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,
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.
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