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.
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
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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