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.
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| the mountains ahead... |
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