Day 30. Florin-Sainte-Marie to L'Hopital-Saint-Blaise
All is grist to the mill
Today was an easy day. I left my pack at the gite for I was returning tonight.
Walking is very much part of the English culture and this is reflected in the number of words we have in the language for walking. In the last four days I have ambled and rambled, strode, staggered and stumbled, and trudged, but today I strolled. Rain was threatening, so I kept out of the woods where the path might be slippery, and strolled along the flat roads. I relied on my Apple navigator, Siri.
On the bus from Oloron to l'Hopital-Saint-Blaise yesterday, I ran into Georges the Frenchman again. Henceforth, I shall call him Georges the Sniff for reasons that will soon be apparent. He was older than I thought and wiry. Whereas I had taken four days to get from Lourdes to Oloron, he had taken two. I think he was a good-hearted fellow, but he had two unfortunate habits.
The first was not uncommon. He rattled on and on, barely pausing for breath, sometimes asking a question only to get a response he could use as a springboard to talk more about himself. I didn't understand much of what he said - he spoke too fast in an difficult accent - but it didn't matter. He was quite able to carry on on a single-handed conversation.
His second habit was even less appealing. He was a sniffer, but his was not the innocent kind of runny-nose sniff which would cause the nuns to rap you on the knuckles and say, "Use your hankie." No, his was the Eppiglottal Sniff.
The running-nose sniff is the simple intake of air through the nose to prevent the snot from dropping onto your homework or your food. The Eppiglottal sniff is more complex. It seems to begin as an ordinary sniff but the liquid is stopped somehow by the eppiglottis and diverted down the throat into the mouth, thence to be expectorated. I suppose that it is the vibrating of the eppiglottis and its sudden stop that produces the sick-making sound that drives away your friends. I didn't take Physiology and Hygiene at school, so I'm merely speculating on how it works.
I was feeling pretty queasy anyway, and each sniff would make me sick to the stomach. They were unpredictable. Just when I thought he had cleared whatever was blocking his throat, he would begin again with varying tone and increasing volume, and end with a porcine snort. I would expect a goozie to issue forth, but he must have swallowed it and saved it for later.
Halfway through the bus ride the rain stopped, and the wiper ran dry with a rasp on the windscreen. For a moment, I thought it was one of Georges's sniffs.
Have you ever noticed how similar are the words sniff, snort and snot? They are related, aren't they, and almost onomatopoeic?
We caught the bus back into town this morning and parted company. I felt better.
I bade farewell this morning to my trusty string-around-the-neck passport pouch. Almost 30 years ago, I was pickpocketed outside the Eglise Madeleine in Paris. I resolved to take better care of my important items and bought a little pouch with pockets for my passport and my credit cards. Over the years, the pouch became stained with sweat, and the knots at the end of the string where it passed through the eyelets were brown with rust. Every year I would pull on the string to test the knots, and they held firm. Finally, it was not the knots which failed, but the zip. So I had to replace the pouch, and walked a few extra kilometres around Oloron before finding a leisure store. The replacement is more practical than the original, but I doubt it will last as long.
Happily, the store was on the west side of town, and the route proposed by my GPS corresponded to the GR. As I strolled along, I whiled away the miles by recalling on how many walks the old passport pouch had hung around my neck. Seven in Britain, six in France, one in Spain, and a few repetitions of favourite sections.
When I left the Office de Tourisme yesterday, I looked out for the German couple, hoping to have a farewell beer. They were slower than I (a first!), and had fallen behind. But I didn't see them. But this morning as I was following intricate directions to the leisure store (which had been recommended by the travel agency, which had been recommended by the bar where I had eaten breakfast), there they were in front of me. None of us should have been in that place at that time. We should all have been well on our way in our different directions. But there we were. We said good-bye and wished each other well. Those of you who have walked the Camino will know that this sort of thing happens all the time. Statisticians will remind us how many times we didn't meet someone in this way.
Nothing is quite so peaceful as an old man and his dog. I was intending to stay with Siri and stick to the road, but when I reached the village of Mounour she told me that the Route de Bayonne was up ahead, and I thought it would be too busy. So I backtracked a little and followed the GR through a park. There they were ahead of me. The man was keeping to the path, and the little white dog was straining at the leash, pulling off to the right, and burying his head in the long grass. Now we have all seen this sight many times, but usually the master simply pulls on the leash and the dog gives up. Not this one! His nose buried in the ground, he refused to move. "Qui est le chef?" I asked. "He is," he replied. Recognizing my accent, he was delighted to tell me that his dog was English. "A West Ireland terrier," he said. "He goes after something in the ground and he won't give up.
He told me that the Route de Bayonne was not too busy after all, so I reversed my steps a second time, and followed the road again. At Geos, I broke my rule and drank a beer. I really do believe it settles a queasy stomach.
About a kilometre from l'Hopital-Saint-Blaise, I noticed a man working in his Garden at a house beside the road. When he saw me, he ran out and said, "Bienvenue au Pays-Basque." I thought I was already walking in Basque Country, but no, he said, it began right there. He told me that he spoke Basque better than French, and assured me that his language was alive and well. It was a nice welcome to the region.
The church at l'Hopital-Saint-Blaise is a UNESCO heritage site. It is a beautiful eglise Romane with an octagonal tower. No wonder these churches are so much loved and often visited. There is something reassuring in their simple solidity. But this one was marred, in my opinion, by a later baroque altarpiece, which contrasted starkly with the austerity of the rest of the church. Here were those two extremes again: love and humility, and wealth and power. I am not the first person to wonder how the wealthy Church at times was able to reconcile itself to that beautiful Biblical verse:
Again I say unto you, It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.
Interestingly, Pope Francis seems very aware of this text.
Today was an easy day. I left my pack at the gite for I was returning tonight.
Walking is very much part of the English culture and this is reflected in the number of words we have in the language for walking. In the last four days I have ambled and rambled, strode, staggered and stumbled, and trudged, but today I strolled. Rain was threatening, so I kept out of the woods where the path might be slippery, and strolled along the flat roads. I relied on my Apple navigator, Siri.
On the bus from Oloron to l'Hopital-Saint-Blaise yesterday, I ran into Georges the Frenchman again. Henceforth, I shall call him Georges the Sniff for reasons that will soon be apparent. He was older than I thought and wiry. Whereas I had taken four days to get from Lourdes to Oloron, he had taken two. I think he was a good-hearted fellow, but he had two unfortunate habits.
The first was not uncommon. He rattled on and on, barely pausing for breath, sometimes asking a question only to get a response he could use as a springboard to talk more about himself. I didn't understand much of what he said - he spoke too fast in an difficult accent - but it didn't matter. He was quite able to carry on on a single-handed conversation.
His second habit was even less appealing. He was a sniffer, but his was not the innocent kind of runny-nose sniff which would cause the nuns to rap you on the knuckles and say, "Use your hankie." No, his was the Eppiglottal Sniff.
The running-nose sniff is the simple intake of air through the nose to prevent the snot from dropping onto your homework or your food. The Eppiglottal sniff is more complex. It seems to begin as an ordinary sniff but the liquid is stopped somehow by the eppiglottis and diverted down the throat into the mouth, thence to be expectorated. I suppose that it is the vibrating of the eppiglottis and its sudden stop that produces the sick-making sound that drives away your friends. I didn't take Physiology and Hygiene at school, so I'm merely speculating on how it works.
I was feeling pretty queasy anyway, and each sniff would make me sick to the stomach. They were unpredictable. Just when I thought he had cleared whatever was blocking his throat, he would begin again with varying tone and increasing volume, and end with a porcine snort. I would expect a goozie to issue forth, but he must have swallowed it and saved it for later.
Halfway through the bus ride the rain stopped, and the wiper ran dry with a rasp on the windscreen. For a moment, I thought it was one of Georges's sniffs.
Have you ever noticed how similar are the words sniff, snort and snot? They are related, aren't they, and almost onomatopoeic?
We caught the bus back into town this morning and parted company. I felt better.
I bade farewell this morning to my trusty string-around-the-neck passport pouch. Almost 30 years ago, I was pickpocketed outside the Eglise Madeleine in Paris. I resolved to take better care of my important items and bought a little pouch with pockets for my passport and my credit cards. Over the years, the pouch became stained with sweat, and the knots at the end of the string where it passed through the eyelets were brown with rust. Every year I would pull on the string to test the knots, and they held firm. Finally, it was not the knots which failed, but the zip. So I had to replace the pouch, and walked a few extra kilometres around Oloron before finding a leisure store. The replacement is more practical than the original, but I doubt it will last as long.
Happily, the store was on the west side of town, and the route proposed by my GPS corresponded to the GR. As I strolled along, I whiled away the miles by recalling on how many walks the old passport pouch had hung around my neck. Seven in Britain, six in France, one in Spain, and a few repetitions of favourite sections.
When I left the Office de Tourisme yesterday, I looked out for the German couple, hoping to have a farewell beer. They were slower than I (a first!), and had fallen behind. But I didn't see them. But this morning as I was following intricate directions to the leisure store (which had been recommended by the travel agency, which had been recommended by the bar where I had eaten breakfast), there they were in front of me. None of us should have been in that place at that time. We should all have been well on our way in our different directions. But there we were. We said good-bye and wished each other well. Those of you who have walked the Camino will know that this sort of thing happens all the time. Statisticians will remind us how many times we didn't meet someone in this way.
Nothing is quite so peaceful as an old man and his dog. I was intending to stay with Siri and stick to the road, but when I reached the village of Mounour she told me that the Route de Bayonne was up ahead, and I thought it would be too busy. So I backtracked a little and followed the GR through a park. There they were ahead of me. The man was keeping to the path, and the little white dog was straining at the leash, pulling off to the right, and burying his head in the long grass. Now we have all seen this sight many times, but usually the master simply pulls on the leash and the dog gives up. Not this one! His nose buried in the ground, he refused to move. "Qui est le chef?" I asked. "He is," he replied. Recognizing my accent, he was delighted to tell me that his dog was English. "A West Ireland terrier," he said. "He goes after something in the ground and he won't give up.
He told me that the Route de Bayonne was not too busy after all, so I reversed my steps a second time, and followed the road again. At Geos, I broke my rule and drank a beer. I really do believe it settles a queasy stomach.
About a kilometre from l'Hopital-Saint-Blaise, I noticed a man working in his Garden at a house beside the road. When he saw me, he ran out and said, "Bienvenue au Pays-Basque." I thought I was already walking in Basque Country, but no, he said, it began right there. He told me that he spoke Basque better than French, and assured me that his language was alive and well. It was a nice welcome to the region.
The church at l'Hopital-Saint-Blaise is a UNESCO heritage site. It is a beautiful eglise Romane with an octagonal tower. No wonder these churches are so much loved and often visited. There is something reassuring in their simple solidity. But this one was marred, in my opinion, by a later baroque altarpiece, which contrasted starkly with the austerity of the rest of the church. Here were those two extremes again: love and humility, and wealth and power. I am not the first person to wonder how the wealthy Church at times was able to reconcile itself to that beautiful Biblical verse:
Again I say unto you, It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.
Interestingly, Pope Francis seems very aware of this text.
Day 31. April 24, 2015. L'Hopital-Saint-Blaise to Malleon. 18 kms
Homer nods
I left the gite this morning at eight-thirty, passed the church, and followed a broad, winding path leading off into the forest. Easy beginning, I thought. Then I clambered up a slippery slope, with mud and rocks overlain by a layer of greasy leaves making my going very difficult. This led to a rutted, boggy track that would have been hard passage even for a four-wheel drive. And then a minor road, up and up, and then a farm track, still climbing, and then a track along a ditch between two fields, neck-high on either side.
Suddenly I saw the Virgin beckoning me across the field to the right. Or was it a departed pilgrim? Or a scarecrow? Or last night's bed linen? But in the middle of nowhere? It remained an unsolved mystery.
I left the gite this morning at eight-thirty, passed the church, and followed a broad, winding path leading off into the forest. Easy beginning, I thought. Then I clambered up a slippery slope, with mud and rocks overlain by a layer of greasy leaves making my going very difficult. This led to a rutted, boggy track that would have been hard passage even for a four-wheel drive. And then a minor road, up and up, and then a farm track, still climbing, and then a track along a ditch between two fields, neck-high on either side.
Suddenly I saw the Virgin beckoning me across the field to the right. Or was it a departed pilgrim? Or a scarecrow? Or last night's bed linen? But in the middle of nowhere? It remained an unsolved mystery.
An invention almost as old as the wheel is the door or gate. Once man began to live in a hut or put a fence around his beasts, he needed to be able to get in and out. The solution was a rectanglular frame, hinges and a lock. The principle hasn't changed in thousands of years. But the gate will continue to work only if the upright supports on either side remain firm and don't move under the weight of the gate or the settling of the ground. If that happens, the latch will not catch or the door will jam. I noticed an ingenious solution to this problem in the design of the gates I passed through today. The top hinge was fixed to a long bolt and a nut on the bolt could be adjusted to alter the slant of the gate to bring it closer to or further away from the latch. Clever!
The Virgin in the field
I continued to climb up a long, blue-metalled, unsealed road that wound up and up a hill for ever. Finally, I arrived at the summit and came upon a man and two dogs. The man was friendly, and so was one of his dogs, but the other was skittish and darted at my calf as we parted. Didn't bite, just pushed.
This habit of dogs has passed into the language in the expression "nipped at the heels", as has their more aggressive behaviour of "going for the throat". I have had dogs nip at my heels on several occasions, but never have they gone for my throat or any other part of my body. I wondered whether their nipping at my heels was merely a warning to get me on my way without intending to harm, or what remained of an atavistic instinct to sever a tendon to bring down the prey.
The owner was most apologetic at his dog's "nipping" at my heels, and explained that he had recently rescued him from a shelter, knowing nothing of his previous treatment, and was having to work with him to accustom him to other people.
And then down, down, down, all along, out along, down along lee. Five kilometres short of my destination, the GR tried to take me up another hill. But I declined, and followed the road into town, there to find my place at the municipal gite. I'm very comfortable, but I'm all alone again.
This habit of dogs has passed into the language in the expression "nipped at the heels", as has their more aggressive behaviour of "going for the throat". I have had dogs nip at my heels on several occasions, but never have they gone for my throat or any other part of my body. I wondered whether their nipping at my heels was merely a warning to get me on my way without intending to harm, or what remained of an atavistic instinct to sever a tendon to bring down the prey.
The owner was most apologetic at his dog's "nipping" at my heels, and explained that he had recently rescued him from a shelter, knowing nothing of his previous treatment, and was having to work with him to accustom him to other people.
And then down, down, down, all along, out along, down along lee. Five kilometres short of my destination, the GR tried to take me up another hill. But I declined, and followed the road into town, there to find my place at the municipal gite. I'm very comfortable, but I'm all alone again.
Day 32. April 25. Malleon to Saint-Juste-Ibarre. 22 kms
There is a prodigious stench in here
Having eaten a pilgrim's meal at the Restaurant Etchola in Malleon, just up the street and around the corner from the gite, I strolled around the town and came upon some boys hitting a tennis ball up against a large free-standing wall. Nothing unusual in that. But on the other side they were playing a game I had never seen before. At first I thought it was lacrosse. But no, instead of a net, each player held a long, narrow, curved, shell-like "racquet", shaped like a huge banana, which caught and hurled the ball with incredible speed and accuracy like a sling shot. One player was a hundred yards back and hurled the ball at the wall, and the other players caught it as it bounced off. I learned later that this was the Basque game of Chistera.
This morning I ate breakfast at the bar on the square. Not for the first time, I found it difficult to leave, captivated by the joie de vivre around me. The people around me spoke rapidly in French or Basque, often in staccato bursts, and darted back and forth, greeting each other with customary kisses or handshakes.
Having eaten a pilgrim's meal at the Restaurant Etchola in Malleon, just up the street and around the corner from the gite, I strolled around the town and came upon some boys hitting a tennis ball up against a large free-standing wall. Nothing unusual in that. But on the other side they were playing a game I had never seen before. At first I thought it was lacrosse. But no, instead of a net, each player held a long, narrow, curved, shell-like "racquet", shaped like a huge banana, which caught and hurled the ball with incredible speed and accuracy like a sling shot. One player was a hundred yards back and hurled the ball at the wall, and the other players caught it as it bounced off. I learned later that this was the Basque game of Chistera.
This morning I ate breakfast at the bar on the square. Not for the first time, I found it difficult to leave, captivated by the joie de vivre around me. The people around me spoke rapidly in French or Basque, often in staccato bursts, and darted back and forth, greeting each other with customary kisses or handshakes.
I had to choose between a long walk with a 1200-foot climb or a steady plod up and then down along the road? Still a little sluggish, I took the latter. As I walked out of town, I saw that the vegetarians had been there before me. What a precedent, I thought, for other activists.
I covered about eight kilometres, and then began a five-kilometre walk up to the Col d'Osquich, the pass through the hills at an altitude of 495 metres. Here I encountered a nasty little deception. On the way to the pass I had seen a sign announcing a bar-restaurant at the summit, and I promised myself a beer as a reward for completing the climb. When I arrived at what I thought was the summit, I saw a hotel overlooking the valley. And the bar was open. But across the road I saw a sign announcing Hotel-Restaurant Col d'Osquich one kilometre further on. I decided to wait until the top for my beer. But the road started going down. Just a temporary dip, I thought. But no, downhill for a kilometre, and there it was, the Hotel-Restaurant Col d'Osquich, a kilometre from the "col" or pass, yet having the nerve to make itself after that place. And it was closed! I had missed out on my beer.
I am staying tonight at the Ferme Borya, advertised as being on the chemin, 500 metres before the town. But that was on the GR and I was on the highway. As I approached the town I came upon a man having a pee beside the road. I waited politely, and then asked him how to get to the farm. "Ah," he said, "it's over there," pointing across the valley. When I arrived, two further kilometres later, Jean Michel, the farmer was waiting for me. "I was expecting you," he said, pointing across the valley to the man who had been having a pee. "He phoned me." Such are small communities!
The accommodation was quite deluxe for a pilgrim, a wing of the farmhouse all to myself with a choice of bedrooms. And beds with sheets!
I covered about eight kilometres, and then began a five-kilometre walk up to the Col d'Osquich, the pass through the hills at an altitude of 495 metres. Here I encountered a nasty little deception. On the way to the pass I had seen a sign announcing a bar-restaurant at the summit, and I promised myself a beer as a reward for completing the climb. When I arrived at what I thought was the summit, I saw a hotel overlooking the valley. And the bar was open. But across the road I saw a sign announcing Hotel-Restaurant Col d'Osquich one kilometre further on. I decided to wait until the top for my beer. But the road started going down. Just a temporary dip, I thought. But no, downhill for a kilometre, and there it was, the Hotel-Restaurant Col d'Osquich, a kilometre from the "col" or pass, yet having the nerve to make itself after that place. And it was closed! I had missed out on my beer.
I am staying tonight at the Ferme Borya, advertised as being on the chemin, 500 metres before the town. But that was on the GR and I was on the highway. As I approached the town I came upon a man having a pee beside the road. I waited politely, and then asked him how to get to the farm. "Ah," he said, "it's over there," pointing across the valley. When I arrived, two further kilometres later, Jean Michel, the farmer was waiting for me. "I was expecting you," he said, pointing across the valley to the man who had been having a pee. "He phoned me." Such are small communities!
The accommodation was quite deluxe for a pilgrim, a wing of the farmhouse all to myself with a choice of bedrooms. And beds with sheets!
A strong barn odour drifted in the window. I investigated its cause: it was coming from five pigs, happy in their muck. Three of them were to be sold at the fair tomorrow. I sat on a bench beside their sty and took in the rural scene. Two dogs bustled around the yard, then came up to greet me, one of them deciding to sit on the bench beside me. Across the road, sheep were safely grazing, and all the while the music from the bells of the neighbour's cows floated across the fields.
The dogs were labri, sheepdogs of the region. I asked if they were both working. No, just the older. Is the other still too young? No, just lazy. Will you still keep him? Oui, il est gentil! I was impressed. These were farmers with feeling.
I ate with the family, and I have to say that it was one of the most delightful meals I have enjoyed on the Camino. Jean Louis spoke in staccato bursts, and after a while, so did I, but we managed to understand each other. They learned a little about Canada, and I learned a lot about the Pays Basque. I learned something of the rules of Chistera. I learned that the game was played in parts of Quebec, the United States, and South America as well, and that all of these Basque communities played together in a world tournament.
They also told me about one of their great heroes, Chiquito de Cambodia, a champion at their national game, who during the First World War would catch the German grenades in his chisteria and hurl them back across the trenches. How proud was this family to be Basque!
We began with an apperatif, ate veal and rice for the main course, and finished with two magnificent cheeses, one made by Jean Michel himself at his cabin in the mountains, and the other by the local cheese factory where the son worked. And all the while Jean Michel plied me with wine from the local cooperative, to which he had contributed his own grapes. A true vin de pays! Not for the first time, I drank not wisely, but too well!
Jean Michel and Maite run the farm, which specializes in the brebis for their milk, and thence their cheese. They have a few cows, and the pigs, and the grapes, but the milk fom the ewes is their main source of income. The son, along with his father, was a delightful host. The older daughter works at an old folks home in Saint-Jean-Le-Vieux. The youngest, whom I had seen riding around the farm on the tractor with her father, wants to stay on the farm.This was a very happy family.
I don't find a barnyard stench particularly unpleasant, and I will willingly endure it to experience such genuine hospitality.
The dogs were labri, sheepdogs of the region. I asked if they were both working. No, just the older. Is the other still too young? No, just lazy. Will you still keep him? Oui, il est gentil! I was impressed. These were farmers with feeling.
I ate with the family, and I have to say that it was one of the most delightful meals I have enjoyed on the Camino. Jean Louis spoke in staccato bursts, and after a while, so did I, but we managed to understand each other. They learned a little about Canada, and I learned a lot about the Pays Basque. I learned something of the rules of Chistera. I learned that the game was played in parts of Quebec, the United States, and South America as well, and that all of these Basque communities played together in a world tournament.
They also told me about one of their great heroes, Chiquito de Cambodia, a champion at their national game, who during the First World War would catch the German grenades in his chisteria and hurl them back across the trenches. How proud was this family to be Basque!
We began with an apperatif, ate veal and rice for the main course, and finished with two magnificent cheeses, one made by Jean Michel himself at his cabin in the mountains, and the other by the local cheese factory where the son worked. And all the while Jean Michel plied me with wine from the local cooperative, to which he had contributed his own grapes. A true vin de pays! Not for the first time, I drank not wisely, but too well!
Jean Michel and Maite run the farm, which specializes in the brebis for their milk, and thence their cheese. They have a few cows, and the pigs, and the grapes, but the milk fom the ewes is their main source of income. The son, along with his father, was a delightful host. The older daughter works at an old folks home in Saint-Jean-Le-Vieux. The youngest, whom I had seen riding around the farm on the tractor with her father, wants to stay on the farm.This was a very happy family.
I don't find a barnyard stench particularly unpleasant, and I will willingly endure it to experience such genuine hospitality.
Day 33. April 27, 2015. Saint-Juste-Ibarre to Saint-Jean-Pierre-de-Port. 25.5
Hail to thee blithe spirit
Bird thou never wert
This was my finest day, even if it ended on a sour note when I reached Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. I was not going to pike out today and take the highway: I was going to follow the path, and I did, no mean feat either, twenty-five kilometres and a thousand-foot climb without a break. There was nowhere to stop anyway, and it was drizzling on and off. I will even show you the elevation chart.
Bird thou never wert
This was my finest day, even if it ended on a sour note when I reached Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. I was not going to pike out today and take the highway: I was going to follow the path, and I did, no mean feat either, twenty-five kilometres and a thousand-foot climb without a break. There was nowhere to stop anyway, and it was drizzling on and off. I will even show you the elevation chart.
At first it was a gentle climb up narrow, winding minor roads, and then suddenly, off the road and up the side of a hill at a slope which must have been close to 45 degrees, and at the top, a right turn into a steady ascent towards two stunted trees almost a kilometre away.
And then I heard it, the ethereal song of the skylark, and there they were, rising out of the gorze, three of them, one of them coming towards me, fluttering frantically, floating for an instant, then fluttering once more in its short uneven trajectory. All alone was I in this high place: the gorze, the sky, and I, and the skylarks. And I thought of the words of another camerade du chemin: Le bonheur est maintenant.
All the while the sighing of the wind
And the singing of the larks
And then I heard it, the ethereal song of the skylark, and there they were, rising out of the gorze, three of them, one of them coming towards me, fluttering frantically, floating for an instant, then fluttering once more in its short uneven trajectory. All alone was I in this high place: the gorze, the sky, and I, and the skylarks. And I thought of the words of another camerade du chemin: Le bonheur est maintenant.
All the while the sighing of the wind
And the singing of the larks
At last I reached the two trees, passed a sheep watering-trough, and walked up another long slope, onward and upward. And when I thought the path would take me right to the top, I reached a broad track which followed the contour around the hill. Happy was I! To my right was the hill; to my left a ring of mountains across the valleys.
The track led to a road, which led up to a pass and down again and around, and then onto a track once more, down and around across the side of a hill, forking back and forth and down to the little roads again.
What is it that is so magnificent about these high places? It's the wildness, and the loneliness, and the openess, and today, the wind and the rain. From the moment I left the road, I didn't see a soul.
I still faced a long trudge into Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. Finally I reached the gate in the wall and walked down the familiar rue de la Citadelle, past the pilgrim offices, the gites, the boutiques, to my usual rooms. Full. I had to look further afield.
An ancient crone sat on the steps of her lodging house waiting for Hansel and Gretel. She enticed me in with an offer of a room for 30€. We climbed up two stories and she showed me a tiny little kitchen of a room with two bunks without sheets. "You have a nice view of the forest," she said. "You will hear the birds in the morning." I looked out and saw a few leaves above the roof across the street. "And do you offer breakfast?" I asked. "No, she replied. You can get a lovely breakfast down the street."
There is even a kitchen sink in my room, which gurgles when someone goes to the toilet next door. I am hoping that something won't flush up during the night.
I didn't have to take it, you're thinking. No, you're right, but I'd missed out at my usual place, and I didn't want to spend the night in a gite full of young pilgrims, eager to cross the mountains the next day.
I had been thinking of spending an extra day here, but no, I'm off tomorrow for Hendaye. I have a map and a list of available accommodation.
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The track led to a road, which led up to a pass and down again and around, and then onto a track once more, down and around across the side of a hill, forking back and forth and down to the little roads again.
What is it that is so magnificent about these high places? It's the wildness, and the loneliness, and the openess, and today, the wind and the rain. From the moment I left the road, I didn't see a soul.
I still faced a long trudge into Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. Finally I reached the gate in the wall and walked down the familiar rue de la Citadelle, past the pilgrim offices, the gites, the boutiques, to my usual rooms. Full. I had to look further afield.
An ancient crone sat on the steps of her lodging house waiting for Hansel and Gretel. She enticed me in with an offer of a room for 30€. We climbed up two stories and she showed me a tiny little kitchen of a room with two bunks without sheets. "You have a nice view of the forest," she said. "You will hear the birds in the morning." I looked out and saw a few leaves above the roof across the street. "And do you offer breakfast?" I asked. "No, she replied. You can get a lovely breakfast down the street."
There is even a kitchen sink in my room, which gurgles when someone goes to the toilet next door. I am hoping that something won't flush up during the night.
I didn't have to take it, you're thinking. No, you're right, but I'd missed out at my usual place, and I didn't want to spend the night in a gite full of young pilgrims, eager to cross the mountains the next day.
I had been thinking of spending an extra day here, but no, I'm off tomorrow for Hendaye. I have a map and a list of available accommodation.
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