I should have known. The buzz saw in the bed beside me foretold of discomfort. I just didn’t realize the degree.
I’m utterly spent.
“Drained” does not even begin to describe the day.
A full rucksack and severe changes in elevation have a compound effect, not to mention that ALL of the uphill work is at the beginning and just when you thought you’d be ok on the flat with jelly legs that wont respond to command, ALL of the downhill work is at the end. They didn’t mention that in the guidebooks. My legs are in shock. Tomorrow will be interesting.
The day began at 7am in dank gloom, moved to warm fog, changed to windy, out came the sun, and as I peck away here, we’re about to get heavily rained on. The foggy phase was the uphill work and I was astonished at just how much I sweated. It wasn’t hot but it was clammy and it was strenuous. Everyone was panting vigorously. There was no age-descrimination.
Pays Basque turns into Navarre as you cross a non-descript “border”, that is poorly sign-posted and preceded by a cattle grid. It evokes memories of the French Resistance moving surreptitiously in WW2 and more recently ETA and the separatists moving without trace as they plied their own modern-day “resistance”. Freedom fighter or terrorist and all that gubbins…
The landscape is stark and foreboding. It has an angry, jagged quality to it – rather like the staccato service in the cafes and restaurants. Sharp mountains rise out of nowhere. Deep, deep valleys and crevasses are cleft between them. You don’t want to trip and fall down one of those things. Game over. Quite amazing. I’ll let the photos speak for themselves.
I arrived at Roncesvalles at 3pm. 8 hours with stops is about the middle of the guidance they supply in the books. At my age (42), I’m ok with that, and as my mate Paddy Dempsey reminded me, it’s not a race.
“Show me a good loser, and I’ll show you a loser”. Yogi Berra.
I checked into the Albergue (€12 ka-ching, thank you), showered, moisturized (yup), did my laundry by hand and decided I couldn’t wait until 7pm, which was the earliest sitting for the €10 pilgrim dinner. Paella Mariscos at Casa Sabina was calling.
No sign of Maurice.
Sleeping arrangements are in mixed dormitories sub-divided into four bunk-bed “rooms” without a door. Everyone has a locker big enough for the pack though whether the bunks are big enough for the body will be determined. When I arrived, a cheerful but quite smelly Spanish cyclist was in my bunk. I knew he was Spanish because he spoke Spanish to me before I could utter a syllable. I knew he was in my bunk because his smelly shit was strewn all over it. I knew he was illiterate because there was a very clear, simple diagram showing bunks and numbers, and he had a ticket with 218 on it which did not match my bunk (219) with his shit strewn all over. Little things. Not rocket science. I agreed to swap bunks for obvious sanitary reasons.
I warned earlier about a sensitive nose and no doubt this will be a recurrent theme because it really pisses me off. Personal hygiene is so straightforward to get right but so nasty when not attended to – clearly a subject not taught in many European schools. I’ve travelled around a bit, and while the British, Americans and Asians are not without the occasional fugue, I am struck by how often I come across this condition more severely no with greater frequency in Europe. I just sticks in my mind – as well as my olfactory channels. Easy ditty for school kids.:
a dab here
a dab there
means you are clean
and I enjoy fresh air
Addendum: Don’t order the Paella at Casa Sabine if you ever go. It was horrible, over-cooked crisp rice with two anemic shrivels of squid, one half of mussel and two shrimp that had grey, dried-out meat in them. I paid because I don’t have the language skills to adequately express my displeasure and eloquently tell them to fuck off. No tip, not that that’s punitive in Europe.
Tomorrow is a 22km leg from Roncesvalles to Zubiri, with two distinct downhill segments, the latter at the end, descending from 900m to 500m. Weather not looking so great. There’s a sign outside: 798km to Santiago de Compostela.