Early start at 0615. I was first up and out – yes Doris, it’s not a race, but I wanted time at the destination so early was appropriate. Surprisingly good night’s sleep, punctuated by limited snoring. Crusty Italian chap was quite the raconteur. Apparently, this was his 7th Camino. That’s all I absorbed, but before I hit the hay, he talked for another 20 minutes, all grins and waving arms. I smiled and nodded and tried to maintain eye contact. Lovely fellah. Never got his name.
As I travel and I’m asked about my nationality (a natural ice-breaker), I say “Scottish” (Zimbabwe would require too much explanation and historical perspective, though occupation “gynaecologist” is a sure-fire conversation-stopper. I give you this for free….). It’s a cop out. In Scots Law, Scotland is my “domicile of origin” and that is inescapable and the plank on which I accurately base my statement. But, it is neither my “domicile of choice” nor my “domicile of dependence” – Family Law, Professor Bill Wilson (RIP), circa quite some time ago – we have a number of domiciles in Scotland. This is wholly-disingenuous because I consider myself more American than anything else. I’ve never really liked the English – they always beat us at sport. My recent dislike of my homelands has slowly metastasised into embarrassed revulsion, courtesy of Nicola Sturgeon and her grinding, whining, nasal delivery and never happy with this, wanting more of that, always demanding more handouts…. yada yada…. Enough! She and Donald Trump deserve the same conclusion. As Lou Reed said “Stick a fork in their ass. They’re done”. (Last Great American Whale).
Most of the day, passage was through unremarkable scenery, mostly woodland and some of it tracking the main road so there was always noise as the guide. Few pictures today as a consequence. I’m learning that in hiking, as economics, there is no free lunch. When you walk on tarmac, it’s easy on your legs but hell on your feet. When you walk on uneven surfaces, it’s easy on your feet, hell on your legs. There is no respite, only discomfort and gradual acclimatisation. Then, I suspect, you go home.
I checked into a private Albergue – Casa Ibarolla – just inside the city walls, south of the Portal de Francia. It opened 1130. I got there 1132 and petted the dog. In like Flynn! This was a tactical choice. There are 20 beds. The price point is €15 (including desunayo) vs the municipal albergue at €10. Why choose? Because 114 beds at 2/3 of the cost of my crib means lower probability of noisy kids, for which there is a higher probability in cities like Pamplona (pop 200,000). The place is very IKEA (see photos) but very clean and well-organized. The showers are hot and strong (like my Doris….) and it is in the heart of the old town. Suhweet!
I’m not going to try to provide a commentary on Pamplona. It’s a bastion of sheer insanity what with the “running of the bulls” thing – San Fermin. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. Darwinian but apparently in insufficient measure – if it was, they’d not have 25%+ youth unemployment in Paella. It is also very beautiful but my legs wont let me explore its grandeur. I’ve taken a couple of photos that I hope capture the essence of the place. As an aside, apparently Ernest Hemingway was a regular here for an extended period (read “The Sun Also Rises”), and was a great supporter of the Navarre region – I can understand that, as well as their desire for independence from the Paella-mothership. This region is special and has a different culture – unlike Scotland. Sorry. There is a montage somewhere that summarizes the bars he frequented (subtle marketing, non?). I’ll try and find it and get a snap.
Tomorrow, 24km from Pamplona to Puente la Reina, characterized by a steep climb and steep descent. More fun.
Yesterday’s pop quiz answer: Michael Collins, Command Module Pilot, and quoted as saying that during the 48 minutes of each orbit that he was out of radio contact with Earth, the feeling he reported was not loneliness, but rather an “awareness, anticipation, satisfaction, confidence, almost exultation”. Quite apropos as it relates to the current pursuit. He’s 86 and apparently, now lives in Rome. Wish I had his pension.
Stop press: Salvador Dali’s exhumed body has a wholly-intact mustache!! WTF?
Factoid: one of my fellow hikers (Paolo, bunk above me, Italian, frequent, staccato conversations over the last 3 days) told me that the reason it is so dark here in the morning is that General Franco demanded that Madrid be in the same time zone as Rome and not London, despite the proximity to the latter. And so it was, and that is why, this morning, my labours began with my donning a head-torch and looking like a complete tool. You play the hand you’re dealt….
Confession: I scored a 30 minute leg massage at 2000 (begging was involved), and I’m taking it!
Good night.
Really enjoying this! Funny, wonder how long you’ll take to properly relax you can see that at the moment ordinary discomfort annoys you I suspect you will mellow the further you are from London mentally as well as physically. Starting to breathe and think more slowly. What a wonderful idea enjoy….
Hi JoJo. Sorry about the delay in responding. I can’t recommend this enough (though if the weather turns, then I’ll pivot). There’s no time to think about work-related matters or anything also, it’s just foot after foot. I’m trying to read a book (fiction), but between walking, settling, eating, blogging and sleeping, there’s almost no time. Weird.