Day 30. Etsaut to Col du Somport (17 kms)

30 April, 2011

Much ado about nothing!

The Federation of Grandes Randonnees has declassified most of the last section of the Chemin d'Arles in France, from Bedous to Somport, and recommended that walkers take a bus to avoid walking along a dangerous section of the highway.

The French take this warning very seriously. They paint a picture of trucks whizzing by every second, spewing out diesel fumes. I heard about crazy Spanish drivers "who take a siesta and then weave back and forth across the road half asleep".

It may be a case of the pot calling the kettle black. I stll remember the French driver in Caen who backed up along the autoroute when he missed his turnoff.

As it turned out, walking along the highway was quite feasible. There were some narrow sections where there was little space between the white line and the barrier or a cliff, and there was one place where a nice grassy field would have offered an escape from a truck hurtling towards me but for the electric fence which kept me out. Be squashed or be fried! But for the most part, it was easy going, and today, only one truck passed by.

As we climb steadily, the temperature drops. New vistas open to snow-capped mountains. On the peaks above, the rock strata twist and turn. The road hugs the cliff on one side of the valley, while high above, the old railway, an engineering marvel, is supported on its embankment by tall Roman arches. Farms dot the hills on the other side, and cattle laze and graze on the steep slopes. Perhaps they develop one leg longer than the other.

The road winds around a huge cliff which juts down into the valley. The railway tunnels straight through.

Now we leave the highway to take the old road into Spain. Here, we are certainly treading where the pilgrims trod. We climb steadily up the leafy trail. Clumps of gentians cluster around the rocks. Waterfalls carve creek beds across the ancient road. Below are the moss-covered rusty rails of the old line. Far below is the highway.

At last, we cross the frontier into Spain. Fortunately, I have an extensive Spanish vocabulary which should serve me well. It comprises "cafe con lecce", "vino tinto", and "cerveza". I just used the last, and it worked.

Day 29. Sarrance to Etsaut (23 kms)

29 April, 2011

Still no fleas (nor bedbugs) in the high Pyrenees. Nor the ting, tong, tang of the guitar.

I am on my own again. My companions are taking the bus to avoid a difficult section along the highway.

As the GR now makes detours with some steep climbs, I am sticking to the roads. It is easier on my shin.

I walked the seven kilometres into Bedous. As the trucks passed, they tried to whip my Tilley off my head, so I fastened it securely with my chinstrap.

A word about my Tilley. The Tilley Hat is a Canadian institution, like the Globe and Mail and the CBC, but less likely to make grammatical mistakes. If you encounter a Tilley, there is likely to be a Canadian underneath it. The Tilley Hat has a lifetime guarantee.

I acquired my first Tilley about 25 years ago. I wore it on school trips in the Rockies, on long walks in England, and on the Camino Frances and the Chemin du Puy. It finally wore out after 20 years. I took into a store and they replaced it without question.

I am now about five years into my second Tilley. Will I outlive it?

As I entered Bedous, I passed a memorial to les Passeurs, the members of the Resistance who smuggled the allied airmen out of France into Spain. This was one of the routes they took. I was moved by the simple truth of the dedication:

Aux Passeurs
Qui les guiderent
Au peril de leur vie

I looked up at the hills. The Germans would have easily controlled the valley road I was walking along. The Passeurs must have taken the airmen along secret paths high in the mountains.

The woman at the Office de Tourisme told me of a nice easy road to the village of Accous where the rest of the Company of Pilgrims were catching the bus to Somport.

It was a glorious day. I walked along a valley with steep hills on either side, rather like the Lake District in England. I could see some patches of snow on the tops.

I was marvelling at the beauty of nature, the bluebells and forget-me-nots and fox gloves, the song birds, the mountains rising on either side up to the sky, the sun shining through the waterfalls, and all the while, the sound of the rushing of the river down the valley.

"Earth hath not anything to show more fair," I thought.

And then I wondered why I hadn't reached the village. I checked my compass. I was heading in the wrong direction. I stopped a car. Yes, I had taken a wrong turning. Again.

For once, I wasn't too annoyed with myself. It had been a delightful detour. On the way back down the hill, a dog barked a warning. A shepherd was approaching with a flock of sheep. I let them pass by.

I finally reached the village of Accous. The others were there, except Miek, who was walking after all. I decided to walk another 10 kms to join her at Etsaut. Patrick, gentil as always, took responsibility for this splinter group and booked our places at the gite.

Staying with us at the gite are two friendly donkeys, who say from time to time, "Eeyore! Eeyore!"

Day 28. Oloron Sainte-Marie to Sarrance

As I left town today, the grand old bloody Duke of York took a hand in things again, sending me up a long flight of stairs to the top of a hill and then down the other side, all the while ignoring a road around the side. Later, a woman in a village told me to ignore the GR where it took a pointless loop. I followed her advice.

Patrick, on the other hand, made the mistake that I made on the Stevenson, following a GR towards Saint-Jean Pied de Port. He arrived last at our gite. Usually, he arrives first.

Normally, cowbells are cracked and tinny, but this morning I heard one with a clear ring that sounded like the school bell that used to bring the kids in from playtime.

For the past couple of days I have been walking through boggy stretches. Normally, you can negotiate a dry path around the edges, but not today. I had to squelch my way right through the middle, up to the top of my boots. Once again, I was glad to be wearing my clunkers.

With the pain in my calf, tendinitis, I'm told it is, I'm suffering as the pilgrims of old must have suffered, but they didn't have the benefit of little red pills to ease the pain.

Until Oloron, we had been travelling west. Now we take a turn to the south - for Spain. We are walking up a valley which I think will lead to the pass at Somport. The hills are high and steep on either side.

We are staying at an abbey with a small but interesting cloister. The church is baroque in the Spanish style Not to my taste, it is dark and gloomy with lots of ornamentation and paintings in relief, including one of some poor soul enduring the torments of hell. Saints seem to have replaced the stations of the cross. It was just the sort of place to give a young Catholic nightmares.

Why I walk the Camino. Part 2

So I don't walk the Camino for religious reasons. Why do I walk it?

My mate George asked me if I was on some kind of heroic quest. Well, yes, I suppose I am. Every journey is a kind of spiritual journey.

But I am not a hero. For me, it was Marmeladov who said it best: "A man must have somewhere to go."

0f our company of pilgrims, all are doing it for some kind of personal, and some would say, spiritual, reasons.

One of us has reached his mid-fifties after a successful business and political life. He is wondering what to do with the rest of his life.

Another began walking the Camino after a serous loss in her life and found that she experienced a profound change. She continues to walk.

Another told how her brother carried a stone in memory of their brother to place on the cross of iron. She too be imbued with the spirit of the Camino.

Others are walking the Camino because it gives them time to think.

For everyone, the Camino is a kind of quest in the sense that one has all the time in the world to think and perhaps to put those thoughts in order.

As I walk, I find that thoughts tumble in, and tumble about in, my head. Sometimes I can walk for miles, lost in my thoughts. Perhaps, the rhythm of my walking aids my thinking.

Perhaps my quest is to put my thoughts in order and to find meaning in them.

Day 27. Lescar to Oloron Sainte-Marie (32 kms)

27 April, 2011

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills
From whence cometh my help.
My help cometh from... Jean
Who maketh us a cup of coffee.

We are in the foothills of the Pyrenees. Just after climbing the first hill, a man beckoned us into his garden and offered us coffee and cake. We sat there on his terrace overlooking the mountains and took a welcome break. It was an extraordinary gesture of hospitality! His name was Jean.

We passed a huge stockpile of wood that was being watered by large sprinklers. Apparently it had fallen during a storm in 2009 and had to be kept moist until it could be milled. So much wood had fallen during that storm that it hasn't yet been used up.

We ate lunch at the little village of Lecommande, so named because it was once a centre for the Knights Hospitalier.

At noon, the clock struck twelve, not once but several times, and then launched into a strange tintinnabulation of chimes that lasted for several minutes. It was a strange musical accompaniment to our lunch.

It was a long, long day, up and down through oak, beech and pine forests.

How do I keep going when I'm absolutely buggered?

If I'm climbing, I find myself counting in twenties, up to a hundred, and then another, and another if I can, until I have to stop to catch my breath and let my heart slow down. I'm then a little closer to the top.

If it's getting towards the end of the day, and I'm buggered, and there's still a way to go, I compare it to a distance I know at home.

I used to say to myself, Once more around Wolseley and Welly Crescent. Now I say, Once more around bloody Elk and Beaver Lake!

The French cooked us a superb meal tonight - duck and ratatouille. Quite magnificent! We are not eating simple pilgrims' meals.

Day 26. Morlaas to Lescar (20 km)

26 April, 2012
It was raining as we left the gite. I had to don all my rain gear, jacket, pants, and pack cover, but a little later it stopped, so I had to take it all off again.

It was misty then overcast this morning, and the mournful cooing of the cuckoos and doves seemed to overwhelm the more cheerful sounds of the songbirds.

The call of the dove, coo coo, coo, a three-note call, is the call that I remember from childhood in Perth. I think that we have doves in Victoria, but not with the same call.

We passed a very serious pilgrim going in the other direction - to Rome. He had more than 2,200 kms and two months to walk. He was just starting out.

In the afternoon it lightened up, and we walked through a forest, around the outskirts of Pau, along a river into Lescar, and and then climbed up to the cathedral to find our gite.

The cathedral is magnificent. Romanesque, it sits firmly on the ground in its light brown stone, broad and solid.

In the cathedral, I noticed that 53 soldiers from this town had died in the First World War. In every village, we pass the Monument aux Morts. Even the smallest hamlet gave up a large proportion of its young men.

I left my American-European adapter at the last gite. So that I could continue to charge my phone and receive calls from my loving wife, I walked two or three kilometres out of town to the big box stores and bought another adapter.

A man dropped by our gite wondering if he could help us in any way. He kindly took my new adapter and cut off the top with his saw so it could receive my phone plug. He also found us a restaurant and drove us there, making two trips in his car. It was another generous act!

We ate in a huge barn of a place. It was a cider house, and we drank cider instead of wine as it was included in the price. The meal sat heavily in my stomach.

I have developed a case of shin splints in one leg. The same thing happened in Spain after the same number of days of walking. I think I just walked it off, and I hope I can do the same with this bout.

Day 25. Anoye to Morlaas (15.2 kms)

25 April, 2011

We stayed last night at a gite run by a commune which could not possibly have benefitted financially from our presence. There were no shops where we could spend our money. Eight of us paid ten euros each, but this would barely have covered the utility costs of this newly renovated building. One possible benefit to the commune was putting an old building to good use.

We have stayed in hotels, gites and chambres d'hotes.

Hotels are hotels, but sometimes the demi-pension rate is cheap enough to attract us (around 40 euros).

Chambres d'hotes are bed and breakfasts. They supply towels and sheets. They provide individual rooms and sometimes dormitories. They often offer demi-pension.

Gites provide beds in a dormitory or separate rooms, without towels and sheets. Sometimes they offer demi-pension. They may be run by the church, the commune, or private individuals. Sometimes they are set up specifically for pilgrims.

We have stayed on farms, in former presbyteries, in mairies, in old houses in the centre of town, and In newer houses on the outskirts.

The food has always been good, ranging from a five-course meal with aperatif, to simple farm fare. With one exception, the wine has been excellent as well.

Today was the shortest step I have taken. In fact, we have been spoiled with a series of short walks which end tomorrow. Then will follow a series of long days as we climb into the Pyrenees.

We are still walking across fairly flat agricultural land, through fields of wheat, maize, and canola. Occasionally we pass through wooded country, and we always go through a hamlet or small village during the day.

Usually, first stop on arriving is at the bar where we toss back a cold beer. Today was the Easter Monday holiday and everything was closed down. We scoured the town to find a bar that was open, but to no avail. Finally, we entered a hotel and begged for a beer.

Nor were the restaurants open, nor stores to buy food, so we pooled our resources and managed an apple salad, sardine oil pasta, some cheese, and some cake, all washed down with a nice desert wine.