We arrive at the place hoped for: the reception of the Société des Amis de Saint-Jacques, the French equivalent of the English Confraternity of St James. The Confraternity of St James was established in 1983 to promote and support pilgrimage to Santiago. We are to become very grateful for the work of this charity and the many volunteers, who having walked the Camino, dedicate hours of their lives to run pilgrim hostels. They also provide the credential or passport booklet we will need to have stamped along the way to prove, on arriving at the cathedral in Santiago, we have indeed walked The Way of St James. When we produce our stamped credentials, we will then be given our compostela – our pilgrim certificate of completion for walking the Camino.
Cold, tired and hungry we await our turn to receive our Camino scallop shells and our credential booklets which will open doors to the pilgrim hostels, or albergues, along the Camino. We already have scallop shells in our packs given to us by the Dean of the Cathedral of St. Peter, our home parish church. Dean Peter Rickman collected the shells from the local west coast beach of Raglan, some forty-five minutes from our home city of Hamilton. We determine to carry both our Raglan and our official Camino shells visibly upon our backpacks.
Before we departed for Spain, Dean Peter had prayed the ancient Celtic blessing over us; so very appropriate given we are heading to one of the oldest and least well known of Celtic provinces, Galicia. Santiago is the capital of Galicia.
The Blessing given by Dean Peter:
May the Road Rise Up To Meet You
May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields
and until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of His hand.
At last it is our turn to receive our credentials and Camino shells. We are booked into the albergue; the first of many in which we are to stay. I present our letter from the Dean which states that we are indeed ‘true pilgrims’ with our pilgrimage endorsed by our Cathedral Parish church. We have begun.
Bruce and I are shown down two flights of stairs to a low ceiling bunkroom. It has massive black timber beams and stone whitewashed walls. I choose a top bunk and this is to be our pattern. After all, Bruce is some forty-three kilograms heavier than me. I thought it safer that he be below, rather than atop, on these not so sturdy narrow bunk beds. Other pilgrims are choosing beds. They are all so much younger than us and full of bravado and confidence. They noisily unpack, throw sleeping bags onto mattresses, then head out to find food.
We are too tired for such a foray into the town and we have a budget to consider. With our small supply of food, we make our way back up that narrow stone stairwell. I had heard that a fierce Madame oversees the kitchen. There are no other pilgrims and we have time and opportunity to become friends. I show Madame my ankle and she shows me hers. She gives us soup and bread and we share what little we have. And, so to bed in France. This is to be our only sleep in France for the albergue is strict in its rule that pilgrims may only stay the one night. Despite Bruce’s obvious exhaustion after the two bus trips, we are not allowed to stay the extra night.
PART 2
St-Jean-Pied-de-
Port to Valcarlos
12 kms (7.5ml)
789.1 kms (490.3ml) to Santiago
Give me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of Faith to walk upon
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope’s true gage,
And thus I’ll take my pilgrimage.
Sir Walter Raleigh (1552?-1618)
March 22, Day 1
WE HAVE OUR SCALLOP SHELLS of quiet. I have my modern-day equivalent of the medieval staff: my two tramping poles. Both poles are spring loaded to absorb some of the shock that walking creates for hips and knees. This is particularly helpful on steep declines. Some pilgrims buy a wooden walking staff which can be found at any of the numerous shops along The Way. (Some are hand carved from olive wood and are very attractive.) I am glad to have two poles. After all, a four-legged animal is a lot more stable than either a two or three legged one. It is a shame I didn’t remember this back on Mallorca.
My poles, like the medieval staff, have metal points on the end. However, my pole points are each covered by a rubber cap to help prevent the poles digging into the ground, causing holes which might contribute to erosion. Despite this small eco-ethical stance, when the terrain gets rough I will necessarily take the caps off to help the poles anchor into the ground and prevent my falling. However, I expect that for most of the journey, these rubbers will remain on the tips of my poles. I am sincerely hoping that I will not have to remove the rubber caps to defend myself against any savage animal. Medieval pilgrims encountered both savage dogs and wild beasts. I am not expecting to encounter any bears or pigs on the loose, but dogs are possible. I have read that in the mountain hamlet of Foncebadón dogs could be a problem. Foncebadón is an abandoned village due to economic decline. The people left. The dogs remained behind. Ecology and dogs aside, uncapped metal ends on tramping poles make a racket on flagstone, concrete and cobbled paths.
My scrip (Macpac S2 pack) is on my back with the scallop shells attached. Instead of the immensely practical garb of the medieval pilgrim - a long tunic, but not too long to avoid being caught in brambles or nettles - I have two pairs of zip-off trekking pants for a quick transition from trousers to shorts should it heat up during the day. The medieval home-spun tunic was probably made of wool, as vegetation fibres such as hemp and linen rotted in the wet European climate. My trousers are made of a synthetic quick-dry fabric that will breathe and not rot. I have two new long-sleeved ski tops given to me by Wayne and Julia. I also have two merino t-shirts and two wool tramping jerseys, of different weights, which I will layer if it turns cold(er). Merino is a great product as it is cool in the heat and warm when it needs to be. My fleece wind breaker has served me well on many tramping trips and will serve two purposes. It will double as my pillow. I have a big poly-fleece muff, a woollen hat and a set of fingerless wool gloves. These gloves will prove to be inadequate in the following days.
I have a sun hat, although not the wide brimmed one of medieval pilgrimage requirements. Bruce does purchase a wide brim hat at Roncesvalles, complete with embroidered yellow scallop shell on the front, although he does not pin it back with a silver shell broach. Medieval pilgrims used to sometimes attach their scallop shell to their hats.
The medieval pilgrims would have had to make do with their cloaks to keep them warm as they slept. Bruce and I have the latest in super lightweight sleeping bags. Mine weighs half a kilogram and Bruce’s weighs one kilogram. I appreciate the light weight of mine and that it takes up very little space in my backpack, but it proves inadequate in the colder than expected early weeks. I also have my bathing suit in anticipation of swims along the way. Given the colder than anticipated weather, my bathers are a waste of space in my backpack.
During medieval times, pilgrims would have worn stout shoes and both Bruce and I have opted to wear our tramping boots. I also have shoes to wear when walking the Meseta and to change into in the evenings, as well as jandals for wearing in the communal showers. We both decided against carrying our tramping water bottles as a way of reducing bulk on the plane. Instead of the environmentally friendly gourd the ancient pilgrims carried, for seven weeks, we will adopt a situation-ethic position. That is, ignore our ecological concerns about the modern plague of plastic and purchase plastic water bottles which we will reuse. Hopefully, these bottles will last the distance.
I had been uncertain about wet weather gear. Should I just opt for the traditional Camino poncho or take my expensive, heavier tramping coat that would take up more room in my backpack? Bruce’s sister had walked the Camino Frances the year before us and s
aid that the flapping of the poncho was a nuisance. My tramping coat is in my pack. I had decided against my waterproof over-trousers in favour of my hiking gaiters. However, when packing, I could only find one gaiter, so I have my waterproof over-trousers instead. I am glad I could not find that missing gaiter. We are to walk through eight hours of snowfall with some hours of blizzard conditions on our third day of walking.
Dressed in the modern pilgrim garb, complete with sunglasses at the ready, I am (mostly) prepared for the Camino Frances - the route from St-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Santiago de Compostela across Northern Spain. Bruce and I will walk across mountains and hills, along valleys, across the large Meseta – the breadbasket of Spain – into rain-drenched Galicia. If a pilgrimage is about a journey of personal transformation, what will the Camino bring into my life, each day, to shape this transformation? As a counsellor-educator I have described the relational space between counsellor and client as a sacred space: a space which enables transformation of client, but also (paradoxically) of the counsellor. I am about to embark on a sacred journey which I hope will be transformative.
St-Jean-Pied-de-Port (literally Saint John at the Foot of the Pass) tends to be the pilgrim gateway across the Pyrenees into Spain. From this pretty Basque town, pilgrims can take either of two passes over the mountains to Roncesvalles: the high route or the lower village route. I want to take the high mountain pass, the route over which Napoléon took his troops. The Napoléon route would take us up to the Col de Lepoeder at some 1,450 metres above sea level, famed for mountain views, then down to Roncesvalles at 950 metres. Not for me the lower pass via the village of Valcarlos. This is not to be. The office of the Société des Amis de Saint-Jacques tells us the Napoléon route is closed due to incoming bad weather. I am so disappointed. Bruce is not. I am not comforted by the knowledge that early pilgrims would have taken the lower route where they could find shelter in villages along the way. Furthermore, why would they have taken the higher pass when there is a perfectly adequate lower route?
Given we are to now walk the lower pass with the steady, but less dramatic climb, we agree that we will split the first day’s walk of twenty-five kilometres into a two-day walk as there is an albergue at the small village of Valcarlos. This means we have time on our hands before beginning our day’s walk. We decide to do a little sightseeing. Bruce and I walk along the cobbled Rue de la Citadelle, to the top of the hill and the site of La Citadelle. We are rewarded with views across the town and over to the Pyrenees. We are about to become re-acquainted with these mountains. This time on foot.
Down the two hundred and sixty-five steps from the Citadel, across the Roman bridge and into the town again, we find a church open and go inside to pray. This feels like an apt way to begin the new day, the day we will begin walking, or hobbling, from France to Spain.
When we return to the albergue, our washing is still damp, but we pack it anyway. I leave behind one of the ski tops. (Madame is appreciative.) Already, I sense that my pack could be lighter. My father, ever the wit, had suggested I gain weight so I could carry a heavier pack. The guideline for the weight of packs on the Camino is no more than 10% of one’s body weight.
Having collected our packs, we start to look for an open shop for we need food for our second breakfast - we are from the land of the hobbits. This is not a doddle this hunt for an open shop. We eventually find one only to be abruptly told to leave as it is too early to serve customers. Why is the door open? Eventually we find what would have been the equivalent of a New Zealand corner dairy where we buy fruit and bread. We are off.
The road leading to the outskirts of town is cobbled and uphill. I find it hard going, even though it has only a medium gradient. Worrisomely, we haven’t even yet left the boundaries of the village. A Dutch pilgrim requests we take a photo of him using his camera. He hasn’t heard of selfies. He then tells us we are going the wrong way. I am now in an agony of doubt. The fear of making a mistake has plagued me all my life and will sometimes prevent me from making a timely decision, or making a start on something that needs to be done. Are we indeed going the wrong way? I decide to hold our original direction all the while worrying about the decision I have made. A while later, the same man overtakes us. He does not acknowledge Bruce or me. My worry dissolves.
I am clutching the guidebook, A Pilgrim’s Guide to the Camino de Santiago, written by John Brierley. I have heavily underscored places where he wrote, “Watch you do not miss this turn.” The first one of these is coming up. I do not want to miss it. Bruce is getting annoyed that I stop so often to check the guidebook.
Mercifully, it is warm with some cloud - perfect weather for walking. We make it up the hill out of the village and over the brow we see farm land with stock grazing outside. I do not miss the turnoff. We really are on our way. An apple and chocolate stop is needed and we remove a layer of clothing. Feeling satisfied and easier with our new level of clothing, we walk on through country lanes which thread through immaculate hillside farms. These lanes occasionally give way to river tracks lined with thickly growing beech trees still wearing their winter nakedness.
A small river is rushing towards La Rivière Nive. It talks to us on our left and soon begins to drown out the roar of the traffic travelling the road between France and Spain. I spot a green arrow and decide to investigate and there, up ahead, is a little spring with two glasses placed there for the use of pilgrims. What generosity and kindness. There are azaleas and camellias in blossom in front of the house by the spring - an appealing setting for these thoughtful people.
We stop at a café and the waiter speaks to us in Spanish. Bruce and I are astonished to learn we are already in Spain. I ask for a café con Léche and a napolitana (pastry). The waiter then points to the river and tells us that when we cross the river, we will be back in France, and with a later crossing, we will return to Spain. Our island mentality tries to absorb the knowledge that we will be walking back and forth across country borders.
With just twelve kilometres to Valcarlos we take our time. We stop to rest, eat and drink, as often as we want, all the while admiring the countryside. We come to the village of Arneguy nestled beside the small river. There is an old stone pedestrian-only bridge. Bruce stands in the middle of the bridge with his video camera rolling. “My left foot is in Spain and my right foot is in France. Or is it the other way around?” He is delighted to be straddling two countries – unheard of in our island nation – and thanks to the European Community there are no border officials to deal with.
We are over the bridge and I am excited to be on this long walk. I enjoy hiking (or tramping as it is called in New Zealand), of getting into the ‘zone’ where my body is moving without effort and my mind free to wander or think about nothing. All senses come into play as I move at human speed. I had become interested in completing longer walks on reading Gillian Orrell’s New Boots in New Zealand. I had attempted to walk in her footsteps and managed in one trip two of the New Zealand Great Walks, with another walk sandwiched between: the Routeburn, Kepler and Hollyford. It was when we were trekking to Ama Dablam Base Camp in the Himalayas, Nepal, that Bruce and I first learnt of the existence of the Camino Frances. We began to think about a long walk across Spain.
As I began to tentatively tell friends and acquaintances that we were considering walking the Camino Frances, I was astounded that most knew someone who had either completed, or who was about to walk, or who was considering walking the Camino. The plan of walking across Spain began to take shape. I was not very sure that I knew what a pilgrimage was in modern terms, but I knew I was yearning for a phase in my life where I could be time rich, instead of living within a constant famine of time. I needed the quiet solitude of a long walk where there would be time to breathe, to chew my food, to plan for only just what would be needed that day: the basics of water, food and shelter. I needed a space in my life without traffic lights, deadlines and work emails. Perhaps such a time and space had the ha
llmarks of a pilgrimage.
There must have been a pilgrim ancestor way back in my family history as my father’s family name is Palmer. The term, according to Dante, given to those who journeyed to Jerusalem and back, returning with palm branches to show for their efforts. Those who went on pilgrimage to Rome were called Romers. The true pilgrims, again according to Dante, were those who walked or rode to Santiago. However, he also declared that any person travelling away from home might be called a pilgrim.3
We arrive at the foot of a hill and see the Valcarlos albergue perched a little less than one kilometre above us. The climb up to the albergue is on a wide concrete path. This is our first hard ascent, and as we snake up the hill, I am glad of our decision to call a halt at this stop. The albergue is only a few years old and was created by the local community to encourage pilgrims to stopover. We see three women waving to us. When we reach the albergue, they introduce themselves as Rana, Sherry and Gwen. The three women are from Queensland, Australia. There is also a couple from the Netherlands. Later two men join us, one from Prague and the other from Spain. We share fun, laughter and our food. We dine on bread and cheese followed by bananas and nougat for dessert. Bruce, exhausted, climbs into his sleeping bag at 6.00 p.m. and sleeps until morning.
Valcarlos to Roncesvalles
13 kms (8.1ml)
777.1 kms (482.7 ml) to Santiago
If we have not quiet in our minds,
outward comfort will do no more for us
than a golden slipper on a gouty foot.
John Bunyan (1628-1688)
March 23, Day 2
WE ARE THE LAST PILGRIMS to vacate the albergue. There is low cloud sitting on the hills across the valley in which the little river runs. Its song rises to us from below. This will be our last sighting of France and I wave an adieu. Our time was so short in that country and I feel sad that it was not longer. I had tried to build a visit to Lourdes into our itinerary, but with the problematic ankle, perhaps it was fortuitous I had not. On the other hand, if I had visited the waters, I might have experienced a miraculous healing and been able to walk the Camino with two sound ankles.
Kiwi on the Camino Page 4