September 4: Camino of Gastropods

I write from Auritz-Burgete, in Spain, a little under 28km from our French starting point this morning.

Our journey to/through Stansted could have been much worse. The airport was not full. We found someone willing to help us with each step (scanning your boarding pass, affixing your own tags were both more challenging than they sound/should be). True to form, Ryan Air was an hour twenty late. After a little research, I had prebooked a pick-up from the airport to St-Jean-de-Pied-de-Porte. It turned out to be a wise precaution. Our plane was a 737, which was shocking for such a provincial, off-season run. Half of the passengers were going to a wedding. The rest were largely pilgrims. We chatted to a number of them while waiting/queueing/waiting and queueing. They are/were a solid bunch. However, by the time we had collected our luggage and exited the building, I confess, it did feel a little good to leave them all waiting for the shuttle from the airport to Bayonne, from whence to find the station and get the train: a 2-hour journey at the best of times.

My research had shown me that, if we landed near/after 5pm, then actually catching the last “pilgrim train” (the 6:38pm) would be very tight. We bumped into a pair of fellow-travelers much later yesterday evening. They were dragging their bags uphill to their hostel around 9pm. They were forced to take a taxi after all, having discovered (after buying their rail tickets from an obliging ticket agent around 7pm), that the next train would be 6:38AM today…. Bullet decidedly dodged.

Our walk today was much easier than expected. A dry summer has left the going firm, unlike the deep mud we trudged through last time. As we walked along a passage of trees through which the light was finally streaming, creating glowing rays of mist, starbursts through the branches, I said to Carey: “I don’t remember this bit being so beautiful?” His dry response: “That’ll be on account of the hail.” He wasn’t wrong. I also lost a boot to the mud right around there last time.

We didn’t see the sun until gone noon. Occasionally, we would see a rainbow bright-spot where it was trying to burn through the thick, low cloud. Although, in the Pyrenees, perhaps “average altitude” cloud is appropriate. It’s the raised ground that is the problem…

We got thoroughly wet in the drizzle, but in a good way – cooled, not drenched. Although, there was a point, around 11am, when I wished I’d shaved my head again. Carey breezed through my snarled period.

The views, so spectacular last time, were non-existent. Dense cloud cover prevailed, out of which loomed cows, horses, sheep. The sound of their bells rose up and hung in the heavy air. It was quite magical.

Like last time, it was the Camino of gastropods. Juicy great slugs, plucky little snails, each telling a story about resilience, place and, in one case, keeping on, even after getting stepped on.