Camino del Norte. Day 1. (Day 38). May 1, 2015. Irun to San Sebastián. 30 kms

Sumer is icumen in

Llude sing cuckoo

(This was the beginning of the Norte for me, and the end of my walk along the Piedmont from Montpelier.)

The ladies from Lyon did indeed get up at six o'clock, and not soon after that some Spanish music was rumbling through the alberge, so there was no sleeping in. I left soon after seven o'clock. Pilgrims were strung out ahead of me, some with sensible packs like mine, others carrying all their goods and chattels on their backs.

We climbed steadily, up and around a mountain, reaching about 800 feet over a dozen kilometres. One of the French ladies was flat on her back after the first steep ascent. Soon the beach and harbour of Irun appeared, and then a wide sweep of mountains, but down in the valley below were miles and miles of apartment buildings and heavy industry. As I walked on high, far removed from the industrial world below, I heard my first cuckoo.

I find I am in the middle of the pack. I do not reach the young blades, who are far ahead, but I overtake stragglers, especially those with heavy packs. Except when I miss a turning, and then I am at the back of the pack again.

There were yellow arrows everywhere: on the trees, on the poles, on the posts, on the road, on the rocks. It was impossible to get lost. Or so I thought.

Towards lunchtime, we started going down steeply, giving up all the height we had gained, going all the way down to the little port of Pasajes, where apparently some of the Spanish Armada was built. I walked through the medieval streets, seeing no arrows, I supposed, because no one wanted to disfigure the stone. Finally I thought I had better ask someone where the Camino was.

I must digress for a moment to explain that because it's my practice to leave for Europe straight after my choir concert, I often have tunes in my head which sustain my plodding or my marching rhythm. Two years ago, Haydn was particularly helpful in getting me up hills. Last year Carmina Burana was the wind behind my back on the ridges. But this year, none of the concert pieces was in my head.

An old lady whom I asked for directions to the Camino, was totally bewildered, but a man in a bar got very excited, took me outside, and pointed in the direction I had come. It couldn't be, I thought, I can't climb that hill again. He spoke in a torrent of Spanish, and I didn't understand a word -- except one: barco. I heard the phrase in my head from a work we had sung this year: El  barco. A boat, I have to catch a boat, a ferry, to take me across the harbour. And so I did. And I sang the words.

But then on the other side, it was up again, flight after flight of stone steps, perhaps a thousand or more, a 600-foot climb. And then along the cliff with beautiful views of the sea. But eventually it was down again, and I could hear the thunder of the surf, and there was San Sebastián, rows of stately hotels around the two large bays in which wet-suited surfers were doing their best to catch the waves (or looms as we used to call them). We walked for several kilometres along the promenade to a youth hostel on the other side of town. I was lucky enough to get the last bottom bunk. In fact I was lucky to find a place at all. Today is a feast day in Spain, and the youth hostel is not reserved for pilgrims. Some people were turned away.