was especially heartbreaking watching his friends post “Zorionak”, not knowing he had left us only hours before.

They always say that life is wasted on the young. Egoitz is one of those that took life by the horns and lived it his way. He filled his all-too-short life with more than most of us that live twice as long ever experience. He lived life to the edge and made the most of the time he had. He was truly an inspiration.

The words on his obituary sum up his spirit better than I ever could:

Mila esker bizitza politagoa egitea gatik,
beti eskuzabal, beti irribarretsu,
beti dana emateko prest,
txori alai, beti libre, beti aske, beti pozik.

Thank you for making life nicer,
always generous, always smiling,
always ready to give,
sweet bird, always free, always independent, always happy.

Translation by me, with an assist from Google Translate.

Goian bego, Egoitz. You will always be in my heart. The Basque Country won’t be the same without you.

Adventures of Maite and Kepa, Buber's Basque Story

The Adventures of Maite and Kepa: Part 87

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The next few days were a blur. While Javi was at work, Kepa and Maite continued to explore downtown and the beach. They went for a few short hikes in the local parks. However, they most enjoyed the evenings, when Javi was back and Julie joined them. One night, they watched a movie together; another, they played board games. It was nice to just get to know them better, and Maite was grateful for the down time.

Soon, it was time to fly back to Bilbao. Maite had been able to get their flights changed so that they were leaving out of Santa Barbara. They had returned their rental car and Javi and Julie had picked them up to take them to the airport. Javi had parked his car and was leading them into the departures area.

The Adventures of Maite and Kepa is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!

“Wow!”  said Maite. “It’s even smaller than Bilbao’s airport!”

Javi chuckled. “LAX is pretty close and, since you have to stop somewhere if you leave here anyways, a lot of people just drive to Los Angeles. It’s almost faster, with the extra security and all.”

“But those lines!” exclaimed Julie. “They are horrendous down there!”

Maite and Kepa got their boarding passes and checked their luggage. 

“Thanks so much, for everything!” said Maite as she gave Javi a big hug. “I can’t wait to return the hospitality.”

“We look forward to showing off the Basque Country to you,” said Kepa as he similarly embraced Julie.

“I look forward to it!” said Julie. 

Maite and Kepa waved as they headed toward security.

“See you soon!” exclaimed Maite.

The flight back home, though long, was uneventful. Maite couldn’t believe how much she had wanted normalcy and boring, after so many months in that boarding house. After watching both Blas and Kepa die. After being chased by de Lancre. She put on her headphones and plugged into some random movie.

It took almost a full twenty-four hours, but finally they were home.

“Glad I don’t have to do that very often,” said Kepa, looking over at Maite as they waited to get off the plane.

“Agreed,” sighed Maite, “but if I do get the position at Berkeley, I guess I’ll be doing it more often.”

“We’ll be doing it, you mean,” added Kepa.

Maite squeezed his hand. “Bai, guk.” She smiled.

They got off the plane. They grabbed their suitcases off of the carousel and passed through the doors into the spacious arrival hall. Kepa had left his car in the long-term parking, as they didn’t want to deal with the public transit system after such a long flight. Maite was relieved they had thought ahead. The last thing she wanted to do was deal with buses and trains.

They were about to head down the escalator to the exit and parking when Maite exclaimed “Begira! Look!” She was pointing at the end of the hall.

Kepa looked over and saw another bright white light, floating in the air.

If you get this post via email, the return-to address goes no where, so please write blas@buber.net if you want to get in touch with me.

Basque Fact of the Week, Euskara

Basque Fact of the Week: Days of the Week in Basque

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When we think about what we call the days of the week, how many of us think about the fact that Monday is named after the moon, Wednesday is Odin’s day, and Thursday is dedicated to the Scandinavian god Thor? Where do these names even come from? They’re just names, and we’ve lost, for the most part, our connection to their meaning. When I was learning Euskara, I couldn’t help but think about what the names meant. Just like me with English, do native Basque speakers not think about what these words mean when they say them? Are they just words now, divorced from their origins? Basque, as you might expect, has very different names for the days of the week, starting with the idea that the Basque week may have originally been only three days long.

Euskera con Anna provides a basic introduction to the Basque language, including the days of the week.
  • In Batua Basque, the first three days of the week — Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday — are astelehen, astearte, and asteazken. These literally mean “the beginning of the week,” “the middle of the week,” and “the end of the week.” Many have interpreted this to mean that Basque originally had a three-day week. However, if this were to be true, Basques would be about the only culture to ever have had a three-day week. And linguist Larry Trask doubted that these words are very old, casting some doubt that they are related to an ancient three-day week. However, we have no other idea of where they came from.
  • That said, different dialects have other names for these days. In Bizkaian, Monday is called ilen, which is now thought to derive from il-egun, or “moon-day,” so very similar in spirit to English’s Monday. Similarly, Tuesday is martitzen, which comes from martitz-egun, and is the day dedicated to the god Mars, much like Spanish martes.
  • Wednesday is a bit trickier in Bizkaian. The name, eguasten, begins with the word egun, meaning day, but the ending is less clear. Thursday is eguen, which seems to derive from egun-egun, or “day-day.” Similarly, eguasten might comes from egun-aste-egun, or “day-week-day,” but what this means isn’t clear. It may also mean “last day,” similar to “end of the week.”
  • In Batua, Thursday is ostegun, or the day of or(t)zi/ortze/osti, depending on the dialect. The meaning of ortzi/ortze/osti is not completely clear, but seems to be related to sky, storm, or thunder, provoking parallels with Thursday (Thor’s-day) or jueves (Jupiter’s day). This has led some to speculate that ortzi might be an ancient name for a Basque god of thunder. However, some have suggested that this could come from bortz-egun, meaning the “fifth day,” which might make sense if one starts counting on Sunday.
  • The Batua word for Friday is ostiral, with that same root, though what the ending might mean is unclear. In Bizkaian, Friday is bari(a)ku, which comes from abari-ba(gari)ko-egun, meaning “day without dinner,” which makes sense since Friday was a fast day.
  • The names for Saturday are intriguing. In Batua, it is larunbat, which maybe comes from laurden bat, meaning “one quarter,” and referring to the fact that a week is one quarter of the lunar cycle. However, others derive it from lagunen bate, which would translate to something like “meeting of friends.” In some parts of Iparralde, they call Saturday neskanegun, literally meaning “girl’s day.” Henrike Knörr notes that “it used to be customary in some parts of the Basque Country for boys to go and spend the evening at their girlfriend’s house and have dinner which the girlfriend would prepare,” maybe explaining this last variant.
  • In Bizkaian, Saturday is zapatu, borrowed from the Latin word for the Sabbath. The word egubakoitz is also used in Bizkaian and other dialects to mean either Friday or Saturday. It seems this word might mean “unique day,” but where it comes from is unknown.
  • Finally, Sunday is igande in Batua. Some relate this to igan, the Basque word for “ascend,” connecting igande to the day of the ascension. The Bizkaian word for Sunday is more transparent: domeka comes from the Latin <(dies> dominica> or “(day) of the Lord.”

Primary sources: Days and Months in Euskara by Larry Trask; Etymological Dictionary of Basque by R. L. Trask