The Ants Go Marching

September 30: From Boadilla del Camino

about Estella, Navarra, Spain, September 15, 2016

I am sitting in a spacious apartment in the lovely small city of Estella. It is the 1st place where I thought I could live in Spain. It is personable with lots of small shops crowded around numerous squares.

I am happy because I was able to renew my phone with the help of a very patient young female sales clerk. Her English was limited. My Spanish is a shallow mess. But somehow we got it figured out.

I now have a Spanish phone number with plenty of text and data. This means I am no longer flying blind. Last night was a perfect example of why following the pelegrino route without a working cell phone is a bad idea. I understand that millions of people have followed this route for a millennia without a cell phone.  I am happy to not be one.

I had purchased a pre-paid SIM card in Amsterdam—to my endless consternation and confusion.  I conducted the transaction in English. But every communication after that was in Dutch. I could never figure out how to establish my account or upgrade my service. I would get come on messages, “Gebruik deze surprise deal alleen vandaag door’m te claimen op HTTP:// xxxx of bikijk een van de andere deals.” Even with the help of Google translate, I couldn’t quite understand what was being said. (Every effort to add more minutes to my card reminded me of the joke Jean-Marie Allion about the Dutch language. “The Dutch must gone have to the Czech Republic and stolen all their vowels.")

I cannot check ratings, make reservations, or look at the town’s website with a dead phone.  Had I been able to do any of these, we would not have ended up where we did.  We follow the guide book …and the crowd to a Pilgrim hostel on the lovely hillside town of Chirauqui.

It had been a long walk from Uterga, where we really enjoyed our accommodations and company but felt somewhat taken advantage…7€ breakfast, anyone? (away from the Camino, a great breakfast costs 2€.)

Many, many of the hordes with whom we are marching choose to stay in the lovely river town of Puente la Reina. They line up outside the door and around the corner of the cobblestone streets waiting for a chance for a bunk bed in a crowded room. The city was built in the 11th century to serve the medieval trekking hordes  making the same hike we make today.  

We make our way through the narrow streets, punctuated by ancient thick wooden doors set into arched foyers, little shops selling high priced wine, sausage, books or tobacco. What are some sage for books or tobacco. 

We step into a square and squat church built  long before the efflorescence of Gothic spire churches. Inside, it is dark and quiet and there is a strange little man there to stamp our pilgrims' passport—for a small donation, of course. But we are taken aback by the sight the massive bronze baroque main and side altars….so incongruous, so unexpected, so dusty and neglected. We sit for awhile and just look. There’s no stained glass. There’s no organ, just  these strange middle European altars. They would not be a surprise in an 17th century Austrian church, but we can't fathom how they came to be in this tiny Spanish village.

On the way out of town, we cross the eponymous 11th Century Bridge. We  stop on the high second stone arch to have a conversation with bright red parrot in a cage on a  fourth floor terrace cage. Our short whistles back and forth capture the attention of  spaniel on the second floor terrace, and the chickens on the ground.

We leave  the town built for pilgrims to make our way to our hilltop sanctuary. I had noticed even before Puente la Reina, but especially afterwards, in the hot drylands above the river, a curious ant phenomenon. About every 25 to 50 meters or so, there is a big, busy ant superhighway. They are going from the nest, to the drying fields across the path-- hundreds of ants are picking up chunks of straw many times their size and making their way back to their nest.

Big ants, little ants, on hills and on flats, have gotten some message  and are making their back and forth across the path?  Why are they getting the straw in such a committed, communal effort?  Do they feel the touch of fall in the air? Do they perceive the black and threatening clouds on the horizon?

We make our way through fields of grapes just turning red, grey green olive trees with masses of small green olives, and the occasional fig tree.  The air is scented with ripe anise, from which I pluck and savor small yellow blooms.  The ancient village glows on the top of its hill in the afternoon sun. We are tired.  We have been walking a week and Wes is now wearing his sandals, having thrown his boots away, not only for the pain they were causing, but also because the soles were flapping away from the body of the boot.

After climbing all afternoon from the bridge crossing, we are ready to stop and concerned about the dark clouds and lightening in the distance.  We follow a maze of alleys to the top of the rise, where the first thing we encounter is a group of drunken young men dressed in red and white.  I try to warn him off, but Wes asks them for directions…in English… They surround him, laughing, poking, and prodding,  until we make out one is pointing to a nearby sign.

Near the top of the town, we spot a massive tent with any equally massive sound system.  It is the local festival. In a nearby bar, white and red clad young adults dance and roar to the thump of techno music.

At our albergue, our landlady is all business, hectoring like a seventh grade gym teacher. “This is your room. Don't lose your key. Dinner is at for 11 euros. We don’t provide breakfast. You need to get your own food from the store when it opens at 6pm; lights out at 10 PM. You must be gone by 8 AM.”

Our room is functional. We are glad for the private shower and that we are not sitting glumly in the crowded dorm waiting for a chance to clean ourselves and our clothes. There’s no common room, no  place to tarry, so people crowd on the porch and sit cross legged on their wooden bunks.

At 6 PM, the crowd makes its way to the little carneceria, where we buy sausage, yogurt, juice, bread cheese, and a Coca Cola(!) for 6 euros. My stomach turns a little when it hits me have paid for 2 meals what we have often paid for one crummy breakfast. We rush back to hostel just as the rain begins to pelt.

At dinner in the low slung basement, we are seated with 2 male Brits, and two Spanish women. The women speak almost no English. The older male Brit has no Spanish and apparently no interest in acquiring any either.  His partner, perhaps brother or cousin, has been living in Barcelona for 6 months and has passable conversational Spanish.

But he is neither prepared nor interested to serve as Mr. Instant Translator. I try to say a few sentences. Wes talks loudly and slowly. ..In English...But the stories are too complicated and the room is too clangy and loud, so conversation is a challenge.

The food is passable. I have no idea what the watery, bland bright green soup is, but the salad is fresh and delicious, and the spaghetti is voluminous and tasty. But no one is having much fun.

We beat a hasty retreat to our small room. As the rain subsides, the music begins.  At first, we  are tickled by the brassy sounds of folkloric music, followed by brassy, well rendered big band Jazz.

Then the cover band starts. We are less enthralled by imitation Frank Sinatra and Elvis Pressley, interspersed with Adele, and warbling corridos. By the time the lights are turned out at 10 PM, Wes and I have put in ear plugs.

We sleep fitfully, while the sounds of the party roars into the night. At 2:30 AM, I wake to the sounds of the band wailing Gloria Gaynor, “I will survive, I will survive” followed quickly by Queen’s “We will, we will rock you!” The world's least skilled, but most prolific cover band plays unrelentingly until 4 AM.

At 6 AM, the albergue wakes, if it has, in fact, slept. There's no coffee nor any place to get any. We pack and get out, just as the dawn is starting to peak over the eastern hills.  We make our way through the detritus of the all night party --plastic glasses, spilled beer, piles of vomit, and corners reeking of urine.

The road out of town follows a derelict and rocky Roman road, then over and even more derelict and  dangerous Roman bridge. As we march through the cool morning light, I see stretching before and after me dozens of hikers.

What brought them from Italy, the US, Canada, France, Germany, Australia, New Zealand, Korea, Greece, Japan and who knows where?  I cannot say, but like so many ants, we march towards a goal not seen or understood, but driving us ever onward.

Yin and Yang

From: September 28, Castrojerez, Spain

About: September 22, 2016--Pamplona and the Hill of Forgiveness

After our lovely stay at the Iriguibel Sercotel in Uharte, we return to the Camino and almost immediately face a choice: follow the Camino on busy suburban and urban streets, or follow the shaded Riverwalk on the River Arga all the way to town.  Despite the extra 5 km, we choose the river and don’t regret it all.

It is a Sunday morning; there are lot people meandering, skating, walking their dogs,  pushing their kids in strollers.  Lot of bikes go by …pelotons of speeding racers in logo drenched jerseys and shorts, families on comfort bikes, sweating weekend warriors on mountain bikes.

The greenway links numerous parks on which 3 features stand out, like the number of parks which have extensive community gardens. In addition, Spaniards are mad for handball and its Basque variation, pelota. All but the tiniest of towns has a semi-enclosed handball court. We also walk by 4 big public swimming complexes, with indoor and outdoor pools, slides, and wading pools. As the day heats up, the crowds at these pools grow and grow.

Finally, after about 6 miles, we are nearing the center of Pamplona. We need to cross the river and go up a steep bank to get to the city center. The riverwalk continues, but right at the junction of the biggest garden, and another swim complex, I spot a stepping stone pathway across the river leading to a traverse  up the hill.

We are right under a 17th century garrison and steeling ourselves for a climb in the hot midday sun
I see a family of swimmers appear through double glass doors not connected to any building. Upon closer inspection, it is an elevator to the top of the bluff. Well, all right..

Upon exiting  the elevator, we walk  past the ramparts overlooking the river and are surprised to learn that these too are the work of the estimable and ubiquitous Monsieur Vaubon. Just past the barricades, we walk around the most of the circumference of the world famous and disappointingly active bull fighting ring, where big red and blue banners advertise past and future events.

We make our way through the city, where everything but the bars, cafes, and churches are closed. The many squares are full of people. There are quite a few times when we have to make our way through crowds. With our backpacks, walking sticks, and walking clothes, I feel like the world’s biggest mark. In Camino-lore, Pamplona has a well-deserved reputation for pick -pockets, so we keep our wits and our wallets about ourselves.

We go deeper and deeper into old Pamplona, past the ritzy shopping districts, past the tourist- thronged antiquities, past the sensible shops of the Calle Mercaderes until we find the “street” of our lodging.  Down a street no wider than a narrow alley, the establishments and the patrons seem downright seedy.

When we find our “gastropub,” where no one is eating, the chunky, short-haired bartender greets us enthusiastically, while also giving us the once over.    He grabs a set of keys, and hustles us outside to an adjacent door.  Just before he opens the door, her grabs a young blonde woman with long, frowsy hair, leather jacket and tottering boots, and gives her an enormous, full-on kiss on the mouth.  He lets go of her without a word between them and takes us into a narrow hall, up a flight of stairs to gathering room in which numerous four foot tall bags of laundry are thrown in the corner.

The whole thing seems shady and weird. We agree, then immediately worry when we pay for the room with our credit card.  The bartender gives us a key and tells us our room is #10 upstairs,  “Arriba!  Arriba!” he says, pointing up.

We start climbing the narrow, turning stairs.   1 flight,  2 flights, 3 flights—5 flights to an utterly bereft and charmless room.  Dull grey walls, two small single beds, a flat screen TV, and a small bathroom with a small window overlooking the neighbors’ cracked tiles and hanging laundry.  We have stayed in hermitages with more personality and better amenities.

Well, no matter.  We will be gone tomorrow. We spend the evening exploring the town, trying and failing to find the open Carrefour's supermarket.  My mapping app kept saying it was right by us, but several circles of the area never reveal it.

It was getting toward dark and even the pubs were beginning to close. We stop for a bite not far from our  “D-luxe accommodations” and ask the Basque bartender about the Basque name for the city.  He tells us “only Castilians (said with disgust) and tourists call it Pamplona. To the real people, it is Iruña.”

As we return to our lodging, we see the same frowsy blonde with the leather jacket and towering heels wobbling down our gloomy street.  She is very high or very drunk and is being followed by a thuggish fellow who is whistling repeatedly at her. Two creeps up the street watch this scene with amusement. It hits me this young woman is probably a prostitute.

We climb the stairs to our cell, noting there would be no escape if this old building caught on fire. As far as we can tell, we are the only people in the building.  Finally at the fifth floor, we lock ourselves in, then watch bad Spanish television until we are sleepy.  Around 11:30pm, we hear people coming into the building.  Raucous voices filter up the stairs.  There’s all kinds of activity, doors opening and closing, people shouting—well into the night.  I listen and worry. Wes manages to sleep with help of  sleep mask and earplugs.

The next morning, we are out of there as soon as possible.   There is no sign of life in the lower floors, except an abandoned, not quite empty, cognac bottle in the hall.  We are glad to leave and can’t agree whether this was a house of prostitution or not.  Shaun: yes.  Wes: maybe.

We make our way to the new part of town with its stacks of apartments and wide streets.  We drink coffee in the morning sun and look west to the big ridge on the horizon—El Alto del Perdon (Hill of Forgiveness).  We will be glad to return to the quiet by-ways and highways of rural Spain.

We follow the trail out of town, past a few small towns with their red tile roofs and pelota courts and city wells.  It is full hot now and our climb over the ominously named ridge has begun.  Under the shade of a tree, Wes is visiting with the same Asian group we had seen the other day.  As I arrive, a rangy dog with a full loaf of bread in his mouth runs through the group, then stops in a newly plowed field to devour his purloined breakfast.

The group, three of whom are from Taiwan, and the other from Korea, ask us to sit, but fearing our legs will seize up if we stop, we trudge on.  The hill is steep, the path rocky, and the sun hot. We move from one shady spot provided by overhanging brambles to another. 

Up ahead, we can see bands of new apartment blocks lining the ridge. It looks like a desolate place to live, even though it has good views of the valley below.  We stop for a moment and watch the trucks and traffic disappear into a tunnel under the ridge.  That seems like a better idea than sweating our way up the Hill of Forgiveness.  At least in the short term.

Up the hill in the heat, Pamplona in the distance

When we enter the little town near the crest of the ridge, red-faced pilgrims are sprawled in whatever shade they can find.  Some offer their beers in toast to our effort. It is not long before we have one as well, to raise to the next overheated climber.

We don't tarry, however. The sun is not going to get less fierce.  So it’s the classic 25 steps, breathe, 25 more assault on the summit.  We are welcomed to the land of rock, wind, and windmills  by a large iron sculpture and multiple signs donated by the movie The Way. 

Just over the top, a skinny,  smoking blonde peers out from a food trailer that must have been hell to pull up to this desolate spot. Nearly every pilgrim rushes over to by something cool to eat or drink.
Before us, a new valley and the end of the Basque homelands. 

The climb down is as hard as the way up.  The path is a tumble of fist-sized rocks which roll beneath our feet. We gingerly place each pole on the steep decline, and try not to slip, each step smacking our tender toes.

We have just a few kilometers to our next lodging, the aptly named Refugio del Perdon. After presenting our dusty, stinking selves at reception, we are soon whisked away in a small SUV to a new apartment block just up the hill.  In the door, our young host shows us around.  Here is the fully equlped communal kitchen, here the attached eating and sitting room, beyond is an enclosed back yard.  Up a couple of flights of stairs, here is our room: Queen bed, wooden furniture, a loveseat and coffee table, a big bathroom with whirlpool bath, shower, bidet, and toilet.  Out on our private balcony, the  reds and golds of a desert twilight begin to glow.

After washing ourselves and our clothes, we walk back down to the inn for our dinner. We share a table with three Norwegian women and two American women from Tucson, Arizona. The Arizonans have just completed their first day and are a bit shell shocked by the heat and the difficulty.  The Norwegians are on holiday, eating, drinking and walking sans backpacks from Roncesvalles to Logroño. 

The food is simple but good, the wine exceptional, and the conversation stellar.  We laugh and talk about work and life and politics until all the other tables are cleared and the staff is standing there, rag in hand, staring at us. We take the hint, and go our separate ways.

Back at our deluxe accommodations, we have to laugh at the yin and yang of our lodging adventures.  Who knows what tomorrow will bring.  Lo veria.  We'll see.
                                                                                            

Pamplona Riverwalk with stork nest and community gardens

A Jumble

September 20, 2016: Najera, Rioja, Spain

The first few days on the trail are a blur of steep ups and downs, interactions with “peregrinos” (pilgrims) of all ages, types, and ethnicities…  the dislocations of adjusting to Spanish language and culture…and of course, physical exhaustion.

Our first clue we have entered some other reality happens in the little town of Viskarret. After our climb over the Pyrenees, we could only make 6 miles the next day. We ended up staying at a posada (inn) notable for a few things: shutting down the electricity at 10 PM (too bad for people who need to get up in the night), and intense conversations with the British, Canadian, American, and Austrian guests around this high-priced communal dinner table.

Earlier in the day, we discovered that the Brits who commented on my socks are in fact, Scottish and more than a little dotty.  They are here in their motorhome, driving to various locations on the trail to offer advice,  tell stories, hand out yellow and blue yarn flowers, and parade their fat little Jack Russell about.  This is their twelfth or fourteenth trip to the trail.

We also learn that many people walk a short distance, don’t carry their luggage and feel no compunction to get to Santiago de Compostela.      We also witness a rather heated political discussion with the London Sunday Times reporter, his sister from Canada,  and American from California, and the 2 dotty Scottish. 

When the conversation turns to Brexit and the Times reporter makes sure we know he has spoken to all the key players in the recent events. It wasn’t long before the topic was Donald Trump and his bigotry and shortly thereafter, Maggie Thatcher and her bigotry.

The Canadian sister makes a case about Maggie’s support of white supremacy. The dotty Scottish either do not hear or  understand her point,  and make a full throated statement of support of Margaret Thatcher.   To the Californian and Canadian sister’s ears, it sounds like they are in support of white supremacy.

Jim the Californian slams down his unfinished beer, stands up, and pronounces,  “I didn’t come all this way to hear this,” then leaves. The Canadian sister churns in her seat. When the Scots try to explain themselves, they only make it worse by saying,  “I’m not a racist. We have a black deacon in our church.” The wife thinks she is helping when she say, “We have a black friend and he’s a grand fellow.” It’s clear they don’t know the difference between white separatists, white supremacists, and racists.

After a bit more of this, the Canadian sister leaves, disgusted. The journalist then interrogates the poor, dotty Scots who haven’t the intellect, language, or skills not to be skewered time and again by the cynical Londoner. “Do you mean that you thought Maggie’s policies benefited the lower class people? How do you account for the increase in unemployment?” To which they reply, “We liked her, she brought back strength to our country when we needed it.” He asks, “How do you account for the Falklands War?” It was like watching a cat knock about a flustered and increasingly frightened mouse.

Later that night, the journalist entertains the whole table with a long story of his uncomfortable night sleeping in a bunk bed in the massive dormitories of Roncesvalles. He is witty and well spoken… and used to being the center of attention. But he is also plainly unnerved by the Camino experience. He is furious the next morning that the electricity was out. He is angry butter is not served with the bread and the scanty breakfast is so expensive. His sister will not walk that day, overdone by the trip over the summit. He sets out alone, a beginning hiker with almost no Spanish and little tolerance for difference and ambiguity. Wes and I bet he won’t make the full week he has set aside for this walk.

After our short day, we decide we better have a full day. Because we are not feeling so great, we decide to send our bags ahead to our next lodging. We pull out a few things from our packs and place them in small carry sacks.   It is a joy to make the steep ups and downs without the 20 extra pounds on our backs.

We are jaunting along.  I am moving somewhat faster than Wes, and waiting across the highway when a car pulls up.  A young Spaniard /Basque, his girlfriend, and his parents jump out of the car, and pull Wes over to ask him why he is walking the Camino.  Wes relays that he doesn't know, but that something spiritual is calling him.  The group ends up interviewing him on a small camera and by the time he re-joins me, he is crying.  I try to determine why, but all he can muster is that is made him think about the enormity of our undertaking.

The trail is full of pilgrims —on bikes and walking.  They range from 3 young Spaniards who make a sport of throwing rocks at trees to an elderly British woman with painfully swollen legs, hobbling up the steep hills, a small open umbrella attached to her pack and bobbing with each step.  Her companion is murmuring constant encouragement.  

When I pass two young American women, who have stopped to tend sore feet, I hear one say, “OMG, I can’t believe it.  This is only the 2nd day!”  Later, they pass me by, in intense conversation about a Danish fellow they had met in the dorms.

By the time we get to the little town of Zubiri, it is full of pilgrims on this hot fall day.  It is also clear, we have made two significant mistakes.  When putting together the light pack, I have brought neither my Camelback water bladder, nor any way to deal with pain. 

I grow increasingly thirsty after a big climb.   I am happy to join the throng of pilgrims visiting a food truck strategically placed at the top of the hill.  I order a juice and get some fruit, and am trying to recover my equilibrium, when I am enthusiastically greeted by none other than the dotty Scottish.  They mournfully tell me they won’t see me any more because they are now going over to the other big mountains on the trail…to offer their brand of comfort and encouragement, I suppose.

The walk into Zubiri includes a drop of 300 meters in just few kilometers.   I try to “walk slalom” down the hills, but my injured toe is banging against my boot, and every step is a searing throb.  My “medicine chest” is back with the backpacks, so there's no way to arrest or mediate the pain.

When I get to Zubiri, I have to walk to the far side of town to the town’s one “farmacia”— the only place one can buy ordinary drugs like ibuprofen.
When we sit down to lunch after my pain pill detour, we realize we have made another, even worse mistake. 

Our lodging is still more than 8 miles away!  I had had a great deal of trouble finding lodging the previous night.  I finally found one in a town called Uharte, which was far, but seemingly not too far, if we aren’t carrying our packs.

However…

I had misread the map and miscalculated the distance by 5 miles… creating a walk with a total distance of 16 miles.  With my throbbing toe, we would have happily called a stop at Zubiri, but we couldn’t.  Our bags are on their way to Uharte.  We have to get there….somehow.

When most sensible Spaniards and pilgrims are taking their siesta in the hot afternoon sun,  Wes and I are walking down a treeless trail, next to a massive manganese mine, going through his one bottle of water at an alarming rate.  We are about to clear the mine tailings when we hear a voice from behind call out, “Are you from Michigan?” This was startling until I remember that I am walking advertisement for UM School of Social Work.  I am wearing a maize and blue string pack emblazoned with a big block M, a remnant of hosting social work interns at Matrix.

Diane is an American now living in South Carolina, but whose husband is from Gaylord, Michigan.  She is traveling alone, on the 2nd day of her hike.  We are on the 4th day of ours, even though we had all started at St. Jean Pied-de-Port.  She is walking fast and light, but getting tired, and glad for some English conversation.  We walk together for a while, but she soon finds our pace too slow and is soon out of sight.  In the meantime, we cross and are crossed by a small group of young looking Asian woman, traveling with an slightly older Asian man.

At the town of Larrasoaña, it is already starting to
be late afternoon and we still have 4-5 miles to our lodging.  We are beat and will never make it.  Perhaps we can find public transportation or take a cab.

Once in town, there are distressed pilgrims walking up and down the streets.  Most  of the bars and cafes are closed and all of the lodging, albergues, and hostels are full.  Before long, we spot the reason.  The town is hosting its annual fiesta.  Hundreds are seated at long tables under a big white tent. 

Larrasoaña is a quaint medieval town in a cool mountain glen.  Many of its stone cottages are 2nd home for people living in nearby Pamplona.  Cars line the 12 foot streets, and more villagers, relatives, and part timers are arriving by the second.

After wandering the town and realizing there is no option but a taxi, we start trying to figure out how and where to get a cab in this country town. We are hot, tired, and worried. As I sit there, messing with my phone, a small car with 3 young people finds a place to park just in front of us. 

Wes jumps up, runs over to them and says “Taxi?” Then signals making a call.  Without any more  interchange, the driver pulls out his phone, calls a cab, and tells us in broken English a cab will pick us here by the church in about 15 minutes.  We are stunned and grateful.  Our benefactors are gone in a moment.

While we wait for the taxi, we see Diane again, moving with a group of 10-15 pilgrims, none of whom has any place to stay.  We tell her about our choice to take a cab, but she says no.  She clearly thinks we’re cheating.

Well, maybe we are, but we are glad to.  We never could have made it to our hotel, which as it turns out, is a wonderfully put-together and run old-world hotel on the outskirts of Pamplona, right beside the cool lush banks of the Arga River.

In our room, we collapse on the bed, take cool cloths to our faces, take long, cool showers, change into our “evening clothes,” and happily drink the complementary juices.  An hour ago, we were in a mess.  But once again, guardian angels/kind people/Wes’ impetuosity /dumb luck has seen us through. 

With the sunrise tomorrow, we will walk into Pamplona and leave the Pyrenees' part of our journey.  As per usual, the trip is taking us.

You is Here

September 9th, 2017: Burguete, Spain

We made it over the top last night. By the time we crawled into the Hotel Loizu in Burguete, we were beat. We had come 12 miles and we were aching and sore all over our bodies.

Yesterday, we spent a lovely night in a fully a furnished apartment in Valcarlos, Spain.. We made a cheap, but effective dinner, which required a visit  to 3 stores in 2 walks up the hill.

The apartment had a washer and a coffee maker, both of which seemed incredibly luxurious. So we washed our clothes the European way, which takes a full hour for each load, while we make several cups coffee in a tiny espresso maker.  We flavor the coffee with thick, sweetened evaporated milk from a tube.

Afterwards, put our clothes out to dry in the blaring heat. (on thoughtfully provided drying racks) while we drink our delicious coffee in a tiny back courtyard defined by a 20 foot stone cliff and the gray walls of the apartment. A metal spike fence separates each apartment’s courtyard and makes the scene look like a prison yard. However, it was about 20 degrees cooler than the front terrace where we were our clothes were drying, so we didn't mind the austere greyness.

The next morning,

Wes and I are awake before 6, planning to get started before the traffic does, as part of the day will be walking on a curving, climbing, shoulderless road.

We don’t make it out until 7:30 AM, just as the sun... if there were sun... was peeking over the steep canyon walls. Instead, it is misty and a bit foggy.  We are grateful to be wearing lights. Wes is wearing a mini lantern on the back of his backpack and I have rigged up a pin headlight on the front of my shirt.  The barrelling lorries and cars see our lights in the mist and slow down.

Just before we turn to take a forest track, we come across two Americans, from South Carolina, Steve and Alice. They had missed the turn to the side track yesterday and so had mostly walked on the road to this point.  They are about our age and laugh when we commiserate about the 60 year old pace.  But they also do not seem like experienced outdoor people or travelers. Steve has his enormous pack off and is rooting through it to find the guidebook instead of keeping it ready reach in one of the pack’s exterior pockets.

Our goal for the day is clearing the Ipañeta pass, which will bring us to the south side of the Pyrenees. We are glad to leave the highway, which has grown increasingly busy as the day progressed.  It is unnerving to walk on the shoulderless road, where one side is a guardrail over a cliff and the other side abuts a mountain wall.

We enjoy ourselves on the forest track, where ferns and stinging nettle abound. The trees are a mix of beech,  sycamore, and something like an alder. We walk past many ancient farm buildings,  made of stone and roofed with mossy orange tiles.  They perch in little openings on the canyon floor and often climb to 3 or 4 stories. On some, we can see that the older stone has been covered with a white lime plaster.

The designs of these white houses are far more variable than those in the Loire Valley, where square houses and hip roofs dominate. These houses seemed to have begun on the  chalet model, one or two stories with a center front entrance under steep eaves.  But over time, they twist this way or that, add dormers, extensions, floors, and additions following the lay of the land and the whim of the owner.

Our ever climbing path wanders in and out of the farmsteads and compounds. Sometimes we are on a wide path beside a creek. Other times, we make our way up a single track on a narrow and steep path where I must warn Wes about overhanging, face-slapping stinging nettle.

By 11am or so we leave our little stream, and enter the pass region of the hike. We are following a line of high tension power poles, on a rough track that grows increasingly steep and rocky. I am very grateful for stick I found to supplement my single trekking pole. Very often, I need four limbs on this rough and treacherous terrain.

We are panting, heaving wrecks, about to enter the steepest in remote part of this hike. I am waiting for Wes puffing his way up the hill, when two Francais come jaunting by in sneakers, and the lightest of day packs. She is about 45; her pendulous breasts are swing braless under a light T shirt. The young man, probably her son, has a significant pronation on his left foot, so much so, it looks like his ankle nearly reaches the ground with each step of his wet tennis shoe. They trill a cheery “Ca va?” at us, and are soon out of sight.

No one could accuse us of jaunting up the path, but we make steady progress, although our too scanty breakfast is long gone and we are getting low on water.

The last few kilometres to the top are a real grind, made more challenging by the misty rain turning to light,  then not-so-light rain. I insist we cover our packs with their protective rain cover. Wes doesn’t want to make the effort. It takes me a few seconds to cover his, but when Wes fumbles to remove the cover, but when Wes fumbles to remove the cover from its pocket at the bottom of my pack, I holler, “Do have to take this pack off and do it myself?” Thank goodness,  Wes does not return fire and soon this hunger and exhaustion fueled snappishness slips into the mist.

We are glad to make it to the 1055 meter summit, but the view is just a few 100 feet. The ancient stone chapel looms in the mist and nothing tells us to stick around.  A skinny Spaniard in a short poncho appears in the mist, and almost starts walking back down the mountain until we shout him back on course.

Once again, we are glad we did not take the upper route, whose chief virtue is panoramic views and whose is chief vice is a steep 500 meter descent.  As it is, each step of the descent hurts. 

At the sight of the ancient monastery, now pilgrim haven at Roncesvalles, my heart leaps. When I see its square tower and long dormitories,  I start looking forward to some coffee and real food.  The handful of raspberries plucked along the way were helpful but not sufficient.

When we land at the pilgrim office, we are suddenly in a sea of soggy backpack wearing…or shedding... travelers. A big group huddles on a bench in the corridor, eating sandwiches and apples. More than a few have the same hollow-eyed look of exhaustion we do.

There is a big circle of pilgrims lining a tall table in the pilgrims' office.  I move to an open spot where I am informed in curt Spanish by a sweet faced 20 year old woman, “This is a line and I have just cut in place.” It takes me a moment to process what she saying and ask her in French,  “Where is the end of the line?” About 20 pilgrims back. I don't have the mental or language capacity to explain that all I want is the pilgrim stamp, while most people are trying to arrange lodging and breakfast in the vast dormitories.

One hale and hearty Spanish woman is managing the whole affair in bad English, moderate French, and rapid fire Spanish.  One big, young, damp American asks for lodging in careful Spanish and stands blinking and shocked at the torrent she returns in response. He then begs, “mas despacio, por favor” (more slowly, please).

I wait and wait. Wes comes in several times to see what on earth is going on. The line begins to snake out the door.  At last the volunteer calls out, “No dormir?” I wave my pilgrim passport in the air…it  seems I am the only one in this giant line not seeking lodging.

She moves me to the front of the line, stamps my passport in one second. Then we are gone, across the courtyard and straight into a bus load of elderly Spanish tourists huddling under umbrellas in their straight skirts, neat trousers and sensible shoes.

The rain increases along with our need for some food. We find an open restaurant/bar. The bar is jammed, but the dining room is nearly empty. We take seats to discover all they are serving is a 3 course meal with bread, wine, and water...
€18 each. Eeek. Oh, well, better that than a cold sandwich and beer for 10 euros.

The food is delicious. I have lentil soup with sausage and peppers, trout and flan, while Wes revels in his fruit and cheese salad, stuffed pepper, and chocolate gateau. We drink a whole bottle of wine, fuss over our lodging arrangements for the night and meet a threesome sitting next to us speaking flat Midwestern English.

He looks like he walked, but the 2 women are much too pristine to have braved the rainy trails. When we announce we are from, they say they are from London, Ontario. We say we met another group from London, Ontario, staying at the same apartment complex we were. The champagne blonde on the left starts, then stares, then says, “That was us!” 

Neither group recognized each other out of context. We visit a bit. They will stay in the town just beyond where we will, but I have a feeling we’ll be seeing them again...

Just outside the restaurant, Wes talks to a couple of Brits in ponchos and their fat little Jack Russell terrier, who is sporting a Camino seashell on his collar. Wes asks if the dog is walking.  He isn’t…too old at 14 years, but they’re all back again after many trips to the trail.

They correct Wes on his pronunciation of "Buen Camino" and teasingly point out that one of my pant legs is up and the other down. The wife says, "Well, it’s just to show that her pink socks match her pink blouse, isn’t it?”

The path to our lodging is flat and lovely, through a thick forest once noted as a haven for witches…(as the Inquisition would have history believe, more likely non compliant Basque women, I sniff to Wes.)

We stop to read the town’s signmap, which proclaims in English. “You is here.” and we surely are. We make our way through this charming Basque town where Hemingway spent so much time, and find our lovely hotel.  It takes seconds to shed our wet clothes and heavy boots. In minutes. I am soaking, then snoring, in the deep cast iron tub.

After muscle rubs, healing ointments, and ibuprofen, we snuggle into comfortable but adjacent twin beds. We are glad to be over the mountain and truly started on our pilgrim journey.

The Road Less Traveled

September 7, 2016: Arneguy, France.

We are in a nice room in the Hotel Clementenia, just a few feet from the Spanish border.  We walked 12 kilometers through back country fields and farms  to this sleepy little town.  We definitely took the road less traveled.

The night before, we stayed at Le Coquille Napoleon. Although I think we paid too much for a simple room, we delighted in the sense of life at the small compound created by the weathers Basque Jean Michel and his much younger, sprightly English wife, Lorna. With two Chihuahuas, Momma who barked and baby who cringed, two rambunctious spring kittens who charged and tumbled around the yard after three year old Anton.  Half-wild, shirtless and shoeless, and speaking a conglomeration of French, Spanish, English and Basque, this is sandy haired toddler is as free and loved as possible.

The menagerie was extended by a bright green parrot who alternately disappeared into the top tree branches, or flew long forays around the countryside or decided to periodically makes himself visible to the crowd by preening on the deck or in the low branches.  His bright orange undermarkings suddenly render him visible.

There are 2 speckled small chickens and a rooster. The gray kitten likes to worry one of the hens, making her run and squawk like a hassled housewife trying to dash across the street before the light changes.

Inside the living room, we see a large aquarium. The next morning. we see the farm’s two burrows, mama and colt, at the fence looking for their breakfast. Before long, they move to the far end  of the pasture to disappear once more in the bushes.

At 7 AM sharp, the speckled rooster begins crowing as predicted by Jean Michelle. For some reason. I laugh as both humans and a few previously unseen black chickens come to the center yard on command.

The breakfast is a quick and fairly silent affair, in stark contrast to the clangorous and languorous gathering of the night before, with 15 people gathered around the large table on the deck, jabbering in a mix of German, French, Spanish and English.  The two French women, who earlier in the afternoon, spent hours in intense conversation with the other young French couple about the price of food and equipment, but who would barely speak to us, twit and giggle in rotten English with the single American male who showed up right before dinner.

He is even more monolingual then we are. A tall blonde from LA, he is just as enamored with the French flirts as they are with him.  Hector, a young Valencian in full football jersey and shorts, was greatly relieved when a portly Spanish man with the big voice and matching belly, showed up at the compound.  The have an intense conversation, with occasional translations for the Frenchwoman and American man making goo-goo eyes at each other.  

Four Germen men,  accompanied by one German woman and one Dutch woman are seated right by us.  An open faced blonde,  the Dutch woman has the best English of the crowd and she is good about engaging us in conversation. 

At breakfast, we watched  a constant stream of pilgrims plugging their way up the steep hill next to La Coquille Napoleon.   Wes and I nurse coffee yogurt and bread, (hardly worth the €7 price), and marvel at the range of  backpackers going by.

Most of our group has gone, including the hard- drinking and smoking Austrian, who left at 6:00 am.  The next to go are the chittering French women, only carrying a belly bag and small day pack.  The German group is next, hefting new backpacks on their middle aged bodies, followed by the slender young French couple who slept outside on the ground, didn't eat dinner with us, and who completed several rounds of salutes to the sun before hoisting their  massive bags on their backs.

We are the last to leave.  As we say goodbye to Lorna and John Michel, Lorna tells us. “For some people, the Camino is just a 500 mile pub crawl”.  It is is easy to see how the experience could easily become a walk between convivial and well-lubricated conversations with strangers.

Because we have decided to the take the “low way,” with a stop half way up the mountain, instead of trying to make 26 kilometers and a giant pass on the first day, we are going down the hill many hikers are going up.  We encounter a stream of older Brits whose bags must have been sent on as they are only  carrying water and the lightest bags.

As we make our way down to 30 degree hill, which is the first rough ascent from Saint Jean, we see people as anxious and worried as we were yesterday at the same point.  The faces say, ”Do I really have the strength to do this?”

We begin telling the sweating walkers what our landlord Jean Michel said to us, “That is the single steepest hill of the whole trip.” We encounter two elderly Brits, one of whom was sporting a jaunty safari cap, but who was already straining and bright red in the face.  His face positively lightened and refaxed at our words.   He was confident he could make it up this hill at least. 

An overweight strawberry blonde woman with an enormous backpack was lolling around a route marker decorated with a makeshift cross, then found her way over to visit with a Palomino pony. As we arrive to provide the encouraging words about the hill, she is saying to the horse in American English. “You can’t have my apple; that’s my lunch.” The horse’s sensitive lips are feeling all about her hands, disregarding her words.  Surely,  she had just given him something.  We give her our landlord’s advice and she responds, “Oh, you have made my day. I was afraid it was going to all be like this!”

We leave the masses to sweat over the big hill and make our way along a burbling creek, and through farm fields  where we attempt to have conversations with the resident cows, sheep, and horses. They are bored with pilgrims…or don’t understand English moos and baas...and don’t even look up as we go by.

We are proud of ourselves for making this choice. We have made the first day error over and over on previous trips and have regretted it every time.  We have paid for our enthusiasm and foolishness with injuries and horrible first weeks, as our bodies tried to acclimate to daily hard use.

We know we haven’t walked any up any big hills living in Detroit.  We know our training has not included much time  carrying heavy packs. In fact, our training has had very little weighted walking at all.    So once again, we must train as we go.

How many of those pushing up the mountain will regret their first day blisters, and sore muscles, for  the first quarter of their trip?

We remind ourselves, the goal is to get to the end—and let each day grow in meaning, and distance as we grow in both physical and spiritual strength and are ready to receive it. This is a hard lesson to learn. We will find out if we have in fact learned it.

the mountains ahead...

So Far and Yet So Close

September 4, 2015: Bayonne, France

We are in a small room on the 4th floor of a pension in the old elegant section of this very old town.  We arrived this morning after a semi-restful overnight train from Paris.  After three attempts, I was able to get our 2nd class reservations to 1st class (one of the unexpected benefits of our Eurail pass).  Had we been consigned to 2nd class,  we would have been sleeping in an extended seat in a compartment with 6 other people, where we would get very little rest.  (but more than on Amtrak’s barely reclining seats.)

In first class, we had the two top bunks in four bunk compartment.  We got some sleep, but I was bothered by the presence of an older French man sleeping in the lower bunk.  There was no problem other than our complete inability to communicate.  He spoke a dialect of French almost completely incomprehensible to me ( I think I made out “Bon jour, madame” and “Dix” the word for 10). And he understood not one word of our English or my fractured French.

The truth is that I was extremely self-conscious and awkward. This does not bode well for staying in the dormitories of the Camino.  I will have to find a strategy for undressing and for being comfortable in an environment of strangers.  We will be finding out soon enough,  I guess.

It is hard to believe we are this close to the trip now.  I was excited last night as we waited in the run-down and sparse Paris’ Gare Austerlitz to see at least 4 other pilgrims waiting for the same train.  One older woman with steel grey hair, sensible hair cut, and short sleeve plaid shirt wore a big brown back-pack adorned with the mussel shell of the Camino.  I visit with a Brit from London, a short-haired slender man who told me he bought two train fares from London because he was worried a bout having enough time to transfer between stations (gares).  “I was so anxious that I needed two hours between connections, I went ahead a bought another ticket after they wouldn’t change the first.  As it turned out, it was a waste of 45 pounds, because I have plenty of time.  I was just too worried.”We see him the next morning as we are leaving the train.  He had spent a rough night with very little sleep in the 6 person compartment, where “you couldn’t move without  touching another person.”

We were in need of a cup of coffee, so make our way to a lovely, low-end tabac not far from the station.  At first, we sit outside next to a thin, drawn woman nursing  a small cup of coffee while a tiny, cowed long hair Chihuahua stared at her nervously.  However, she, and everyone else outside, is smoking, and the wind is blowing the fumes in our face, so we move inside.
The first man I see while ordering looks utterly stricken, looking up at me with red and rheumy eyes as he nurses his first shaky drink of the morning.  He is 55, heavy in belly, cheeks, and jowls, and looks all the world like a grief stricken postal inspector.

Across the room, a jocular man with a long Gallic nose is trying to make the table laugh.  The tiny woman to his left is having none of it, though the two man opposite them break out in occasional raucous laughter.  She sits straight as a stick, arms crossed over her belly, her chopped hair, mismatched skirt and blouse ( flowers up top, plaid below) and tight lips conveying “I wish I was anywhere but here.”. Another lively conversation is occurring in the corner.

Wes likes the energy and is relieved to speak in something close to his normal volume, after all the whispers and murmurs expected and practiced on French transportation.   We drink small, strong cups of coffee flavored with tiny sugar cubes, surprised at ourselves because we never add sugar to our coffee at home. But here, it somehow completes the taste.  Wanting another cup, Wes goes to the counter to order another from Bernadetta, the thin, hard featured, black haired waitress wearing skin tight pants and grey suede demi boots with 3 inch heels.  When she brings the coffee and Wes attempts a mispronounced “merci beaucoup,” which I correct, she pats him on the arm and says, “Parfait.”   We are charmed.

About that time, the drawn smoker comes in to use the restroom, followed by the nervous Chihuahua.  The mud grey pup stays right at her feet, tail between his legs, and goes both in and out of the bathroom with her.

As we leave the café, we spot the anxious Englishman pacing back and forth in front of the train station. He told me that there was a train to Saint Jean with no attempt at the French pronunciation at 2:55pm and was surprised to learn there was a bus as well.  I try to capture his eye to what arrangements he had made, but his pre-occupation and determined walk render us invisible.

At the pension, we are first greeted by two small spaniels.  The black lets us touch him while he circles us warily, but the white and ginger cowers in his usual spot.  Soon the landlord, a remarkably handsome young man with bright hazel eyes and chiseled chin, arrives.  Between his broken English and my lousy French, we determine to leave our bags until we can check in a 1pm.  Foolishly, I ask the dogs’ name, but not his.

Out on the Rue Port Neuf, it is a sleepy Sunday morning.  Nearly all the shops and cafes are closed.  We find an open boulangerie with nice looking quiches and croissants, but cheap out and buy the croque-monsieur.  They’re pretty awful.  On hard, stale white bread with tasteless barely re-heated cheese and some sort of gloopy mayonnaise spread, Wes immediately chokes on his first bite.  He hacks his way up the street, trying to clear the noxious piece stuck in his windpipe.

We come to the Cathedral just as mass is ending.  As we circle around to the front entrance, two beggars confront us.  One, a youngish man in a baseball cap, accompanied by two bulky, sprawling, well-fed mutts, thrusts a yellow plastic cup at us.  Another, somewhat older with dark hair approaching a monk’s tonsure, holds out a metal cup and asks us in barely recognizable English, “Going to mass?”

We wander in the church and are struck by its air of solemn sanctity (so different from the tourist exploitation of Chartres) and it's “Accuiel de Pelegrinos,” (helpdesk for pilgrims).  As we peer into a small, wood paneled chapel, an older woman with badly dyed blonde hair the texture of cotton candy begins shouting at a man in the chapel.  He leaves the chapel, as do we. She then follows him out of the church, yelling in high pitched French I don’t understand.  She continues shouting for some time at the entrance of the cathedral, her voice amplified to the neighborhood because of the typanic structure of the arches.

We want to go to the next mass at 11:30, so decide to wait in the adjacent leafy cloisters.  While we amuse ourselves feeding bits of peanut butter to a small blackbird, the blonde woman continues to yell.  At one point, she marches through the cloisters, still ranting at the top of her voice.  We put our heads down and hope we don’t capture her attention.  Eventually, she returns to the church entrance, and after some conversation with the two beggars, quiets down.

The wait in the cloisters grows too long, so we wander the battlements of the ancient town, looking down into the empty moat and another wall beyond.  Wes wonders if these were another design by Vaubon, introduced to us by Klaus as the military architect who created the defensive bulwark  at the top of Freiburg.  A few minutes later, when we stop to read about an unusual stone tower abutting a rough stone wall, we discover that the tower had been built by Roman soldiers in the 1st century, and yes, indeed, the double wall battlements were created by the ubiquitous Monsieur Vaubon.  This small city on the frontier with Spain has been at the center of innumerable disputes for millenia.

We return to the Cathedral, give some small change to the waiting beggars, and see that the blonde woman is now vigorously sweeping the entrance while maintaining a constant flow of verbiage.  The mass itself in in French and Latin, conducted by a pudgy African priest who spoke slow, careful, strongly accented French.   I could follow what he was saying, but could not comprehend a word from the mouth of his pale skinned and grey haired deacon.  I found myself watching the acolytes.  Two tall thin, dark skinned boys, whose thick curly hair was not picked, pressed, or shaped were accompanied by a young boy of about 11 who may have been at the altar for the first time, so often was he directed and corrected by the deacon.  The teenagers, by contrast, were stately, elegant, and handsome, providing the candles, platin, wine and hosts at the very moment the priest needed them.

The music was a compelling mix of pop, Latin, and traditional church songs played on a 100 pipe organ and sung by a curly haired, long nosed, clear-voiced young soprano wearing a jaunty sailors’ stripe shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers.  In the service and songs, the name of the messiah is rendered “SheZuh”.

After our surprisingly satisfying mass, we make our way around town, stopping for snacks and water, then eventually dinner and wine, managing to communicate in some atrocity of French, Spanish, and English.  Wes reads the Camino de Santiago guidebook, and I am pleased I am able to successfully edit my manuscript on my phone and keyboard whiling away the hours at the Café du Theatre at water’s edge.

Back in our room, we sleep for few hours, then wake to watch the “exciting conclusion” of the Star Trek prequel—in English—savoring the encounter between Zachary Quinto and Leonard Nimoy, before laughing uproariously at the stupid English practical joke show, Just for Laughs.

It is quiet now.  All sounds of our neighbors’ lives—their nose blowing and dish washing and raucous discussion of sports—filtering up through the courtyards abutting our hall and bathroom windows, have abated.  Wes snores smoothly next to me.  The small fan placed by door of our nearly breathless room putters on.  I will turn off the lights in this orange striped room and try to make my way to sleep.  Tomorrow, we go St. Jean Pied de Port, get out pilgrim credentials, and begin the next phase of this adventure.