The Big Walk

European Unity – Day 45

July 16th, 2008 Posted in Hold the Heights, Spain | No Comments »

Another steep climb begins a long walk on forest roads. It seems much easier than a couple of days ago – which is a relief! When we emerge above the forest we again see the stark mountain outlines we’d glimpsed from the Paso Alfredo, but now they are much closer at hand. The descent does begin to tire us though, being steep and overgrown with sharp thorny bushes – my legs are soon covered in cuts and scratches. Helen shouts out as she narrowly avoids stepping on a huge, brightly coloured toad. We emerge at the Ermita d’Idola, high above the settlement of Isaba. There seems to be one of these chapels for every village round here, a sort of party church in the hills used on the feast day of the local patron saint. This one is set in a beautifully tended hillside garden, where we rest with another couple who have wondered up from the village. They are the first people we’ve seen all day.

At the bottom of the hill we find Isaba is a wonderful little town, larger than Ochagavia but not quite so immaculately manicured. It has a more genuine, lived-in feel – and is much more closely cradled by the encircling mountains. We book into another lovely casa rural for a snooze before heading out to explore.

Today has turned out to be the day of the ‘Tribute of the Three Cows’, the towns’ main annual celebration. I can’t understand how we keep timing things so perfectly! The townsfolk from Isaba walk ten kilometres up the valley to a mountain pass which is the border with France. There, they meet the villagers from the French side of the mountains who pay them a tribute of three cows in return for the use of the superior grazings on the Spanish side. The conditions of the tribute were laid down in a peace treaty, the oldest still in force between European nations. The celebration has already taken place on the col earlier today, but we’re treated to the bizarre sight of the Spanish delegation arriving back in Isaba.

Twelve men march down the main street in the most ridiculous costumes imaginable, performing a dance in front of a block of houses though no-one else seems to be here to watch. They are wearing sandals held on by cross-tied leather straps wrapped around their thick socks; above these are short baggy trousers and long white jackets, around which are wrapped skirts made of straw. Tall, conical hats are tied on by straps under their chins, trailing multi-coloured streamers, whilst on the very top small plants seem to be sprouting. They are waving short-handled besoms in their left arms and while they march and dance a real racket is produced by huge pot-shaped brass bells, a pair of which is tied onto each mans’ buttocks. Ten minutes prancing and they’re off, back up the road from whence they came. They don’t even look ashamed!!

Groups of villagers are heading into the rectangular modern building at the foot of the town; we follow them and discover it’s an indoor pelota stadium – there’s to be a match between the French and Spanish villagers. The first game we see is played by teams of two, smashing a ball with wooden bats against a high wall – something like squash but with only two walls to hit and much more space to cover. As this match ends a crowd of locals begins to gather for the main event, a singles match between two guys standing about twenty yards from the wall, smacking the ball with their bare hands. It looks incredibly painful, and a burly man who whacks the ball full pelt every time is soon leading against an older player who has less power but more finesse, occasionally going for drop shots that leave the younger guy stranded. The older guy is clearly in some pain as he rubs his hands constantly between points, but his greater skill soon reels in the advantage, and he eventually takes the match 22:21 to a standing ovation.

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Hard Cheese – Day 44

July 15th, 2008 Posted in Hold the Heights, Spain | No Comments »

Yesterday had completely taken it out of us and we really need to take a day off. We spend it doing virtually nothing except eating. The buffet breakfast in the Casa Rural seems a real luxury; Roncal cheese, the delicious hard local sheep cheese is perfect for lunch, and more fresh trout forms our dinner. By the end of the day our headaches are gone, but we’re going to have to be really careful to make sure we find enough water for the days ahead.

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Running dry – Day 43

June 16th, 2008 Posted in Hold the Heights, Spain | 2 Comments »

Not a good night’s sleep: we hadn’t checked the ground under the tent very well and some rocks seemed to embed themselves in my back during the night. I’m only using a half-length foam pad to sleep on, to save weight, and am already jealous of Helen’s comfy inflatable thermarest pad.

Tracks through the forest begin our day. The forest of Irati is one of the largest in Europe and is very beautiful. Unlike the monotonous monoculture of Britain’s ‘Forest Enterprise’, the forestry operations here are a model of sustainability, with a mix of all kinds of natural species, especially beech and none of the regimented rows of planting – there’s plenty of room for wildlife. Most importantly of all, workers with their chainsaws are carrying out selective felling; there are no ugly clear-cut areas so familiar from home. Over the long term such balanced forestry yields more timber as the soil isn’t stripped of its fertility in a mad rush for immediate maximum yields.

There’s a reservoir here but very little fresh water; we have to fill our bottles from the tiniest of trickling springs before we begin a long climb through the trees – and the heat. Soon I’ve stripped off my t-shirt to get more ventilation but considering the steepness and the temperature I think we’ve done well to break through above the tree-line and arrive at the 1400 metre Paso de las Alforjas col. Here, there’s a great view back over the endless forested hills but more inspiring is the view ahead to the still-distant High Pyrenees – a jagged outline the like of which we’ve not seen before on our journey. We laze in the sunshine at the top of the pass whilst cooking our lunch and drying out the (condensation-soaked) tent. The grass is decorated with hundreds of star-shaped purple merendera –stalkless flowers which grow almost flat to the ground.

We’ve drank all our water and lazed here too long, for as we set off for the long descent we already have thumping headaches. It takes all our concentration to keep to the right line. By the time we reach a beautiful ermita church, still high in the forest, we’re terribly dehydrated and very relieved to find a tap . One more steep descent through the trees and we arrive in Ochagavia.

Ochagavia is a stunning chocolate-box village of whitewashed stone houses, their balconies overflowing with geraniums; narrow, immaculate cobbled streets; a templar church and a crystal-clear river. We can’t appreciate it at the moment though, as we wonder like rabid dogs from one casa rural (Navarrese bed-and-breakfasts) to the next – there may be twenty five of them here but all seem to be full. It’s Friday night and it seems this is the popular retreat for Pamplonians escaping from the continuing chaos of San Fermin. Just as it seems we’ll have to give up we find a lady with a room free. Entering through the high-arched door we’re led into the inner hallway, cobbled in a striking star-shaped design, and up the dark wood staircase into the beautiful family home above. After showering our grime away we collapse on our bed until it’s time to go out for dinner.

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Hold the Heights – Day 42

June 12th, 2008 Posted in Hold the Heights, Spain | No Comments »

CHAPTER THREE

What if I live no more those kingly days?
Their night sleeps with me still.
I dream my feet upon the starry ways;
My heart rests in the hill.
I may not grudge the little left undone;
I hold the heights, I keep the dreams I won.
Geoffrey Winthrop Young

The pilgrim route is over. It feels amazing that the first stage of our journey has finished; the camino seems to have taken forever in itself. We’re excited to finally be heading away from busy roads and organised hostels; from now on, we’re on our own. After a few miles of forest tracks we reach the tiny hamlet of Fabrica de Orbaceita, where we join a new friend – the Gran Recorrido 11 or GR11. This is a recently created long distance footpath which leads through the Spanish Pyrenees from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean, but is only occasionally marked with red and white paint splashes. Immediately from the hamlet it begins a tough, sweaty climb into the giant, rolling green hills which here make up the Pyrenees. It’s not just the gradient that is tougher than anything on the camino; the way is also badly overgrown and difficult to follow.

High in the hills we reach a tiny shepherds hut. As we approach, three huge barking dogs leap out, one of them running straight for us, snapping and snarling with bared teeth. We begin to walk quickly in reverse as we daren’t turn out backs on it, but luckily for us their shepherd master, living in the hut for the summer months, comes out to our rescue. After much yelling he has the dogs back inside. It’s hard to believe anyone could be living so primitively in western Europe; he has only a wooden shack with no facilities of any kind – a completely isolated existence. He has an enormous grey beard and doesn’t speak much; however he does point us on our way, contouring the slopes through the bracken. An hour later there’s no path at all and we’re stumbling desperately steeply downhill into the woods, again finding the route down the pastures in the valley bottom, which is our day’s destination. Out comes the tent in this lonely spot for our first wild camp.

There’s a beautiful river here, where we wash our clothes and then swim – it’s not even cold. I’d always assumed the border between France and Spain was along the highest ridges of the mountains, but here it’s the river itself, so we’re able to swim across into France and take our first steps in another country, before coming back. We bought gas for our stove in Logroňo ready for our trip into the mountains, and now we have our first brew of tea beside the tent, followed by our first camp-cooked meal as we watch the sun go down – idyllic.

The camino had been the ideal introduction to long-distance trekking with its plentiful shops, bars, hostel beds, and easy paths but it’s a real delight to be fending for ourselves at last, navigating our way across wild countryside. We saw no other walkers today.

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Adios, Peregrinos – Day 41

May 27th, 2008 Posted in Fiesta, Spain | No Comments »

The arid plains of Spain seem to be behind us at last as we near the Pyrenees – today’s hike passes through beautiful beechwoods. The villages have changed too – Burguete is a cluster of whitewashed Alpine chalet-style houses with steeply pitched roofs to shed the snow. Only a few miles on is the great monastery of Roncevalles. Its name was synonymous with the camino throughout the Middle Ages, providing assistance to pilgrims at their journeys’ crucial Pyrenean crossing. Yet it is even more famous as the setting for the great battle in the ‘Chanson de Roland’, the earliest of French epic poems.

Roland was a Frankish hero; a knight in Charlemagne’s army. The song relates how Charlemagne was fighting the Saracens in Navarra to defend the camino (another lie; actually Charlemagne was fighting the Basques for his own political expansion; the bones of St James hadn’t even been discovered at the time of the battle). News of trouble back in France caused Charlemagne to have to head back over the mountains to the north, leaving Roland and a small band to guard the pass at Roncevalles behind him. Roland’s band were attacked by an army of four hundred thousand Saracens; he fought heroically but even with his mighty sword Durandal he couldn’t beat them back. Instead, as his band were slain one by one, he was forced to sound his legendary horn to summon aid from Charlemagne. The ground shook, chimneys falling from houses and the birds from the trees. Charlemagne heard and turned back; but it was too late. The dying Roland tried to destroy Durandal to prevent it falling into enemy hands – he swung it into a great rock. But the sword was unbreakable and it was the rock split in two; instead Roland flung Durandal into a poisoned stream where it remains to this day. As a memorial, Charlemagne built a chapel, the beginnings of the monastery, on the site where the stone was split.

Today for thousands of pilgrims Roncevalles is the start of the journey. We have the stand in a queue to register for the dormitory with scores of people wearing shiny boots and brand new rucksacks, nervously contemplating their adventure. The place is organised with military regimentation, with everyone choosing one of two sittings for dinner in the hotel and issued with tickets for food and strict instructions on what time to go to sleep. We’re shown through to the vast stone hall which has been the dormitory for pilgrims for centuries, filled with hundreds of steel bunks; but at least these days there are hot showers in the basement beneath.

At the meal, we’re joined by a Swiss lady and two Spanish housewives who all started their journey yesterday at St John Pied-de-Port over the border in France. The Swiss lady is trying to learn Spanish with a pocket translation computer and has been practicing all day on her two companions; for once, we manage to have a genuine conversation. We explain several times about the wine fountain near Estella but everyone assumes what we’re saying can’t be right and it must just be that we’re getting our Spanish wrong. The Swiss lady is shocked when, after we’ve all eaten huge platefuls of pasta, the second course of fresh local trout arrives – she thought the pasta was the main course. It’s a really enjoyable evening; we had become tired of the camino and keen to start some proper mountain-walking in the Pyrenees, but it seems that, after all, we’ll miss the pilgrims once they’ve gone.

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