constanttrek

The Pyrenees…SPAIN!!

December 17th, 2004

And so, for one day only, folks, we come to you live from the city best known for the odd hobby of sending a mob of raging bulls loose in the streets to chase drunken tourists: Pamplona.

That means we are in Spain.

Hola! Beunos Dias! And bloody sore muscles!

To get to Spain from France, one has to cross the Pyrenees. I’m sure you’ve heard of them. They consist of a hill or two, of the kind of size which make the Great Dividing Range look like minor sand dunes.

For months now we have been inundated with increasingly morbid stories about those poor souls idiotic enough to contemplate a winter crossing of the pass; our favourite involved the spring discovery, this year, of three pilgrims’ corpses. But cross we had to, and so we walked from the haven of booze and Fois Gras at Michel and Monique’s to the small village of St Jean Pied-de-Port, otherwise known as St Jean at the foot of the pass.

It is odd how quickly the landscape changes. One minute we were walking away from Dax, and the last remnants of the Landes, and the next we rounded a corner, came over a rise, and face to face with our first glimpse of the mountains, blue and immense on the horizon. After weeks of flat pine forest they were incredibly beautiful. Their rather daunting size was also slightly terrifying.

Fortunately by the time we reached the village, there had been 4 straight days of brilliant sunshine, with two more predicted. The slightly mad woman in the pilgrim’s refuge – lovely, but definitely batty – confirmed that the way across the mountains was safe, much to the vast relief of ourselves and the other few pilgrims there.

There are two routes from St Jean Pied-de-Port: the road way, which is by all accounts boring, not very scenic, and rather long but – undeniably appealing – very safe; and the Route Napoleon, which (predictably, given that it is named after a bloke with a notorious case of small man’s syndrome) is tough, high, hard, but very beautiful.

Obviously we would have appeared complete Big Girl’s Blouses to all the other (3) pilgrims had we settled on the road route, so in a fit of hubris and utter stupidity we agreed to walk the latter.

And thus it was that we found ourselves, in the dark predawn, clattering down the cobbled street of St Jean Pied-de-Port, eyeing the somewhat daunting heights looming above us with more than a touch of trepidation. Five of us set off from the refuge, spaced a short way apart – another couple, Elsbeth and David, and a lone French pilgrim complete with oak staff, Joseph. Elsbeth and David are what you might call professional adventurers, and are extremely experienced walkers, so we felt comfortable in the knowledge that if we were going to cark it we would be doing so in well qualified company.

A few small facts about the Route Napoleon: it is 27 kilometres long; it climbs over 1300 vertical metres; it is estimated to take a fit walker, carrying a 12 kilo pack, at least eight hours; and for over six of those, one is walking solely uphill. In short, this is one big, steep, ugly mother of a climb, and even after the cull, our packs are at least double 12 kilos.

Fortunately all of this is compensated for by truly awesome views. Well, in part, anyway. The road starts climbing pretty much straight out of the village, and for the first three or so hours one just plods directly upwards, glancing back occasionally at the ever decreasing valley below, and still feeling reasonably confident that it won’t be that bad really and – oh look! – the views are wonderful, and aren’t we so glad we came this way instead of the other?

Then the road turns into a track, which also goes upwards, only at a more brutal angle; the track turns into a smaller track, which gets steeper, and … I guess you get the picture.

About three hours later we found ourselves, knees trembling and thighs jelly like, staring out in brilliant midday sunshine across the endless panorama of the snow capped Pyrenees. It was a truly awesome view, all the more incredible as it is mid December and by all rights we should have been inundated with snow and dying of hypothermia. Instead we munched loads of fabulous Bayonne Ham and Basque Pecorino and felt sorry for all the poor sods who were working while we sat up here, on the top of the world, rubber legged but happier than Timothy Leary in a pharmacy supply store. You wouldn’t be dead for quids on a day like that. Another hour or so of going up, and just as we started to get a little concerned that the upward thing was going to continue into the dark, we reached the bit where the path turned downhill.

Now, after climbing over 1300 metres in 6 or so hours, we suddenly found ourselves descending 700 of them in the space of one hour. That is a steep descent. Apart from being pathetically grateful to have no more climbing to do, that kind of descent is pretty taxing on legs which already resemble plasticine, and it was a less than elegant pair who stumbled into the Spanish hamlet of Roncesvalles at about four that afternoon.

The others all made it too, and on the way had collected a sixth pilgrim, Andreus, a German dude who has walked all the way from Geneva. He had actually pitched his tent on the mountainside the night before after walking half of the route, and finished the other half the day we walked over; we gather the night had been less than comfortable, with wind whistling by him and rather nippy temperatures. Makes Gary and my camping efforts look positively pathetic by comparison.

The refuge at Roncesvalles should be one of the most developed. St Jean Pied-de-Port is the most popular starting point for pilgrims (mad bastards) and hence Roncesvalles is the first refuge they encounter. But a more Monty Pythonesque experience would be hard to imagine.

After waiting outside in the cold for about an hour for the office to open, we were finally received by a priest who looked rather ready to cark it himself. One by one we had to sit down, fill in forms which resembled a census, watch whilst he positioned the stamp just so before pushing it down in slow motion, and fill in dual sided receipts for our payment of five euros. All of which took about 15 minutes per person. After this little ritual a relatively spritely chap of a mere 80 or so years led us out to the dorm itself. When we got to the door, he asked for our receipts as proof of our pilgrims status, despite the fact that he had actually BEEN IN THE OFFICE when we filled in the census. After we produced them, he got very confused because one of the numbers seemed to be out of order, so he left us standing outside whilst he went back to the office to double check their veracity. By this stage the whole lot of us were entirely unable to keep a straight face, and when he came back beaming because he had solved the dilemma to his little heart’s content, all we could do was laugh. Bless him. I can’t even imagine what that place must be like in summer when they have hundreds of pilgrims arriving every day.

The refuge was being renovated, so all of us were in a tiny room with one shower and toilet and bunk beds, but after that walk all we really needed was a feed and to be horizontal, so it didn’t really matter. The restaurant up the road had a three course pilgrim’s menu and wine for €7 each, so after attending the Mass we hooked in. They do a special Mass for pilgrims; we were called up to the front of the chapel and a blessing said over us which, even for a less than devout soul as myself, was a touching and meaningful gesture.

So here we are, a couple of days later, legs still resembling Play Doh, well on our way on the Camino de Santiago. Life is wonderful; refuges great, people fantastic, and our light packs more marvellous than ever. It is worth noting that the day after we crossed, bad weather descended on the mountains, and they have been drifting in and out of heavy cloud and snow since. I still look behind us in amazement that we actually climbed the things. If someone had shown me a picture and told me I would be able to walk over such enormous territory, I would have thought they were mad. But we did it. And now we are in Spain. It is all very bizarre. (And by the way, if ever you are tempted to cross the Route Napoleon, there is no truth in the story about there being a passport control at the top of the mountain. Just so as you know. And, yes, I did fall for it.)

If you have been trying to contact my phone, sorry but it looks like it no longer works in Spain. I will have to get a new SIM card. Updates are likely to be a little less frequent due to lack of internet cafes and long walking days, but we shall try to keep them coming.

Adios, amigos!

Entry Filed under: trekking