Day 1 Into Spain

There is a lot written about the first stage over the Pyrenees. I also read a lot about the importance of “listening to your body” – apparently one should always be aware of the aches and twinges and respond accordingly.

This morning, the owner of the guesthouse got up early to make me breakfast, took a photo of me setting out and then waved me off with a cheery “Bon Camino”. Over breakfast he, of course, told me earnestly to listen to my body. The first 100 metres or so from the guesthouse were fine. The road then changed to a long 1:3 slope. At this point my body started talking volubly along the lines of “this is, even by your cretinous standards, stupid, stupid, stupid”. My body then suggested that the pilgrimage walk of St Birinius which wends its way from Oxford to Dorchester (in Oxfordshire) would perhaps have been a wiser choice. Finally my body strongly opined that it is perfectly legitimate to start the Camino from Roncesvalles and so why don’t we get a taxi, like the rucksack?

Leaving StJPdP

I decided to ignore my body and pushed up into the mountains. After 7k one comes to a bar called Orisson. It has rooms too and some people were calling it a day after about two hours of walking. I had a presse and enjoyed listening to Johnny Cash singing about being the Man in Black. Then the horror truly began.

Orisson

For those of you who may not know this, mountains are actually pretty steep. And you know you are going quite high when you are looking down on snow fields. And after every peak, guess what? There’s another peak in front of you. The route is called the Route Napoleon because it was the little general’s favourite way into Spain. All I can say is no wonder the French got their butts kicked in every battle in the Peninsular War; those French troops must have been completely knackered by the time they got to the battlefield. And despite the snow it was roasting all the way along the track.

I had packed my fleece – completely pointless – and to illlustrate what a rubbish decision that was, it was only the presence of so many other pilgrims that stopped me taking off my sweatshirt and treating the mountain ponies to rather a lot of the finest English flab. It took me 6 and a half hours to walk the 24.5km. Still, I made it and was glad to be checking into a nice hotel rather than the hostel which has 110 beds in one room. I was able to collapse, moan quietly a bit, wash my socks in the sink, recover and am now on a terrace drinking beer. I hate to think what my body is going to say when I put that sodding overweight rucksack on tomorrow. I’ll go to the pilgrim mass tonight and pray for a bit of a miracle and for my body to be struck dumb.

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