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.
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Up the hill in the heat, Pamplona in the distance
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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.
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Pamplona Riverwalk with stork nest and community gardens
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