Day 34. April 27, 2015. Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port toBidarray. 24 kms
Trudge, trudge, splatter, splatter.
It really doesn't matter,
If my old Tilley hat is soaked with rain,
And my knees and back are wracked with pain,
At last I am on the road again,
And have left behind the Pilgrims' Bane.
It really doesn't matter,
If my old Tilley hat is soaked with rain,
And my knees and back are wracked with pain,
At last I am on the road again,
And have left behind the Pilgrims' Bane.
I was not sorry to leave Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. It is the pilgrims' base camp where they gather and regroup before making the jump across the Pyrennees. Some have arrived from the French caminos; many are starting afresh. They arrive each day in their hundreds and look for rooms and gites and meals. And the commercants are ready for them, raising their prices and lowering the quality. At least, that has been my experience.
On a similar theme, as I walk, I find myself veering more and more to the left of the political road as I see the aftermath of rampant capitalism. If bigger enterprises weren't so intent on driving little enterprises out of business in the interest of bigger profits, then little towns and little villages would survive and men and women would have jobs. Of course, bigger enterprises will always be driven by greed, so Big Government needs to control Big Business to protect little business and little people. That's my philosophy, anyway.
As I left my miserable little garret this morning, I saw the pilgrims marching down the cobbled stones on the rue de la Citadel, heavily cloaked in the heavy rain, heading off to cross the Pyrennees. I didn't envy them. It would not be pleasant up there. Me, I was off to the coast along the valleys.
Not that it was all that pleasant for me, either. I wasn't high up on exposed slopes, but I was in the rain, more or less all day. I had bought a map and a little guide giving details of accommodation, but they soon got wet and were impossible to use.
O spare a thought for this poor old sod,
Whose map has become a sodden wad,
And who looks in vain for a friendly God
To stop the rain with Aaron's rod,
But only the cows will give a nod.
They then continue to chew their fod.
I know that I will not become Poet Laureate, but I hope one day for inclusion in Palgrave's Golden Treasury of Gibberish, or the Oxford Book of Excruciating Verse.
I battled the traffic for the first few kilometres out of town, and then followed the minor roads, and soon found myself in a broad open valley with vines on every slope. This was the first wine-growing country I had seen. And of course the sheep were everywhere, or had been. I passed two troops, flocking through a village, and without a dog to manage them. Instead, they followed their shepherd, as if he were the Pied Piper. Many of the sheep were stumbling along on three legs, and I've noticed them doing the same thing in the fields. Their hooves must get plugged up with mud or crud.
I walked through village after village, stitched together with threads of white stone houses, but as I climbed higher, I left civilization behind, and the waters raged on every side. Rivers and brooks and tumbling cataracts were all in full spate. It was raining today, but there must have been heavier rains a few days ago, because the road was washed away in places. Even today, enough water was coursing down these channels to solve California's drought problem. Drift a little too far to the right on this section of the road and you'd come to a soggy end. I am surprised it was still open.
I passed through the col and then down into a large open valley. From the village of Bidarray, open fields stretch out on all sides to the surrounding hilltops, rather like, but on a smaller scale, little towns in the Rocky Mountains.
I am staying at the local gite which gave me a ticket to get a walker's or pilgrim's meal at the hotel nearby, where I enjoyed a fine sausages and lentils meal. (We are far enough away from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to get value for money). After my desert, I was telling the server that I was tempted to have a coffee, but that I wanted to sleep tonight, when the man at the neighbouring table turned to me and said,
Vous parlez tres bien Francais, Monsieur, avec un petit accent qui est charmant.
On a similar theme, as I walk, I find myself veering more and more to the left of the political road as I see the aftermath of rampant capitalism. If bigger enterprises weren't so intent on driving little enterprises out of business in the interest of bigger profits, then little towns and little villages would survive and men and women would have jobs. Of course, bigger enterprises will always be driven by greed, so Big Government needs to control Big Business to protect little business and little people. That's my philosophy, anyway.
As I left my miserable little garret this morning, I saw the pilgrims marching down the cobbled stones on the rue de la Citadel, heavily cloaked in the heavy rain, heading off to cross the Pyrennees. I didn't envy them. It would not be pleasant up there. Me, I was off to the coast along the valleys.
Not that it was all that pleasant for me, either. I wasn't high up on exposed slopes, but I was in the rain, more or less all day. I had bought a map and a little guide giving details of accommodation, but they soon got wet and were impossible to use.
O spare a thought for this poor old sod,
Whose map has become a sodden wad,
And who looks in vain for a friendly God
To stop the rain with Aaron's rod,
But only the cows will give a nod.
They then continue to chew their fod.
I know that I will not become Poet Laureate, but I hope one day for inclusion in Palgrave's Golden Treasury of Gibberish, or the Oxford Book of Excruciating Verse.
I battled the traffic for the first few kilometres out of town, and then followed the minor roads, and soon found myself in a broad open valley with vines on every slope. This was the first wine-growing country I had seen. And of course the sheep were everywhere, or had been. I passed two troops, flocking through a village, and without a dog to manage them. Instead, they followed their shepherd, as if he were the Pied Piper. Many of the sheep were stumbling along on three legs, and I've noticed them doing the same thing in the fields. Their hooves must get plugged up with mud or crud.
I walked through village after village, stitched together with threads of white stone houses, but as I climbed higher, I left civilization behind, and the waters raged on every side. Rivers and brooks and tumbling cataracts were all in full spate. It was raining today, but there must have been heavier rains a few days ago, because the road was washed away in places. Even today, enough water was coursing down these channels to solve California's drought problem. Drift a little too far to the right on this section of the road and you'd come to a soggy end. I am surprised it was still open.
I passed through the col and then down into a large open valley. From the village of Bidarray, open fields stretch out on all sides to the surrounding hilltops, rather like, but on a smaller scale, little towns in the Rocky Mountains.
I am staying at the local gite which gave me a ticket to get a walker's or pilgrim's meal at the hotel nearby, where I enjoyed a fine sausages and lentils meal. (We are far enough away from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to get value for money). After my desert, I was telling the server that I was tempted to have a coffee, but that I wanted to sleep tonight, when the man at the neighbouring table turned to me and said,
Vous parlez tres bien Francais, Monsieur, avec un petit accent qui est charmant.
Day 25. April 28, 2015. Bidarray to Espelette. 21 kms
All we like sheep have gone astray
Sheep visited me this morning, poking their noses up against the glass door of the kitchen as I was eating my breakfast. They milled around outside, chomping on the lush grass on the overgrown lawn in front of the gite. Their shepherd had taken them on a little jaunt.
They are not the brightest of animals, sheep. A little later, their master had put them back in their field next to the gite, but two little lambs had squeezed out between the horizontal bars of the gate and were now running back and forth along the barbed wire fence, squealing for their mother on the other side. The shepherd swung the gate wide open, and tried to direct them back into the field, but of course they ran in the wrong direction. When he managed to send them back towards the gate, instead of running around it and into the field, they trapped themselves between the gate and the fence. Then, as he approached, they ran around the gate but right past the opening towards the road. I did my good deed for the day by cutting them off, and together, we got them back to their mothers.
As I walk along the valleys, I see them everywhere, white dots on the green patches on the mountains. Jean Louis and Maite had 40 acres of land in the valley but more up in the hills. And the farmers' fields are not always contiguous so the sheep are always being moved around.
I was walking along the D349 for most of the day, a minor road, but with a little traffic, when suddenly an enormous flock of sheep, 200 or more, barrelled down the road towards me, tumbling and stumbling, and turning just in time into a neighbouring field. I waited for the dog or the shepherd to appear. None. How did the sheep knowwhere to go? Another mystery. And as they rumbled through the gate, some of the lambs would frolic ahead, and lose their mothers, and somehow find them again, and then, when all had settled down, bunt them in the udder to get the milk flowing. And they all stood there, looking at me, well, sheepishly.
The dags on the bags of the shags of the sheep
Give cheese for the teas of grandees at the Keep.
I don't know why the word "sheepish" has taken on its more common meaning of "shamefaced". There's nothing shamefaced about sheep. Perhaps there's a Biblical allusion there somewhere. "Capricious" on the other hand clearly reflects the whimsical nature of the goat, and "bovine", the slow-moving, cud-chewing characteristics of the cow.
It was an easy day, walking more or less west on the south bank of the Nive, and passing eventually through the Pas de Roland, along with the river and the little branch line which links Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port with Bayonne. This line was was recently electrified, but was unhappily washed out in the recent floods.
At Itxassou, I left the river behind me, and cut across to the little town of Espelette. I had expected another lonely village like Bidarray, but no, this was a pleasant, lively little place, lined with white shops and houses and thronged with tourists. This was not a modern town, but not an old one either. I noticed that one of the houses was dated 1819. The only older feature was the chateau which housed the Office de Tourisme and the Mairie.
Espelette is famous for its piment, a mild chili pepper used to flavour most of the meals in the region. And the curved streets were lined with shops selling the products that were made with the pepper.
For supper, I decided to treat myself to the Menu a 20€. Warm, goat cheese salad, followed by chopped veal in a piment sauce with roast potatoes, and then fromage de brebis. It was a Basque meal. Delicious! And a nice quart de rouge with the level generously above the 250 cc line in the flask. Cost? 2€.30.
Now I promise you that this is my last word on the subject, but at Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port for a quarter litre of plonk, Chateau Pilgrims's Bane, the cost was 6€. Pilgrims, I among them, were being sucked in by the sign "Pilgrims Menu 12€" (only two courses by the way and no choice, but a nice salad for an extra six euros) and then cheated by the price of the wine.
Now Espelette was also a tourist town. Why wasn't the same thing happening here? Because the tourists were French and they wouldn't accept this nonsense. At Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port the gullible pilgrims sheepishly pay. There, I think I've finally got it out of my system.
Sheep visited me this morning, poking their noses up against the glass door of the kitchen as I was eating my breakfast. They milled around outside, chomping on the lush grass on the overgrown lawn in front of the gite. Their shepherd had taken them on a little jaunt.
They are not the brightest of animals, sheep. A little later, their master had put them back in their field next to the gite, but two little lambs had squeezed out between the horizontal bars of the gate and were now running back and forth along the barbed wire fence, squealing for their mother on the other side. The shepherd swung the gate wide open, and tried to direct them back into the field, but of course they ran in the wrong direction. When he managed to send them back towards the gate, instead of running around it and into the field, they trapped themselves between the gate and the fence. Then, as he approached, they ran around the gate but right past the opening towards the road. I did my good deed for the day by cutting them off, and together, we got them back to their mothers.
As I walk along the valleys, I see them everywhere, white dots on the green patches on the mountains. Jean Louis and Maite had 40 acres of land in the valley but more up in the hills. And the farmers' fields are not always contiguous so the sheep are always being moved around.
I was walking along the D349 for most of the day, a minor road, but with a little traffic, when suddenly an enormous flock of sheep, 200 or more, barrelled down the road towards me, tumbling and stumbling, and turning just in time into a neighbouring field. I waited for the dog or the shepherd to appear. None. How did the sheep knowwhere to go? Another mystery. And as they rumbled through the gate, some of the lambs would frolic ahead, and lose their mothers, and somehow find them again, and then, when all had settled down, bunt them in the udder to get the milk flowing. And they all stood there, looking at me, well, sheepishly.
The dags on the bags of the shags of the sheep
Give cheese for the teas of grandees at the Keep.
I don't know why the word "sheepish" has taken on its more common meaning of "shamefaced". There's nothing shamefaced about sheep. Perhaps there's a Biblical allusion there somewhere. "Capricious" on the other hand clearly reflects the whimsical nature of the goat, and "bovine", the slow-moving, cud-chewing characteristics of the cow.
It was an easy day, walking more or less west on the south bank of the Nive, and passing eventually through the Pas de Roland, along with the river and the little branch line which links Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port with Bayonne. This line was was recently electrified, but was unhappily washed out in the recent floods.
At Itxassou, I left the river behind me, and cut across to the little town of Espelette. I had expected another lonely village like Bidarray, but no, this was a pleasant, lively little place, lined with white shops and houses and thronged with tourists. This was not a modern town, but not an old one either. I noticed that one of the houses was dated 1819. The only older feature was the chateau which housed the Office de Tourisme and the Mairie.
Espelette is famous for its piment, a mild chili pepper used to flavour most of the meals in the region. And the curved streets were lined with shops selling the products that were made with the pepper.
For supper, I decided to treat myself to the Menu a 20€. Warm, goat cheese salad, followed by chopped veal in a piment sauce with roast potatoes, and then fromage de brebis. It was a Basque meal. Delicious! And a nice quart de rouge with the level generously above the 250 cc line in the flask. Cost? 2€.30.
Now I promise you that this is my last word on the subject, but at Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port for a quarter litre of plonk, Chateau Pilgrims's Bane, the cost was 6€. Pilgrims, I among them, were being sucked in by the sign "Pilgrims Menu 12€" (only two courses by the way and no choice, but a nice salad for an extra six euros) and then cheated by the price of the wine.
Now Espelette was also a tourist town. Why wasn't the same thing happening here? Because the tourists were French and they wouldn't accept this nonsense. At Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port the gullible pilgrims sheepishly pay. There, I think I've finally got it out of my system.
Day 36. April 28, 2015. Esselte to Ascain. 20kms
So all day long the noise of battle rolled
The redoubt
Yesterday, about 1200 years ago, I might have seen Charlemagne and Roland on their way to fight the Moors at the Battle of Roncevalles. Today, just over 200 years ago, I might have met the forces of Wellington coming towards me to confront the French. Had those campaigns gone the other way, we might not have been singing the Messiah every Christmas. We might not have been singing at all. But sometimes it doesn't work out so well. Think how different the world might have been if Al Gore had beaten George Bush.
Today, I followed the path across the hills. I climbed steadily into gentle rolling hills and caught my first glimpse of the coast. This was not wild country. Everywhere about me I could see the little white houses with their orange tiled roofs. Then I was cutting across country along a rough dirt road.
To one side of me was a dense maple forest, and on the other, the redoubt, the fortifications surrounded by a deep ditch, constructed during the Revolution to counter Royalist troops, and then used again by the French to stop Wellington's army as he marched up from Spain. The dirt road was worn down to bedrock, and I could imagine Wellington's troops dragging their cannon up this road. Apparently 400 French died on one day.
Then down to cross the Nivelle at Pont d'Amotz. I made a little detour to see the old bridge. You come across these ponts romains everywhere in France, named for the style of architecture rather than their date of construction. Some are Roman; others, medieval. Of this one, one arch remained, trees growing out of it.
Today, I followed the path across the hills. I climbed steadily into gentle rolling hills and caught my first glimpse of the coast. This was not wild country. Everywhere about me I could see the little white houses with their orange tiled roofs. Then I was cutting across country along a rough dirt road.
To one side of me was a dense maple forest, and on the other, the redoubt, the fortifications surrounded by a deep ditch, constructed during the Revolution to counter Royalist troops, and then used again by the French to stop Wellington's army as he marched up from Spain. The dirt road was worn down to bedrock, and I could imagine Wellington's troops dragging their cannon up this road. Apparently 400 French died on one day.
Then down to cross the Nivelle at Pont d'Amotz. I made a little detour to see the old bridge. You come across these ponts romains everywhere in France, named for the style of architecture rather than their date of construction. Some are Roman; others, medieval. Of this one, one arch remained, trees growing out of it.
The Roman bridge at Pont d'Amotz
Then I climbed again towards Mont Suhamendi. On the way up I passed a parcel of Brits on a walking tour, strung out in dribs and drabs along the track, some walking, some resting, some eating. By the time I had reached the last one I had quite a full picture of their itinerary for the day.
I read an article in the Guardian yesterday saying that the Norwegian prime minister keeps her mobile phone in her bra. I wonder where our prime minister keeps his.
I came down from Mount Suhalmendi into what seemed to be a large mountain park. Gorze and heather grew on the Rocky slopes, and wild horses roamed at will. And on the slope to my left as I walked down towards Ascain was an example of European funding at its most enlightened. Scattered along the hillside at intervals of about 200 yards were little pig runs, a dozen or so, each with a shelter and water trough on a concrete base. The purpose of the project was to allow the pigs to live in the fresh air and roam freely. Two Basque porkers were already in residence at one of the sties. I asked them what it was like to be the first to live in this progressive community. "Four legs goooood, two legs baaad!" they said.
What enlightened government policy! Our government turns a blind eye while hog producers build bigger and bigger barns to cage more and more pigs that will never see the light of day. Here they were living en pleine air.
I read an article in the Guardian yesterday saying that the Norwegian prime minister keeps her mobile phone in her bra. I wonder where our prime minister keeps his.
I came down from Mount Suhalmendi into what seemed to be a large mountain park. Gorze and heather grew on the Rocky slopes, and wild horses roamed at will. And on the slope to my left as I walked down towards Ascain was an example of European funding at its most enlightened. Scattered along the hillside at intervals of about 200 yards were little pig runs, a dozen or so, each with a shelter and water trough on a concrete base. The purpose of the project was to allow the pigs to live in the fresh air and roam freely. Two Basque porkers were already in residence at one of the sties. I asked them what it was like to be the first to live in this progressive community. "Four legs goooood, two legs baaad!" they said.
What enlightened government policy! Our government turns a blind eye while hog producers build bigger and bigger barns to cage more and more pigs that will never see the light of day. Here they were living en pleine air.
Day 37. April 30, 2015. Ascain to Irun. 20 kms
Ile des Faisants
Tramp, tramp,tramp along the highway
Some days there isn't much to write home about. This was one of those days, so I won't write home much about it.
Once again, I got a little lost, but a friendly postman put me right. All through the day I see the posties in their little yellow vans as they follow their circuitous routes along country roads. Sometimes when I get lost, I ask them for directions (who better?), and then later in the day our paths may cross again, and we are pleased to see each other.
In the morning I walked along the highway, in the afternoon along the minor roads, and then I crossed the river Bidassoa and I was in Spain.
As I walked along the river on the Spanish side, I came upon the Ile des Faysants, in midstream between the two countries. For six months it belongs to Hendaye; for six months to Irun. If only China and its neighbours could solve their disputes in this way.
You may be wondering what I'm doing in Spain. Well, I continued on to Irun, the Spanish border town on the Atlantic, because this is where the Camino del Norte begins, which I may walk one day. In fact because I have a few days to spare, I am going to begin walking it tomorrow.
We were six at supper: a young Floridienne, Victoria; a German, Andre; two French ladies from Toulouse, Renee and Josee; and a Canadian who has hiked everywhere and proceeded to tell me about it.
But I know that I'm back in Spain. We are chockers at the gite. A Babel of languages.One toilet for all of us. The ladies from Lyon in the bunks above are planning to get up at six o'clock. No sleeping in here. And so to bed.
Click here to continue
Some days there isn't much to write home about. This was one of those days, so I won't write home much about it.
Once again, I got a little lost, but a friendly postman put me right. All through the day I see the posties in their little yellow vans as they follow their circuitous routes along country roads. Sometimes when I get lost, I ask them for directions (who better?), and then later in the day our paths may cross again, and we are pleased to see each other.
In the morning I walked along the highway, in the afternoon along the minor roads, and then I crossed the river Bidassoa and I was in Spain.
As I walked along the river on the Spanish side, I came upon the Ile des Faysants, in midstream between the two countries. For six months it belongs to Hendaye; for six months to Irun. If only China and its neighbours could solve their disputes in this way.
You may be wondering what I'm doing in Spain. Well, I continued on to Irun, the Spanish border town on the Atlantic, because this is where the Camino del Norte begins, which I may walk one day. In fact because I have a few days to spare, I am going to begin walking it tomorrow.
We were six at supper: a young Floridienne, Victoria; a German, Andre; two French ladies from Toulouse, Renee and Josee; and a Canadian who has hiked everywhere and proceeded to tell me about it.
But I know that I'm back in Spain. We are chockers at the gite. A Babel of languages.One toilet for all of us. The ladies from Lyon in the bunks above are planning to get up at six o'clock. No sleeping in here. And so to bed.
Click here to continue
