Day 1
Everyone says this is the hardest day on the Camino. You literally go over a mountain and down the other side, crossing the French-Spanish border somewhere in the mud towards the middle before dropping into a tiny medieval monastery village called Roncesvalles. A must-see for any relic fan (where my relic fans at?): they have 32 pieces of bone or what-have-you, including two thorns allegedly from Jesus’ crucification crown. The town has been hosting pilgrims for a thousand years. Me trudging into town, looking like I had been walking for just as long, did not raise any eyebrows.
I was up at 2:30 am with my jet lag and packing and repacking, taking breaks to stare out the window seeing if the sun would come up oddly early this particular day. Instead it was just rain, rain, and more rain, even after the recommended start time of just-before-dawn, so I got out my new rain tarp that goes over me and the backpack, slapped on my head lamp, and started following the other pilgrims up the hill. Fun fact, I look like hunchback of Norte Dame in my rain tarp.
You hear sheep, chickens, pilgrims laughing, your own huffing and puffing. For a few hours you trudge straight up, promised that there is a rest stop for pilgrims at the top. Surprisingly, it’s not crowded when lumber in, as I left super early. I order a coke and some soup and have to manhandle my legs to get them to fit into the picnic bench seat because they are so stiff. The waitstaff gets a kick of hollering your order to the kitchen. “ZOUPA!” And then they beam back at you, all well-rested and put together like they didn’t have to do any mountain climbing yet this morning. “5 euro, please.” I stall, lingering over my Coke while I chat to a Dutch gal in neon pink Columbia jacket. (She has a fat cat waiting for her at home, too.) “I’m going to stay awhile,” I say, as she asks if I’m walking with her. “I live here now!” I know full well I cannot keep up with a 23-year-old who just had an espresso.
The pack thinned after the rest stop at Orisson, as a few folks spend the night there, and everyone gets really spread out as the miles progress throughout the afternoon. As people learn their preferred pace, little packs start to form and people walk together. My pack was fabulous and I credit them for making the six hours we had left go by relatively quickly. Some of them have started their Camino in the middle of France, so are old hat at this and keep a steady, slower pace that they can do all day. Their advice is to go only as fast as the speed in which you can carry on a normal conversation. Perfect! I enthusiastically embrace the turtle method. The trail is mostly up (how is it possible?) the whole way, so you need to be distracted by something, and new friends are great for that. The scenery also is gorgeous - what you can see of it through the rain, anyway - and is by turns Lord of the Rings-ish, fairy tale forest, WWII bunker-infested, or rolling hills decorated with damp sheep.
My phone says I did 18.9 miles today and 188 floors of stairs. I feel both happy and at the same time, 100 years old.