2. Starting out
It is 8:00 am on a cool crisp morning with the promise of soft warming sunshine later in the day. I find myself sat outside Christ Church Southwark, home to the Confraternity of St James, writing my first camino journal entry in a notebook I soon realise is too small.
The Confraternity of St James is a fitting start to my pilgrimage to Santiago where I will encounter St James the apostle in both statue and relic form at the cathedral in the city of Santiago de Compostela in north west Spain. Little did I know when I started this journey that St James took on different forms or personas. The only one I knew of was the one taught at Sunday school, that of an apostle. As an apostle St James had preached in north west Spain for a short period before returning home, martyred by Herod, then his remains returned to Spain. When his remains where lost then re-discovered in the eight century, the door was open for people to make a pilgrimage to his resting place. This in turn gave rise to the persona of St James as a pilgrim himself, which is perhaps a natural extension. Though it might be tempting to ridicule the notion of St James undertaking a pilgrimage to himself, I was to discover later that many pilgrims, though walking to Santiago, were in many ways walking to themselves on a road of discovery and healing. I would later see the poster version of this in the municipal (state run) albergue at Azofra with the headline "A 500 mile journey to yourself". As Azofra is normally the ninth day for a typical pilgrim when aching legs, sore feet and blisters have all revealed themselves, it makes for a timely message. The third incarnation of St James arrives later, when the Spanish were trying to rid themselves of the Moors, and the image of St James as the Moor slayer was born with him riding across the sky on a white charger helping to rally the Spanish forces and push back the Moors. So, with the magic number three we see St James as apostle, pilgrim and Moor slayer.
Though I did not fully appreciate it when sat outside the Confraternity of St James in London, when walking the camino you are a pilgrim, on a pilgrimage, whether you want to be or not. It is imposed by fellow walkers on the way, by the local people and explicitly prescribed by the authorities. To stay in any of the state or association run pilgrim albergues you need a pilgrim passport called a credential. This is a folded card issued by the church at various outlets. I had obtained mine from the Confraternity of St James in London though the pilgrim office in St Jean Pied de Port issue them as do many other places on the way. This passport is stamped along the route when presented at cafes, churches and albergues and is the evidence that you meet the criteria to be issued a compostela, the certificate of completion.
Explaining why I was walking the camino had been an onerous task for me as I received a range of feedback and questions and found myself having to construct a range of responses for the different lines of enquiry, tailored to the person I was speaking to. This was not helped by my own lack of awareness of what I was embarking on. There was certainly a range. The few who dislike walking would reason 'Why would anyone want to walk five hundred miles?'. Well, I happen to enjoy walking, period. 'So you're doing the camino, are you a Catholic then?'. No, but the camino is both ecumenical and open to non-Christians. Everyone can be a card holding pilgrim and stay at pilgrim albergues though you do need to declare that you are a christian and have walked the last hundred kilometres to be awarded the compostela certificate. If cycling then the last two hundred kilometres is the required physical challenge.
I had met an old school friend two weeks before my departure. He understood the camino, and appeared to know instinctively that probing for my motives may not be fruitful. As a result he simply asked me to carry a prayer from him to St James which of course I was happy to do. He is a smart and thoughtful person and in making this small request had given me additional purpose to add to the meaning of my walk. He also gave me a certain responsibility to reach the city of Santiago de Compostela and St James himself. If I did not reach Santiago I will have failed in some small way.
Sitting and observing the noise and hustle of central London as it wakes up, it feels good not to be one of the many pedestrians beetling their way to work and I already get a sense of disconnection from the real world of working London. A world I was once part of. My mood is further improved as I take the train to the airport. I am facing backwards and see the present day skyline of central London forming as we leave the station, then that skyline very gradually slipping away as the train slides on to the green fields of Surrey and to Gatwick airport.
In the medieval period the camino was very popular and following a deep lull, its popularity is on the rise once again reaching again the numbers of the medieval period. I was aware that I was cheating in adopting forms of motorised transport not available to pilgrims of the past. Traditionally people would walk from their home and over time would converge on the main routes to get to Santiago following roman roads, trading routes or droving paths. Though starting alone they would often group together for safety on what could be a dangerous road. Much has changed in the ten hundred years the camino has been active. However, as I journey through the airport I start to notice a small convergence of pilgrims. No obvious pilgrims except me at check-in. In the departure lounge I see a couple of wiry Canadians with compact battered rucksacks. They telegraph their place of origin and their destination through the Canadian badge that most Canadians show with pride, and the scallop shell badge bought on an earlier pilgrimage. These were knowledgeable seasoned pilgrims and left me feeling self-conscious in my crisp new regulation walking gear. My rucksack had been checked-in and at the mercy of the airline. I had been pleased to note that at 8.6 kilos (minus food and water) I was travelling light enough if bulky. The Canadian couple have carry-on luggage they could keep close and clearly knew the benefit of travelling super light when you carry all your gear for five hundred miles. Like me, there were other people in walking attire looking slightly out of place among the business people in suits and holiday makers in bright shirts. When the call for the flight to Biarritz was announced the convergence of pilgrims became noticeable. Biarritz was where you flew to if you where starting at St Jean Pied de Port on the Camino Francés, or French Way. I had read that the protocol was to meet and talk to other pilgrims and that starts, it seemed, at the gate before boarding as people start to chat to their neighbours.
As everyone now takes carry-on luggage there is little to unload in the plane's hold and my rucksack is happily waiting for me as I exit passport control in Biarritz. In a practised routine I swing my pack casually over one shoulder as if it were feather light while silently wincing at the thought of lugging my worldly goods across the width of Spain. I follow the flow of pilgrims and jump on the Cronoplus No. 4 bus to Bayonne. It is at this point that I sense the nervous anticipation of people starting out on an unknown voyage. The bus is busy with pilgrims and locals on the thirty minute ride into Bayonne. I look out for the right stop after twenty five minutes. Suddenly I become aware that a local woman is speaking to me in urgent French. 'Are you getting off here?' she says as if for the third time. I had drifted off and was only now aware that most of the rucksack people had gone and the remaining few where just alighting. 'Oh. Oui. Merci!' I gather myself and join the band of pilgrims as they make their way to the nearby rail station with me scheduled to stop off at my hotel. Naturally, I walk half a mile up the road before returning to find my hotel directly opposite the rail station where the map said it would be. This was not camino proper but I had taken a wrong turn four hundred metres into my walk. I wonder for the gazillionth time how the next five hundred miles would go, navigation-wise.
One of the considerations on any camino is choice of accommodation. At the most basic level a small select group of die-hards take a tent, though campsites and allowable wild camping options are few. In the coming weeks I would see one young man packing up his tent at day break and another older couple brewing up outside their woodland campsite waiting for the morning sun to penetrate the tree canopy and dry out their sodden tent. I'd also see people sleeping under a lean-to awning off a small donativo (donation) shack reminiscent of what I imagine you might have seen in 1970s Goa. That was not for me. I needed access to a hot shower and toilet facilities with some modest level of privacy. Some would have hotel or pension accommodation booked. In common with the majority of pilgrims I had opted for albergues for my nightly beauty sleep. From my rather hit and miss camino research I had a sense of what could be described as camino snobbery, and the concept of the authentic pilgrim. The authentic pilgrim stays in albergues, walks the full length of their chosen route, carries all their belongings all the way, joins in communal meals where available, and says 'buen camino' to everyone they pass. It was quite a responsibility. Though I would have some challenging nights in noisy dormitories ahead of me, that one night of solitude in a hotel told me I'd made the right decision in opting for albergues. I have had many nights alone in hotels when attending work conferences and regardless of the quality or character of the hotel I always find them to be grim experiences where you simply feel very alone.
The three minor highlights of the evening in Bayonne consisted of visiting Bayonne Cathedral, eating, and a first encounter. The Cathedral of St Mary of Bayonne sits on the site of an older Romanesque cathedral. Following two fires it had been re-built and extended into its current form which can be described as Gothic in style though quite different to the lightness I would later observe in Léon Cathedral. Like Burgos Cathedral it is hemmed in on all sides so from street level you don't get the best impression of it's overall external architecture. Having satisfied my modest hunger for architecture and my appetite with a takeaway of bread, ham and an apple tart, I sit and enjoy what remained of the day by the river Adour. The Adour is a broad river running through the centre of Bayonne and reminds me of the Vltava in Prague, the Arno in Florence or a smaller version of the Danube in Budapest. With a grey sky overhead and the sun just above the horizon, the Adour on that night is oily, green and not very welcoming. Being a solitary tourist I naturally attract the attention of the local free spirit who talks to me freely in what I assume is regional French. I gather from his general passion and occasional references to 'Pays Basque' that despite being a French speaker he is Basque and very proud of it. I also suspect he likes a glass of wine of two. For his part it takes him a good five minutes to detect my lack of any language skills whatsoever and he moves on to find a new companion for the evening. For my part I make a mental note that I had neglected to dust off the little French I had learnt forty years ago, and used little in the intervening years, though I'd be in Spain soon so what the heck.
It is the morning of the eleventh of September, day one of pilgrimage, and I am up early. The train was not running due to scheduled maintenance and the night before I had used my rudimentary French to find out where to catch the replacement bus service. I get a coffee and croissant and wait outside the rail station as per instruction. Other pilgrims start to congregate and we chat among ourselves in pairs or small groups. Where are you from? Are you walking all the way to Santiago? Is this your first camino? Outside the station is a pedestrian area and there is no obvious place for a bus to stop and pick us up. The group gets restless as time passes and for no particular reason we ignore the given instruction and wander over the road to the nearest bus stop like a group of sheep that have spotted what we think is greener grass. In time, an SNCF official emerges from the station and shepherds us down the road to a waiting bus that spirits us to St Jean Pied de Port. A young Canadian woman sits next to me and chats on and off in a distracted manner. Trekking is popular in Canada and many Canadians and even more Americans come over to walk the camino. It's her first time outside of Canada and she finally confides that she feels permanently lost. I try to provide a re-assuring reply whilst wondering how on earth I was going to find my way to Santiago when I could barely find my hotel in Bayonne. I am pleased to report that I saw her again many weeks later as she arrived in Santiago. At St Jean Pied de Port the pilgrims decant and hurry off to the pilgrim office following those who knew the way. The pilgrim office has four people manning four desks and they provide the credential (pilgrim passport) to those that need one, and the all important first stamp to prove you started at St Jean Pied de Port. The young Canadian woman from the bus is ahead of me and is flustered as neither she nor the attendant have sufficient change to enable the simple transaction. I offer up the required two euros as my good deed for the day, thereby hastening the award of my first stamp, and I finish my pilgrim status triple by picking up one of the scallop shells for a small donation. I silently hope the Canadian is starting to feel that things will work out, and that it does not matter if you feel lost or don't have the right change. Things do work out in the end and tomorrow will be a better day.
With the scallop shell tied to my rucksack I feel I can start the walking section of my adventure and I face the office exit with a sense of determination and direction. The pilgrim office is on a road that runs parallel to the main street in St Jean Pied de Port. I had printed a town map at home in preparation for navigating to the start and those magical yellow arrows. From that map I thought it would be a left turn out of the office and onward to glory. Luckily for me the pilgrim office had clearly seen too many luckless wannabe pilgrims take that first wrong turn and there was a large yellow arrow on the exit door pointing right. I follow the arrow, which was to be the first of many keeping me on the way. As I come out into the street I blink in the early sun and realise that it is already 9:30 am and strictly speaking a little too late to start out on what is the hardest walking day of the whole thirty three day camino. The text book day one is over fifteen miles, which would be modest if it did not include the long climb up to Col de Lepoeder which stands at 1,450 metres. Oh, and the climb starts not much above sea level. Ben Nevis near Fort William in Scotland is the highest of the UK's peaks and it rises to 1,345 metres above sea level. My training had taken me up Scafell Pike, England's highest summit located in the Cumbrian hills rising to 978 metres. I have days to spare and the sensible plan would be to have a relaxing day exploring St Jean Pied de Port and an early start the next day. So naturally, true to my clueless form, I march on following the camino signs, passing the first of many fuente (water fountains) and through the portal that marks the start of the road from St Jean Pied de Port.
After some small uncertainties navigating out of St Jean Pied de Port I am on the open road heading up hill into the Pyrenees. I have started the camino and feel better for it. My nervous energy is channeled to my feet and they do the walking until I am in the open French countryside. A glorious sunny day and after just two miles I feel thirsty enough to trigger the realisation that I had forgotten to fill my water bottles at the fuente and am surviving on that 7:00 am morning cup of coffee. I look back down the hill at St Jean Pied de Port and imagine its shops and cafes brimming with cool, body hydrating mineral water. I look ahead up hill on the country lane I am following and see a mirage. I blink. Ahead of me is what appears to be a large metal case with glass front dispensing drinks, crisps and chocolate bars. I blink again wondering if it is an advertising board. I approach and discover that its not a mirage or a piece of random advertising but a solid vending machine and by supplying the correct change I am rewarded with fizzy pop, one for now and one for later. I am saved and starting to believe in the camino. Starting to trust that everything will be OK. Starting to have some faith that Santiago is achievable even if I don't know what I am doing or where I am going.
After five miles I come to Orisson, a popular albergue that also has a cafe. I chat to someone from Colorado who had been fortunate enough to take time out from family and the family business to walk the full camino. This time I make sure I fill my water bottles at one of the many water fountains (fuente) on the camino. The Camino Francés has fantastic infrastructure and you can walk the full length relying on the water fountains and basic grocery stores. Over the coming days and weeks I would come to realise fully that it has the perfect balance of rural quite walking and availability of facilities such as albergues and cafes. Other routes require a little bit more care in ensuring you have enough food and drink.
In the sunshine the walk over the Pyrenees is stunning. The views magnificent, the weather perfect and I feel truly blessed. Pausing for a rest on a grassy plateau and popular picnic stop, I estimate there is approximately one pilgrim every 50 metres if you spaced them out in a regular fashion and this is mid-September, the shoulder season where you miss the main July and August peak numbers. Though I had strode out of the pilgrim office a pilgrim, today was very much a walk, enjoying the scenery and acclimatising to camino life. It feels more like a hike up Scafell Pike. Walking on I re-fill from the Frontera-Fuente water fountain unaware that I was crossing the border into Spain which lies just before the Col de Bentartea and two thirds of the way to my first intended stop at Roncesvalles.
Anyone who has done any hill walking will know that contrary to normal logic, the downhill section can be as hard as, if not harder than, the ascents. This is especially true when the going is steep so I am relieved that we only descend to 950 metres as we get into Roncesvalles. My relief at reaching the only albergue at Roncesvalles turns to concern as I notice a large number of people sat on the grassy bank outside with their rucksacks. The large hostel is a converted monastery and is very imposing. I enter and am quickly informed that it is full unless I had phoned ahead to book. I did not have a phone and I had not booked. I start to curse my guide book which had suggested there was no need to book and why not go phone free. After one minute of silent cursing I regroup, check my guidebook and strike out for another 2.2 miles to the next village. No space at the inn. Then another 2.4 miles to the next village of Espinal. No space at the published albergue, unless you had phoned ahead perhaps? Talking to people I realise that sensible folk are phoning ahead, getting taxied onward and such like. There were a few B&Bs further along the way then the next hostels were just too far. I had seen a blank nameless house on the way in to the village that somehow felt it might take pity on a lone walker. Don't ask, I know it sounds like an act of desperation. I returned and rang the bell without much hope. I stood and waited wondering what had possessed me to ring the bell at this anonymous house and wondering how I would introduce myself. The camino worked its magic and in five minutes I had paid fifteen euros and was sat on a makeshift bed in the spacious attic next to the clothes drying facilities. The clothes rack was already draped with the days undergarments of those wise pilgrims who had left St Jean Pied to Port on time.
Having summoned up my final reserves of energy, I shower and go in search of food. I find a sign pointing right to a supermarket. Twenty metres on another sign pointing left. Between these signs there is just an anonymous house with no hint of supermarket attributes. Building on my new found confidence I ring the door bell and am greeted by a woman who leads me to the front room, turning on a light to reveal a replica of a 1960s British corner shop and definitely in a good way. I don't even try speaking English and my Spanish language (and pointing) skills get me bread, ham, cheese, a can of beer and something sweet. My luxury item on this trip is a sailing knife sharp enough to cut through wire which I now use to construct something I can eat. Packing light but sufficient is a skill and I mostly got it right. The knife was to become a trusted friend over the next five weeks and I found I could loan it out in the evening to people trying to cut up vegetables with blunt hostel kitchen knives and this would usually get me wine, sweets or conversation in exchange.
It has been a long day and I head back to my room, though I should say bed, as I left the privacy of a private room in Bayonne. Next door in the voluminous attic is a lounge-cum-dining area with an attached kitchenette. I fill water bottles ready for the following day and sit down to reflect on the day and update my journal. It had been a trying end to what had otherwise been a glorious day and it is a comfort that there is someone else in the lounge quietly writing her own journal. I'd seen her earlier at the dining table studying paperwork and given her air of confidence and authority I'd taken her as the manager/owner of the albergue though I now suspected she is on the pilgrim side of the albergue business equation. After a while she says "Bon soir" and leaves. I deduce she is French and make no guess at age as she has an ageless appearance.
Chapter 3. Running with the bulls
The Confraternity of St James is a fitting start to my pilgrimage to Santiago where I will encounter St James the apostle in both statue and relic form at the cathedral in the city of Santiago de Compostela in north west Spain. Little did I know when I started this journey that St James took on different forms or personas. The only one I knew of was the one taught at Sunday school, that of an apostle. As an apostle St James had preached in north west Spain for a short period before returning home, martyred by Herod, then his remains returned to Spain. When his remains where lost then re-discovered in the eight century, the door was open for people to make a pilgrimage to his resting place. This in turn gave rise to the persona of St James as a pilgrim himself, which is perhaps a natural extension. Though it might be tempting to ridicule the notion of St James undertaking a pilgrimage to himself, I was to discover later that many pilgrims, though walking to Santiago, were in many ways walking to themselves on a road of discovery and healing. I would later see the poster version of this in the municipal (state run) albergue at Azofra with the headline "A 500 mile journey to yourself". As Azofra is normally the ninth day for a typical pilgrim when aching legs, sore feet and blisters have all revealed themselves, it makes for a timely message. The third incarnation of St James arrives later, when the Spanish were trying to rid themselves of the Moors, and the image of St James as the Moor slayer was born with him riding across the sky on a white charger helping to rally the Spanish forces and push back the Moors. So, with the magic number three we see St James as apostle, pilgrim and Moor slayer.
Though I did not fully appreciate it when sat outside the Confraternity of St James in London, when walking the camino you are a pilgrim, on a pilgrimage, whether you want to be or not. It is imposed by fellow walkers on the way, by the local people and explicitly prescribed by the authorities. To stay in any of the state or association run pilgrim albergues you need a pilgrim passport called a credential. This is a folded card issued by the church at various outlets. I had obtained mine from the Confraternity of St James in London though the pilgrim office in St Jean Pied de Port issue them as do many other places on the way. This passport is stamped along the route when presented at cafes, churches and albergues and is the evidence that you meet the criteria to be issued a compostela, the certificate of completion.
Explaining why I was walking the camino had been an onerous task for me as I received a range of feedback and questions and found myself having to construct a range of responses for the different lines of enquiry, tailored to the person I was speaking to. This was not helped by my own lack of awareness of what I was embarking on. There was certainly a range. The few who dislike walking would reason 'Why would anyone want to walk five hundred miles?'. Well, I happen to enjoy walking, period. 'So you're doing the camino, are you a Catholic then?'. No, but the camino is both ecumenical and open to non-Christians. Everyone can be a card holding pilgrim and stay at pilgrim albergues though you do need to declare that you are a christian and have walked the last hundred kilometres to be awarded the compostela certificate. If cycling then the last two hundred kilometres is the required physical challenge.
I had met an old school friend two weeks before my departure. He understood the camino, and appeared to know instinctively that probing for my motives may not be fruitful. As a result he simply asked me to carry a prayer from him to St James which of course I was happy to do. He is a smart and thoughtful person and in making this small request had given me additional purpose to add to the meaning of my walk. He also gave me a certain responsibility to reach the city of Santiago de Compostela and St James himself. If I did not reach Santiago I will have failed in some small way.
Sitting and observing the noise and hustle of central London as it wakes up, it feels good not to be one of the many pedestrians beetling their way to work and I already get a sense of disconnection from the real world of working London. A world I was once part of. My mood is further improved as I take the train to the airport. I am facing backwards and see the present day skyline of central London forming as we leave the station, then that skyline very gradually slipping away as the train slides on to the green fields of Surrey and to Gatwick airport.
In the medieval period the camino was very popular and following a deep lull, its popularity is on the rise once again reaching again the numbers of the medieval period. I was aware that I was cheating in adopting forms of motorised transport not available to pilgrims of the past. Traditionally people would walk from their home and over time would converge on the main routes to get to Santiago following roman roads, trading routes or droving paths. Though starting alone they would often group together for safety on what could be a dangerous road. Much has changed in the ten hundred years the camino has been active. However, as I journey through the airport I start to notice a small convergence of pilgrims. No obvious pilgrims except me at check-in. In the departure lounge I see a couple of wiry Canadians with compact battered rucksacks. They telegraph their place of origin and their destination through the Canadian badge that most Canadians show with pride, and the scallop shell badge bought on an earlier pilgrimage. These were knowledgeable seasoned pilgrims and left me feeling self-conscious in my crisp new regulation walking gear. My rucksack had been checked-in and at the mercy of the airline. I had been pleased to note that at 8.6 kilos (minus food and water) I was travelling light enough if bulky. The Canadian couple have carry-on luggage they could keep close and clearly knew the benefit of travelling super light when you carry all your gear for five hundred miles. Like me, there were other people in walking attire looking slightly out of place among the business people in suits and holiday makers in bright shirts. When the call for the flight to Biarritz was announced the convergence of pilgrims became noticeable. Biarritz was where you flew to if you where starting at St Jean Pied de Port on the Camino Francés, or French Way. I had read that the protocol was to meet and talk to other pilgrims and that starts, it seemed, at the gate before boarding as people start to chat to their neighbours.
As everyone now takes carry-on luggage there is little to unload in the plane's hold and my rucksack is happily waiting for me as I exit passport control in Biarritz. In a practised routine I swing my pack casually over one shoulder as if it were feather light while silently wincing at the thought of lugging my worldly goods across the width of Spain. I follow the flow of pilgrims and jump on the Cronoplus No. 4 bus to Bayonne. It is at this point that I sense the nervous anticipation of people starting out on an unknown voyage. The bus is busy with pilgrims and locals on the thirty minute ride into Bayonne. I look out for the right stop after twenty five minutes. Suddenly I become aware that a local woman is speaking to me in urgent French. 'Are you getting off here?' she says as if for the third time. I had drifted off and was only now aware that most of the rucksack people had gone and the remaining few where just alighting. 'Oh. Oui. Merci!' I gather myself and join the band of pilgrims as they make their way to the nearby rail station with me scheduled to stop off at my hotel. Naturally, I walk half a mile up the road before returning to find my hotel directly opposite the rail station where the map said it would be. This was not camino proper but I had taken a wrong turn four hundred metres into my walk. I wonder for the gazillionth time how the next five hundred miles would go, navigation-wise.
One of the considerations on any camino is choice of accommodation. At the most basic level a small select group of die-hards take a tent, though campsites and allowable wild camping options are few. In the coming weeks I would see one young man packing up his tent at day break and another older couple brewing up outside their woodland campsite waiting for the morning sun to penetrate the tree canopy and dry out their sodden tent. I'd also see people sleeping under a lean-to awning off a small donativo (donation) shack reminiscent of what I imagine you might have seen in 1970s Goa. That was not for me. I needed access to a hot shower and toilet facilities with some modest level of privacy. Some would have hotel or pension accommodation booked. In common with the majority of pilgrims I had opted for albergues for my nightly beauty sleep. From my rather hit and miss camino research I had a sense of what could be described as camino snobbery, and the concept of the authentic pilgrim. The authentic pilgrim stays in albergues, walks the full length of their chosen route, carries all their belongings all the way, joins in communal meals where available, and says 'buen camino' to everyone they pass. It was quite a responsibility. Though I would have some challenging nights in noisy dormitories ahead of me, that one night of solitude in a hotel told me I'd made the right decision in opting for albergues. I have had many nights alone in hotels when attending work conferences and regardless of the quality or character of the hotel I always find them to be grim experiences where you simply feel very alone.
The three minor highlights of the evening in Bayonne consisted of visiting Bayonne Cathedral, eating, and a first encounter. The Cathedral of St Mary of Bayonne sits on the site of an older Romanesque cathedral. Following two fires it had been re-built and extended into its current form which can be described as Gothic in style though quite different to the lightness I would later observe in Léon Cathedral. Like Burgos Cathedral it is hemmed in on all sides so from street level you don't get the best impression of it's overall external architecture. Having satisfied my modest hunger for architecture and my appetite with a takeaway of bread, ham and an apple tart, I sit and enjoy what remained of the day by the river Adour. The Adour is a broad river running through the centre of Bayonne and reminds me of the Vltava in Prague, the Arno in Florence or a smaller version of the Danube in Budapest. With a grey sky overhead and the sun just above the horizon, the Adour on that night is oily, green and not very welcoming. Being a solitary tourist I naturally attract the attention of the local free spirit who talks to me freely in what I assume is regional French. I gather from his general passion and occasional references to 'Pays Basque' that despite being a French speaker he is Basque and very proud of it. I also suspect he likes a glass of wine of two. For his part it takes him a good five minutes to detect my lack of any language skills whatsoever and he moves on to find a new companion for the evening. For my part I make a mental note that I had neglected to dust off the little French I had learnt forty years ago, and used little in the intervening years, though I'd be in Spain soon so what the heck.
It is the morning of the eleventh of September, day one of pilgrimage, and I am up early. The train was not running due to scheduled maintenance and the night before I had used my rudimentary French to find out where to catch the replacement bus service. I get a coffee and croissant and wait outside the rail station as per instruction. Other pilgrims start to congregate and we chat among ourselves in pairs or small groups. Where are you from? Are you walking all the way to Santiago? Is this your first camino? Outside the station is a pedestrian area and there is no obvious place for a bus to stop and pick us up. The group gets restless as time passes and for no particular reason we ignore the given instruction and wander over the road to the nearest bus stop like a group of sheep that have spotted what we think is greener grass. In time, an SNCF official emerges from the station and shepherds us down the road to a waiting bus that spirits us to St Jean Pied de Port. A young Canadian woman sits next to me and chats on and off in a distracted manner. Trekking is popular in Canada and many Canadians and even more Americans come over to walk the camino. It's her first time outside of Canada and she finally confides that she feels permanently lost. I try to provide a re-assuring reply whilst wondering how on earth I was going to find my way to Santiago when I could barely find my hotel in Bayonne. I am pleased to report that I saw her again many weeks later as she arrived in Santiago. At St Jean Pied de Port the pilgrims decant and hurry off to the pilgrim office following those who knew the way. The pilgrim office has four people manning four desks and they provide the credential (pilgrim passport) to those that need one, and the all important first stamp to prove you started at St Jean Pied de Port. The young Canadian woman from the bus is ahead of me and is flustered as neither she nor the attendant have sufficient change to enable the simple transaction. I offer up the required two euros as my good deed for the day, thereby hastening the award of my first stamp, and I finish my pilgrim status triple by picking up one of the scallop shells for a small donation. I silently hope the Canadian is starting to feel that things will work out, and that it does not matter if you feel lost or don't have the right change. Things do work out in the end and tomorrow will be a better day.
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| The scallop shell used to be a tourist trinket collected at the end but is now a token for the length of the journey |
With the scallop shell tied to my rucksack I feel I can start the walking section of my adventure and I face the office exit with a sense of determination and direction. The pilgrim office is on a road that runs parallel to the main street in St Jean Pied de Port. I had printed a town map at home in preparation for navigating to the start and those magical yellow arrows. From that map I thought it would be a left turn out of the office and onward to glory. Luckily for me the pilgrim office had clearly seen too many luckless wannabe pilgrims take that first wrong turn and there was a large yellow arrow on the exit door pointing right. I follow the arrow, which was to be the first of many keeping me on the way. As I come out into the street I blink in the early sun and realise that it is already 9:30 am and strictly speaking a little too late to start out on what is the hardest walking day of the whole thirty three day camino. The text book day one is over fifteen miles, which would be modest if it did not include the long climb up to Col de Lepoeder which stands at 1,450 metres. Oh, and the climb starts not much above sea level. Ben Nevis near Fort William in Scotland is the highest of the UK's peaks and it rises to 1,345 metres above sea level. My training had taken me up Scafell Pike, England's highest summit located in the Cumbrian hills rising to 978 metres. I have days to spare and the sensible plan would be to have a relaxing day exploring St Jean Pied de Port and an early start the next day. So naturally, true to my clueless form, I march on following the camino signs, passing the first of many fuente (water fountains) and through the portal that marks the start of the road from St Jean Pied de Port.
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| Stood on the bridge over the river Nive looking back at the start gate |
After some small uncertainties navigating out of St Jean Pied de Port I am on the open road heading up hill into the Pyrenees. I have started the camino and feel better for it. My nervous energy is channeled to my feet and they do the walking until I am in the open French countryside. A glorious sunny day and after just two miles I feel thirsty enough to trigger the realisation that I had forgotten to fill my water bottles at the fuente and am surviving on that 7:00 am morning cup of coffee. I look back down the hill at St Jean Pied de Port and imagine its shops and cafes brimming with cool, body hydrating mineral water. I look ahead up hill on the country lane I am following and see a mirage. I blink. Ahead of me is what appears to be a large metal case with glass front dispensing drinks, crisps and chocolate bars. I blink again wondering if it is an advertising board. I approach and discover that its not a mirage or a piece of random advertising but a solid vending machine and by supplying the correct change I am rewarded with fizzy pop, one for now and one for later. I am saved and starting to believe in the camino. Starting to trust that everything will be OK. Starting to have some faith that Santiago is achievable even if I don't know what I am doing or where I am going.
After five miles I come to Orisson, a popular albergue that also has a cafe. I chat to someone from Colorado who had been fortunate enough to take time out from family and the family business to walk the full camino. This time I make sure I fill my water bottles at one of the many water fountains (fuente) on the camino. The Camino Francés has fantastic infrastructure and you can walk the full length relying on the water fountains and basic grocery stores. Over the coming days and weeks I would come to realise fully that it has the perfect balance of rural quite walking and availability of facilities such as albergues and cafes. Other routes require a little bit more care in ensuring you have enough food and drink.
In the sunshine the walk over the Pyrenees is stunning. The views magnificent, the weather perfect and I feel truly blessed. Pausing for a rest on a grassy plateau and popular picnic stop, I estimate there is approximately one pilgrim every 50 metres if you spaced them out in a regular fashion and this is mid-September, the shoulder season where you miss the main July and August peak numbers. Though I had strode out of the pilgrim office a pilgrim, today was very much a walk, enjoying the scenery and acclimatising to camino life. It feels more like a hike up Scafell Pike. Walking on I re-fill from the Frontera-Fuente water fountain unaware that I was crossing the border into Spain which lies just before the Col de Bentartea and two thirds of the way to my first intended stop at Roncesvalles.
Anyone who has done any hill walking will know that contrary to normal logic, the downhill section can be as hard as, if not harder than, the ascents. This is especially true when the going is steep so I am relieved that we only descend to 950 metres as we get into Roncesvalles. My relief at reaching the only albergue at Roncesvalles turns to concern as I notice a large number of people sat on the grassy bank outside with their rucksacks. The large hostel is a converted monastery and is very imposing. I enter and am quickly informed that it is full unless I had phoned ahead to book. I did not have a phone and I had not booked. I start to curse my guide book which had suggested there was no need to book and why not go phone free. After one minute of silent cursing I regroup, check my guidebook and strike out for another 2.2 miles to the next village. No space at the inn. Then another 2.4 miles to the next village of Espinal. No space at the published albergue, unless you had phoned ahead perhaps? Talking to people I realise that sensible folk are phoning ahead, getting taxied onward and such like. There were a few B&Bs further along the way then the next hostels were just too far. I had seen a blank nameless house on the way in to the village that somehow felt it might take pity on a lone walker. Don't ask, I know it sounds like an act of desperation. I returned and rang the bell without much hope. I stood and waited wondering what had possessed me to ring the bell at this anonymous house and wondering how I would introduce myself. The camino worked its magic and in five minutes I had paid fifteen euros and was sat on a makeshift bed in the spacious attic next to the clothes drying facilities. The clothes rack was already draped with the days undergarments of those wise pilgrims who had left St Jean Pied to Port on time.
Having summoned up my final reserves of energy, I shower and go in search of food. I find a sign pointing right to a supermarket. Twenty metres on another sign pointing left. Between these signs there is just an anonymous house with no hint of supermarket attributes. Building on my new found confidence I ring the door bell and am greeted by a woman who leads me to the front room, turning on a light to reveal a replica of a 1960s British corner shop and definitely in a good way. I don't even try speaking English and my Spanish language (and pointing) skills get me bread, ham, cheese, a can of beer and something sweet. My luxury item on this trip is a sailing knife sharp enough to cut through wire which I now use to construct something I can eat. Packing light but sufficient is a skill and I mostly got it right. The knife was to become a trusted friend over the next five weeks and I found I could loan it out in the evening to people trying to cut up vegetables with blunt hostel kitchen knives and this would usually get me wine, sweets or conversation in exchange.
It has been a long day and I head back to my room, though I should say bed, as I left the privacy of a private room in Bayonne. Next door in the voluminous attic is a lounge-cum-dining area with an attached kitchenette. I fill water bottles ready for the following day and sit down to reflect on the day and update my journal. It had been a trying end to what had otherwise been a glorious day and it is a comfort that there is someone else in the lounge quietly writing her own journal. I'd seen her earlier at the dining table studying paperwork and given her air of confidence and authority I'd taken her as the manager/owner of the albergue though I now suspected she is on the pilgrim side of the albergue business equation. After a while she says "Bon soir" and leaves. I deduce she is French and make no guess at age as she has an ageless appearance.
Chapter 3. Running with the bulls