Camino de Santiago (Part Two)

We woke up early and started rustling around, making sure our packs were ready to go. The lady who owned the pension heard us and came out onto the landing in her dressing gown. "It's too early, go back to bed," she said, more with gestures than words we recognised. She had a point, it was still dark and it was very cold, but, seeing that we were determined, she shuffled down to the kitchen and put on the coffee.

We were in St Jean Pied de Port, a small village in the foothills of the French side of the Pyrenees. We had arrived late in the evening, two days before, and, intimidated by the mountains we could see in every direction, decided to have a rest day before starting the walk. We had registered as pilgrims at the pilgrim office and obtained our 'credencial', a kind of passport that allows you to stay in the very cheap albergues along the route. The only thing left to do was start.

Half an hour later, the landlady had given us a block of chocolate, a serving of advice, and a blessing for a safe journey. We collected our packs and strode down the road, two pilgrims at the start of a great journey, and made it as far as the patisserie. Then, with croissants in hand, we headed for the hills.

We walked over the Pyrenees via the high scaling Route Napoleon. It was the route that Charlemagne's troops had used when retreating from Spain, and the route that Napoleon's army had taken to invade it. For twenty-four kilometres we climbed steadily up, and then for four kilometres, we dropped steeply back down. There were no villages up there and our main company was flocks of shaggy mountain sheep, their bells clanging happily. When we came to the cattle grid that is the official border between France and Spain, Eddy was disappointed that no one was there to check his passport. We arrived in Roncesvalles eight hours after starting out, exhausted but exhilarated. We had survived our baptism of fire. Only 780 kilometres to go.

One of the challenges the pilgrim faces is adjusting to the Spanish timetable. Typically, when you arrive at your destination after the day's walk, it is siesta time and nothing is open. Even when it isn't siesta time, you never know what will be open. On our third day, we had no supplies as the town's shop had been closed when we arrived the previous day and didn't reopen. We started walking, thinking that we might be able to get some breakfast in the next village, five kilometres away. Unfortunately, it, and every other village on the sixteen kilometre stretch to Pamplona's outskirts, turned out to be ghost towns. Nothing was open. We ate a few wild blackberries that grew on the route but by the time we made it to Pamplona, we had decided to always carry some back-up food. It was this day, unsurprisingly, that Eddy asked the obvious question: "Why are we doing this?"

We kept on going though and were thrilled when on our fourth day we realised we'd covered our first 100 kilometres. On the outskirts of Estella we passed the famous pilgrims' wine fountain. Despite it being 8.30 in the morning, we stopped for a glass. For free wine that comes out of a wall, it was excellent. Perhaps it's not surprising though, when looking back, that some of the towns blur into each other. Standing out in our memories instead are the people we began to see each night at the albergues. There were a few other Aussies- and sitting around a table talking about Cityrail and swimming at Coogee made us feel closer to home than we have for months.

After a particularly long day, that involved rain, quarries and traffic, I arrived at Logrono feeling utterly tuckered out. I went and slept it off, only getting up for some chicken soup that Eddy made for me. The next morning I was feeling a lot better but was so out of it that I left a few "unnecessary" items (like my phone, woollen jumper and washing kit) under my bed. By the time we realised, we were another 20 kilometres along the track and there was no way I was going back. My pack was lighter and that counted for something. Despite my losses, that day we received several offerings from kind-hearted Spaniards. We both accepted lollies from a stranger, drank an unknown substance that turned out to be apple wine and accepted a flaming cup of pagan brew. Giving gifts to pilgrims on the road has always been a traditional part of the Camino. You have to put distrust aside and receive the offerings in the goodwill they are made...and you can always throw out anything overly suspicious later (not that anything was.)

The landscape over the first 250 kilometres was constantly changing. We left the Pyrenees for the green pastures and beech forests on the road to Pamplona, walked along the extremely rocky and dusty roads to Estella, journeyed through the vineyards of La Rioja (laden with tasty grapes waiting to be picked) and through the beautiful pine forests along the road to Burgos. The one constant sight was wind turbines. Thousands of them, silhouetted on almost every ridge.

After twelve days of walking, we were ready for a rest and with some luck this coincided both with being in a big city, and with my 23rd birthday. Walking into Burgos involved a dash across a busy motorway, a trek through the industrial suburbs and a rather off-putting encounter with an innocent looking octogenarian.

We were sitting down on a city bench and were just about to leave when an old, beret-capped man approached us, leaning heavily on his walking stick. He began talking at us, repeating the same phrase over and over. I smiled apologetically and said, "Perdone, Senor. No hablo espanol. No entiendo!" Undeterred, he sat down, a little too close for comfort. Eddy rummaged in his pack for our phrase book and flipped through the dictionary, trying to work out what the man was saying. Meanwhile, the old man leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. Feeling justifiably uncomfortable, I moved away, and the old man gestured for the phrase book. Eddy handed it over, thinking he would look up what he wanted to say, but after flipping through it whilst holding it upside down, the man put it away, deep in one of his pockets. Eddy and I laughed uncomfortably and gestured for him to give it back. He didn't, but tried for another kiss so I picked up my pack and started to walk away. Eddy followed, both of us wondering how we would find another Spanish phrase book in Spain.

To be continued...