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.