Wednesday I left Bordeaux and headed out for Roncevalles (French: Roncevaux), the port to Spain for pilgrims coming from various places in France.
It was a long drive—I of course made it in a few hours. Thirty years ago it took five days. I knew both times I was headed into le Pays Basque—the town names started getting outlandish. These days the signs are in both French/Spanish and Euskara.
I stopped off for a bite at Saint Jean Pied-de-Port. In ’79 I was again caught out without a place to stay. I was directed to a house where I was told they took in guests. As it turns out, I’m not sure that was actually the case, but they took me in, and I had an evening of conversation and a magnificent bed to sleep in. Best of the entire trip.
It was a long drive—I of course made it in a few hours. Thirty years ago it took five days. I knew both times I was headed into le Pays Basque—the town names started getting outlandish. These days the signs are in both French/Spanish and Euskara.
I stopped off for a bite at Saint Jean Pied-de-Port. In ’79 I was again caught out without a place to stay. I was directed to a house where I was told they took in guests. As it turns out, I’m not sure that was actually the case, but they took me in, and I had an evening of conversation and a magnificent bed to sleep in. Best of the entire trip.
Saint Jean Pied-de-Port
Just beyond there, I recall stopping in a bar/resto for café au lait (I swear I lived for that stuff on that trip). There was a Pentecostalist there and we talked about faith, society and Christ. My French was pretty comprehensive back then. He was interested in the pilgrimage and gave me a pocket version of St. John’s gospel. I have it with me now.
And it’s odd, as le Pays Basque is a tough country—not in a barren sort of way, like Estremadura, but in the sense that the living you pull from the land is hard-won. Fields are farmed or grazed almost on the vertical. And you’d think the people would have been less open to taking in raggedy strangers.
(Actually, I remember telling la patronne that I’d named my bike l’Escargot Rouge, because it goes slow and carries my home on its back. And in the morning, when I was getting ready to leave, she remarked, “Il faut préparer l’escargot”—time to prepare (cook) the snail.)
It’s a lovely town; and again you know you’re in Basque country because the accents are more explosive.
(Back in ’79 I stayed a couple of nights in rooms above bars as I wended my way through Navarra. I was sure there were brawls going on from the sounds of the voices and that in the morning I’d have to wade my way through blood and debris on my way out. But no such thing. Evidently they’d been discussing the weather or something; that’s just the way the language sounds.)
I was already in the higher foothills, because my ears had popped a couple of times; but the real climb began after leaving St Jean P-d-P. Le pauvre Lapin Gris was having a bit of a strain, it being diesel and all.
Jill told me the speed limit was 90 km, but that’s got to be a pipe dream. Unless you’re driving a Ferrari and you can cut those curves really tightly, there’s no way you’re going to hit 90. If I went 70 it was only for about 30-40 meters at a stretch. Most of the time I was in 3rd or 4th gear; sometimes 1st and 2nd.
Those switchbacks were amazing. I mean, beyond hairpin. As I was climbing, all I could think was, I did this on a BIKE? It was 30 years ago, and all—but I did this on a BIKE? I know I finally got off the thing and pushed, but I still don’t know how I did it.
That apparently is sheep country. I saw a few just on the other side of the guard rail at one point and was musing about whether they ever got out on the road, when I turned a corner and there was a flock coming right down for me. They stopped, as though figuring out what to do about this situation. Then they trotted forward and passed me on the left, while I stayed put. Their keeper and his dog followed along.
Basque sheep
(This being Spain, he didn’t acknowledge me at all.)
You climb and climb and suddenly you emerge at Roncevalles I have to say that I found it as inhospitable as 30 years ago—there are a couple of restaurants, church of Saint James and the old abbey, which is now turned over for lodging pilgrims. It was chained off.
The patronne who ran the little place where I’d conversed with the Pentecostalist had told me that I could get a list of places to stay in Spain for pilgrims at this abbey. When I appeared there the man I spoke with denied all knowledge of such places and sent me on my way.
(Pilgrimages weren’t the big business then that they are now, but still.)
You climb and climb and suddenly you emerge at Roncevalles I have to say that I found it as inhospitable as 30 years ago—there are a couple of restaurants, church of Saint James and the old abbey, which is now turned over for lodging pilgrims. It was chained off.
The patronne who ran the little place where I’d conversed with the Pentecostalist had told me that I could get a list of places to stay in Spain for pilgrims at this abbey. When I appeared there the man I spoke with denied all knowledge of such places and sent me on my way.
(Pilgrimages weren’t the big business then that they are now, but still.)
I did, as instructed by my friend, pause to listen for Roland's horn, and to check my baggage train. (On both trips, actually.)
Battle of Roncevaux, at Roncevalles
At pretty much every stage of my journey back then, I’d tell myself, well—you got through this okay, but the hard part starts now. And every time I managed to get through it; and then told myself that the really hard part starts now.
I will say this: Spain was definitely a hard part. For one thing, the terrain was all up and down and I was riding against the prevailing winds; at times I thought I was pedaling as fast as I could just to avoid going backwards. (BTW: a haircut with bangs is not a good choice if you’re traveling by bicycle; they stand straight up most of the time. You're welcome.)
For another, this was just a few years after Franco’s death; no one was amused by anything; the hard times were definitely not passed and gone. And there were no youth hostels (I think maybe youth weren’t meant to waste their time in traveling; they were supposed to get out there and work.) and it was November, which isn’t the gayest month of the year in the Northern Hemisphere.
Moreover there was a lot of honking at me. I’m not talking what I encountered in France—a little beep to let you know someone was coming up around you. These guys (including truckers and tractor drivers) would wait until they were just a couple of meters away and then lay on the horn. Apparently the Spaniards were amused by such things.
I was traveling in Navarra, Basque territory (although thankfully going down slope) and then Estremadura. That is one grim place. The conquistadors mostly came from Estremadura, And it occurred to me as I passed through that they must have felt right at home in northern Mexico and southwest US. I saw farmers ploughing their fields with oxen—never saw that in France.
As you came into a town there’d be a sign indicating the name and some point of interest, such as twelfth century church. But when you got into the town, the church wouldn’t be marked and when you finally found it, it would be locked up tight. Even the cathedral at Logroño was closed. I didn’t get it—Spain’s about the most Catholic country around; how could their churches not be open?
(They probably are now—pilgrimage is a money spinner.)
I did run into some kind people who were interested in my trip and wished me well. And there were some spectacular star shows at night.
However, my journal is full of daily (or near-daily) notations, “this is a real low point.” I was tired, dirty, alone, struggling to understand the customs (and, while I did speak Spanish, it’s New World Spanish, so the locals thought I talked funny and my mama dressed me badly).
In one village an old woman gathering mushrooms stopped me to ask what I was all about. She was quite interested in the trip. And she was illiterate—she could not read my map to give me directions.
The weather kept getting colder. I was actually wearing my parka and gloves, and wasn’t working up a sweat. When it got to the point—just before León—that I was wearing two pairs of socks and my toes were still getting numb, I thought I should work out something else.
It felt like cheating, but I bought a train ticket from León to Santiago. However, having the bike turned it into a whole big meal. I could take the 1400 train, but l’Escargot Rouge would have to go on a different train. I didn’t understand why that should be and the guy at the baggage place just kept saying the same things, only louder. I was so frustrated I started to cry.
That got everyone’s attention. It seemed that there was an 0200 train to Santiago; I could take it and l’Escargot Rouge could go with me. There would be a change, but that was better than wondering where my transportation was.
I walked around the town for part of that time. Guy at the bank where I changed some money was quite impressed that I’d come that far on the bike, and was sympathetic that I’d had to change my plans. A woman in the station waiting room assured me that Northern Spain isn’t the country at its best. I should go somewhere like Sevilla, where people are “más alegre”.
As it happens that train trip was ghastly. The 0211 train didn’t arrive until after 0300; and then I missed my connection for Santiago. They sent me on via bus, but the bike didn’t go with me. In all, it was more than 11 hours and I arrived without my wheels.
When I got to the cathedral I was crying again—really, a whole range of emotions. I actually put my arms around the statue of Santiago and held on to his metal robes for a few minutes, tears just streaming down.
It was so strange to think that I was finally there.
I spent some time in the cathedral over a couple of days, both contemplating and watching the other pilgrims.
Well, there was another massive kerfuffle about getting me and the bike on a train to return to London. At first the baggage guy sent me to a bike shop for a box, which they gave me; but then he realized that I was going all the way to London, and therefore the only way I could take it with me for free would be for it to be unboxed. Well, by that time I had it in pieces, mostly in the box
The shipping clerk confirmed that crating it would mean an extra 1000 pesetas. Which, I assure you, I did not have. And you'll recall, I also did not have credit cards.
And at that point I lost it. Way worse than at León, and with much the same response. The jefe de equipajes told me I shouldn’t cry in Spain. I was speaking in English and he told me to speak Spanish. All the while he was helping me pull the pieces of l’Escargot Rouge out of the carton and put it back together.
Two of his colleagues came in, and he explained the situation to them, and went on to tell me not to cry, I shouldn’t think no one wants to help me, but rules are rules. It was a constant stream of talk, and all the time I was sobbing and trying to get the damned bike back in one piece.
This man was a prince. Really.
I will say this: Spain was definitely a hard part. For one thing, the terrain was all up and down and I was riding against the prevailing winds; at times I thought I was pedaling as fast as I could just to avoid going backwards. (BTW: a haircut with bangs is not a good choice if you’re traveling by bicycle; they stand straight up most of the time. You're welcome.)
For another, this was just a few years after Franco’s death; no one was amused by anything; the hard times were definitely not passed and gone. And there were no youth hostels (I think maybe youth weren’t meant to waste their time in traveling; they were supposed to get out there and work.) and it was November, which isn’t the gayest month of the year in the Northern Hemisphere.
Moreover there was a lot of honking at me. I’m not talking what I encountered in France—a little beep to let you know someone was coming up around you. These guys (including truckers and tractor drivers) would wait until they were just a couple of meters away and then lay on the horn. Apparently the Spaniards were amused by such things.
I was traveling in Navarra, Basque territory (although thankfully going down slope) and then Estremadura. That is one grim place. The conquistadors mostly came from Estremadura, And it occurred to me as I passed through that they must have felt right at home in northern Mexico and southwest US. I saw farmers ploughing their fields with oxen—never saw that in France.
Poco a poco se va lejos
As you came into a town there’d be a sign indicating the name and some point of interest, such as twelfth century church. But when you got into the town, the church wouldn’t be marked and when you finally found it, it would be locked up tight. Even the cathedral at Logroño was closed. I didn’t get it—Spain’s about the most Catholic country around; how could their churches not be open?
(They probably are now—pilgrimage is a money spinner.)
I did run into some kind people who were interested in my trip and wished me well. And there were some spectacular star shows at night.
However, my journal is full of daily (or near-daily) notations, “this is a real low point.” I was tired, dirty, alone, struggling to understand the customs (and, while I did speak Spanish, it’s New World Spanish, so the locals thought I talked funny and my mama dressed me badly).
In one village an old woman gathering mushrooms stopped me to ask what I was all about. She was quite interested in the trip. And she was illiterate—she could not read my map to give me directions.
The weather kept getting colder. I was actually wearing my parka and gloves, and wasn’t working up a sweat. When it got to the point—just before León—that I was wearing two pairs of socks and my toes were still getting numb, I thought I should work out something else.
It felt like cheating, but I bought a train ticket from León to Santiago. However, having the bike turned it into a whole big meal. I could take the 1400 train, but l’Escargot Rouge would have to go on a different train. I didn’t understand why that should be and the guy at the baggage place just kept saying the same things, only louder. I was so frustrated I started to cry.
That got everyone’s attention. It seemed that there was an 0200 train to Santiago; I could take it and l’Escargot Rouge could go with me. There would be a change, but that was better than wondering where my transportation was.
I walked around the town for part of that time. Guy at the bank where I changed some money was quite impressed that I’d come that far on the bike, and was sympathetic that I’d had to change my plans. A woman in the station waiting room assured me that Northern Spain isn’t the country at its best. I should go somewhere like Sevilla, where people are “más alegre”.
As it happens that train trip was ghastly. The 0211 train didn’t arrive until after 0300; and then I missed my connection for Santiago. They sent me on via bus, but the bike didn’t go with me. In all, it was more than 11 hours and I arrived without my wheels.
When I got to the cathedral I was crying again—really, a whole range of emotions. I actually put my arms around the statue of Santiago and held on to his metal robes for a few minutes, tears just streaming down.
It was so strange to think that I was finally there.
I spent some time in the cathedral over a couple of days, both contemplating and watching the other pilgrims.
Well, there was another massive kerfuffle about getting me and the bike on a train to return to London. At first the baggage guy sent me to a bike shop for a box, which they gave me; but then he realized that I was going all the way to London, and therefore the only way I could take it with me for free would be for it to be unboxed. Well, by that time I had it in pieces, mostly in the box
The shipping clerk confirmed that crating it would mean an extra 1000 pesetas. Which, I assure you, I did not have. And you'll recall, I also did not have credit cards.
And at that point I lost it. Way worse than at León, and with much the same response. The jefe de equipajes told me I shouldn’t cry in Spain. I was speaking in English and he told me to speak Spanish. All the while he was helping me pull the pieces of l’Escargot Rouge out of the carton and put it back together.
Two of his colleagues came in, and he explained the situation to them, and went on to tell me not to cry, I shouldn’t think no one wants to help me, but rules are rules. It was a constant stream of talk, and all the time I was sobbing and trying to get the damned bike back in one piece.
This man was a prince. Really.
He told me to buy my ticket in the morning; even came running after me after I was out of the station to give me the address of the central office (you couldn’t buy a ticket to London at the local office, and I needed the ticket for the full trip so he could check the bike through to Victoria). When I had it, he instructed me, I should take it to him so he could get the bike checked in, and I could spend the rest of the day relaxing.
I did as he directed and thanked him sincerely. He repeated that I shouldn’t leave Spain feeling bad about it.
And I went off to Mass at the Cathedral of Santiago.
L'Escargot Rouge on the Road to Santiago
(Posted 1745 Saturday 28 November, 7ème arrondissement, Paris)
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