Suzi's Quattro

The Estacion de Autobuses in Pamplona provided welcome shade one concrete level below the esplanade.

We, homeward bound after a week's walking, joined the newly-arrived, and mainly American, peregrinos. Their pristine walking-gear contrasted with our camino-worn garb.

We queued to buy 16 Euro's worth of one-way ticket in the wrong direction, back to St Jean Pied-de Port on the French side of the Pyrenees.

Considering the white-knuckle experience the next ninety minutes would provide, and the rising cost of fairground terror, the price was something of a bargain.

Suzi, five-foot three, lean and in her late twenties, parked her Harley-Davidson in front of the staff canteen. A perspex badge on her leather jacket informed us that she was in the employ of the bus company. The jacket matched the tight black trousers, which did little to mask Suzi's gender or the five euros in small change in her back pocket. Her Santiago boots, presently grinding a cigarette-end, may well have been a hushed tribute to the Camino. In any case, they set off her five visible body piercings nicely.

As the bus station clock jolted towards 2 pm, we collectively understood that Suzi was to be our driver.

There was not a murmur from the passengers as she depressed the start button, and the plush interior throbbed to the rythm of eight diesel cylinders. Any mechanical noise was instantly drowned by a wall of sound emanating from the state-of-the-art FM radio amplification, fitted as standard to all Spanish buses.

We emerged from below ground, all eyes rivetted on Suzi's mullet haircut. Forty-eight pilgrim gazes darted from the stream of suicidal Pamplonan 2pm traffic to our chauffeuse's reflexion in her rear-view mirror. Kiss FM roared Lulu, singing "Shout", and we roared, even more loudly, into the flow.

By the time we reached the barrios of Pamplona, it had become clear to all that Suzi was a virtuoso driver. At one point she stopped in a taxi rank, disembarked and held a brief conversation with a handsome Basque cabbie. The exchange ended with broad smiles and a besito.

It was also clear that she considered the coach to be her Harley, only wider.

The road to Zubiri is arrow- straight, following the Arga towards its source. We only overtook two stragglers: a BMW coupé, and a classic, bright red Navarra-registered 1982 Audi Quattro.

After Zubiri, the road climbs over Erro, then descends into Espinal. The hair-pin bends were negotiated with Suzi's tiny, beetle-shiny frame manipulating the cartwheel-sized steering wheel with precisely the amount of oversteer and understeer to keep us in a finely-balanced state of awe and admiration.

She was giving the Quattro driver behind a masterclass lesson in effortless mountain driving.

He was still behind when Suzi stopped in the middle of Burguete and with both wing-mirrors just centimetres from the immaculate geranium windowboxes, to pick up a Spanish pilgrim. He had been standing in the middle of the road holding aloft a ten euro note.

Our driver smiled, he gave her the note, and she removed five in change from that back pocket. He quickly slid the coins into his jeans, and examined his palm, as if looking for burn marks.

FM gave us Dusty Springfield as we approached the monastery.

There was no-one waiting to embark at Roncesvalles, so we blasted through, the Audi still behind us.

The radio switched to a succession of slower tunes as we crested the Ibañeta pass, and headed downhill.

Bonnie Tyler...Time After Time

Through the roadworks in Valcarlos, over the stream and the invisible border at Arnéguy where, suddenly, all is French.

Ten minutes later, right on schedule, we reversed into the bus-bay next to the ancient town gate.

As we alighted, the driver of the Audi walked over from the public car park as if in a trance, took out a packet of Fortuna, and offered one to Suzi.

She unzipped the tight breast pocket of her jacket, then pulled out a disposable lighter.

With a single flick, Suzi looked up and held a steady yellow flame towards him...

Click HERE for a devil of a driver...

Angel y Las Huertas de Huarte

Angel on his way to his huerta in Huarte...

Une histoire en anglais...

Cliquez sur la photo pour la chanson d'Angel...

Angel is seventy-nine years old, and twice a week he walks seven kilometres through Pamplona's secret riverside park to buy vegetables from his favourite "Huerta" (market garden) in Huarte.

Then he walks the seven kilometres home.

Sometimes, although very rarely, his path crosses that of a peregrino.

Mostly, the pilgrims follow the yellow arrows and scallop shells, down the valley for two days from Roncesvalles and Zubiri. As Navarran rurality gives way suddenly to the Pamplonan metropolis, the Way climbs over one last, end-of-afternoon hillside, then into Trinidad or Burlada.

On that late October day of 2015, we chose the path less travelled, and followed the river instead. We were led through a tunnel of yellow leaves to the main street of Huarte.

"Me llamo Amaya", says the young girl who is carrying the school satchel. We ask her if she knows of a hotel within walking distance. "A la izquierda, abajo", she says with a smile. Dodging the afternoon traffic, we pause outside a taberna, and check that we are on the right track by asking two hefty, inebriated locals who are in the company of a dog which is scraping its arse along the pavement. Our interlocutorios  have three good eyes between them.
"Si, si, abajo"
They concur, nodding and pointing profusely in the direction of the cross-eye.

The hotel turns out to be a gem. Just opposite, but somehow nestling in the Spanish peri-urban vastness, is a gigantic, near-deserted space-age shopping mall, next to a bustling Repsol petrol station. Adjacent to our abode is a three-storey Chinese discount emporium with the unlikely Navarran name of "Mega Wang".
Laura, on the reception desk, took one look at our walking boots and smiled a Camino smile. She then allotted  to us, for the price of an average B & B, a luxury room overlooking the river.

After ensaladas mixtas, a bottle of free Mega Wang tinto, and a relaxing night's sleep, sporting new Mega Wang socks, we headed back through town, looking for yellow arrows.

Within five minutes we had, inevitably, got lost in the labyrinthine and deserted morning calles of Huarte.

And, this being El Camino, after six minutes, something happened.

Bill Bryson calls it "Trail Magic". Over the years, we've just taken to saying "Es el Camino".

We met Angel. Perhaps five foot two, wearing smart green corduroy walking trousers, steel-rimmed specs and a black woolly hat against the last of the morning's crispness.

The first hour or so of that Friday morning unfolded into conversation.

Angel said:
"Me voy por aqui".

We followed him down a set of stone steps into the other world of the riverside walkways.

And then he  told us:

"I was born in 1937. We were eight children. For most of my formative years, and then for much of my adult life, I knew only life under Franco. My eldest brother turned into a Nacionalista, but my abuela, my grandmother, had been a great Republicana. We were a working-class family; obradores. We never spoke of politics at home."

He told us that nearly all of the pilgrims followed the Camino through the built-up barrios of Burlada and Villava.

"Aqui, esta mejor, en los parques. Hay solo unos bicis"

It was a glorious morning. Deep blue sky, autumn warmth.

"Hay el rio, las huertas"

Yes. And the backdrop of the mountains we'd walked down from during these past three days.

"We live better these days than...before. But Rajoy has done very little in five years. The Partido Popular is mainly influenced by the big familias catolicas who have their roots in the Franco years. There will be elections soon. Perhaps Podemos will bring forward ideas about sharing of wealth? But we shall have to see."
We spoke of grandchildren, priorities, friendship. Navarran cooking. He gave us his recipe for "patatas con Borraja".

Perils of bilingual signs...

The five kilometres just evaporated with the morning cool. It was going to be a warm, sunny day.
We parted company with a handshake for me, a besito for Shirl, and the feeling that we'd know Angel all of our lives.
We'd like to see him again. No doubt we shall seek out our Angel on our next foray to Pamplona.
As the saying goes: "The road to Santiago is paved with good distractions".

Eat yer heart out, Monsieur Proust...

The pedestrian sign indicated "Puente de la Magdalena 30 minutos". The main Camino re-joined the riverside path there.

We'd have been there in half an hour, if we hadn't met... Señor Sanchez. One year older than Angel, but this time our encounter would be anything but Angelic...

Now click on Angel in the first pic of this story for a Bridge Song treat...

Brazil and Blackberry Way...

Click on photo for Roncevaux info...

Une autre histoire interculturelle en anglais...

The steep track which descends from the Alto del Perdon is strewn with smooth riverstones, mostly the size of Easter eggs.

Sun and rain and a thousand years of passing pilgrims have washed out the dusty Navarran soil, leaving a shingly scar on the westerly slope. The mark is visible on Google Earth as well as from Puente La Reina, which is ten kilometres distant on the fertile plain of the Arga.
One stone, hidden on the very edge of the path, under an almond branch, is flatter and darker than the rest.

I pick up the object, wipe away the dust, and show my Australian brother-in-law the underside.

"Crikey. It's a blooming BlackBerry".

"Es el Camino, amigo. The owner will not be far away".

Pressing its on-button, we note the owner's name: Mirna.

Then we are overtaken by Harald, a Berliner with whom we'd shared chocolate and a yarn under the wind turbines back there on the summit.

"Harald, you'll see someone called Mirna up ahead. Tell her we have her 'phone, alles gut"

"Keine probleme", and off he strides on teutonic, sunburnt legs.

Click on family photo for a Brazilian memory,
as Mirna (centre) is reunited with her Blackberry...

Half an hour lower, our family foursome is sitting in a pool of olive treeshade, drinking tea from a thermos when a beaming Mirna turns up in her cycling helmet but without a bike. Though we have never met, she greets us like long-lost friends.

She explains in elegant, effortless English that she is from Brazil, and that her daughter works in London. "I will send you a 'photo when I reach Santiago".

A month later, an extract on the computer screen reveals that Roncesvalles, Orreaga in Basque, Roncevaux in French, translates as "Blackberry Valley "...

A jingle hails the arrival of an email from Sao Paulo.

One click shows a smiling Mirna in September Santiago. She sends kind words and best wishes.

The message closes with automatically generated Brasilero: "Enviado do meu BlackBerry".

BASQUE BREAKFAST

A mid-September 2016 morning in the French Basque Country.

Behind the pilgrim church of St Jean Pied de Port, the latesummer dawn is, for now, just a  promise of purples and candyfloss pink.

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Mogette, La Deux-Chevaux Coquette, born in 1973, is dew-covered in camping municipal "Plaza Berri". An owl calls from the woods below the dusky-red Vauban fortifications of  La Citadelle...

The first pilgrims are already packing away their bivouacs by torchlight. Most of them have brand-new camping gear. They arrived on the sparkling little train from Bayonne yesterday evening, which followed the river Nive upstream along its valley. Despite the veils of jet-lag, the hour’s railway journey struck the passengers, who were mostly Australian, Canadian, American and Korean, as something quietly spectacular.

This morning, there will be more than a hundred pilgrims setting out on the Road to Compostella. Pilgrims, peregrinos, caminantes. Walkers, cyclists; young and not-so-young.

One of their number will be an accidental hitch-hiker from Nuremburg. Mogette will find this out in an hour or two...

As usual on the camp-site, there are a dozen or so baby-boomerbox campervans, which sit like super-sized Tupperware in a pastiche of suburban comfort. They are arranged in a semicircle in the semi darkness, their occupants mostly oblivious to the trickle of walkers.

The movement is towards the boulangerie at the top of La Rue d’Espagne, and from there more pilgrims will join from the hostels, hotels and other St Jean accommodations. Ibane Etcheto, 83 and a long- reformed smuggler, waves off his four guests from the first-floor window of his Chambre d'Hôtes.

The peregrino flow will now be upwards, upwards to Huntto, Orisson, Bentarte and Roncesvalles.

Twenty-six kilometres, over a mountain range and from France, across an indiscernible border into Spain. A long day’s walk; the first of twenty-nine official stages to Compostella, 900 kilometres to the west.

Mogette watches the sunrise. Across the street from the campsite a shutter-hinge yawns, elderly metal on metal. Ibane opens the Basque-red shutters of the guest room, leaving the dawn air to disperse the pilgrim odours of linament, new boots and cough-sweets.

As the driver makes tea, the first rays filter down the slope of the owl-wood and welcome warmth evaporates the condensation on La Coquette's vinyl roll-back roof. The roof-mist rises, and a 7.am new-school-year siren sounds from the boarding school in La Citadelle.

It is time to move on.

There is no plan for the day, save that of starting the two-cylinder engine, and the engaging of first gear...

NEXT TIME...
Learn how Mogette discovers unexpected friendship links, and inter-cultural treasure at the end of a rainbow...

A meeting in Navarra with Mogette...

Oliver and Juan-Luis are on their way to Santiago.

Click on the pic to see their story.

Last week, at the top of El Alto del Perdon near Pamplona,  they met Mogette, a Citroën 2CV from 1973. And her owner who is a bit older.

Inspirational. AB.

You can read more about Mogette if you click HERE.

Ibili Eta Amets Egin: Dreamwalking El Camino?

For the past twenty years, we have been Groundhog Way walkers along one part of one of the Caminos de Santiago.

Photo Revle Elks, Cirauqui  2009

We walk. We meet other Caminantes and Peregrinos, and share their company, and their stories.

Because we often explore the same sections of track, we also make friends who are locals, along The Way. 

Garazi Sunrise Oct 2015 Photo AB

We go home. We go back to El Camino. We walk again. We make new friends and visit our old ones. We get to know some of their stories, and bits of their language.  As the years go by,  layers are peeled back.

We are not, of course, at this rate, going to arrive in Santiago de Compostella any time soon. 

Perhaps not even at all.

But it is our Camino...

In 2010 we took a rubbing of a brass plaque which is fixed to a rock at the top of Bentarte, half-way between St Jean Pied de Port and Roncesvalles. Most peregrinos, breathless after the hard clamber over the col, and often burdened with backpacks which will lose ballast as the days progress, do not pause at the spot.

The plaque tells a story in French. (click on pic for French text).

Its title is in Euskara (Basque).

It means "Walking and dreaming". 

Sort of.

Keep on reading for a translation. 

We hope that you enjoy it.

At the end of the story, there is another little Camino cameo, from the Antipodes...

Bonne lecture.

AB

August 2016. 

Ibili eta amets egin

The weather is dreary this morning at the town gate of Saint-Jean Pied de Port and Jérôme is walking.

Climbing towards Hontto, the drizzle dissolves the pearls of perspiration on his face. He soon disappears, faded by the fog in this ghostly grotto. Beyond his walking-stick, his shoes and this ribbon of road, there is nothing to disturb his thoughts. The silence of the outer  world make these thoughts almost noisy : in any case, sun or the rain, quiet or clamour, daytime or night-time mean nothing.

The road which leads to Saint-Jacques in Galicia is yet long.

It is soon 9 o’clock on this 25th of July, and Jérôme walks on.

A cross of stone...

He leaves the hard, black tarmac and steps onto the cropped carpet of grass covering the ancient pathway.

Imperceptibly, the fog thins to mist, diffusing and softly caressing the boulders of Leizar Atheka ; it enfolds  them, turning their contours into ghostly apparitions. 

Jérôme the pilgrim catches fleeting glimpses of the watermark circle of sun. In the middle of the path, he places his pack, and it becomes his backrest as he sits down. His eyes slowly shut, and the army of stunted birch-trees, waiting as if in ambush ten paces away, drift from his conscious.

Ten paces away, facing him, Valerius Corvinus, the veteran centurion of Legio III Flavia is smiling. He is returning via these hills to Aquitaine. He recalls the combat and the wound he suffered in Cantabria, the gaze of Consul Octavianus Augustus, and the smile of the beautiful Iberian girl on the bridge at Deobriga...

Just next to the ravine, Bernard-Antoine Carere’s expression is of pain. On this very spot on 25th July 1813 a furious blow from an English sabre took away half of his forearm. So many glorious campaigns with the front-line 50th regiment, and not a scratch, so many victorious battles from Ulm to Salamanca…all to end up growing old like this : a half-amputee on half a pension...

And over there, ten paces further, Emir Abd-al Rahman al Gareki is praying, giving thanks to Allah. Between these boulders and far beyond, the grass has long-since disappeared under the hooves of his invincible army... 

And many leagues away, on the road from Poitiers, Charles Martel, duke of Austrasia, is praying too, imploring the same God to help him...

Just below, a Basque herdsman, Arzain Zahar is deep in thought, the mountain of L’Orny his horizon. His only worldly possession is this little herd which he shepherds over hill and valley. His life and his death are here in this circle of stones. Over that way lie the charred remains of his father’s funeral pyre which burned to cold many moons ago...

 The neighing of a horse. Jérôme stirs, half-waking. Does his throat feel dry, or is he dreaming ?

Not far from where the narrow pathway passes over the col, Ayméri Picaud is drinking. His leather water pouch is almost empty, his stomach also. His bundle of belongings feels heavier with each step, and the leagues separating him from Compostella seem ever longer. Where, he asks himself, is this abbey of Roncevaux, of which he has heard so much; where is its fresh bread, its heart-warming soup, its ruby wine and its soft, yielding straw bedding?

Ten paces further away again : Charles Dihigo is hiding, the Gestapo at his heels. Twenty years old, and a burning desire for the fight. Better to take your chances with Carlos Sanchez, who, at the service of Franco, is keeping a sharp eye open from the observation post above Roncesvalles. Better that, than to risk torture at the Fort du Haz. Cross the border up here at Bentarte, get to the camp at Miranda, over to Gibraltar, then, with luck, to London...

Up higher, a thousand paces away, Loup, Duke of Vasconie lies in wait. From the summit of Xangoa, he sees the entire army of Charlemagne. From the fore, where the Frankish foot-soldiers lead with the Basque and Muslim hostages, to the rear, with its procession of mules laden with riches plundered from the Navarrans in Pamplona. One hour from now, beneath a cataclysm of rock and blows, Roland will know agony and death, and with him Eggihard, Anselme and many others...

Near by, on the track, Jeanne is shivering. The convoy of chariots and carts has been halted by the snow. Her Highness Princess Elizabeth of Valois, whose hand has been promised to Philip, King of all Spain, has a fever. Jeanne gives her the potion prescribed by Sir Gaston Moncade, royal surgeon. She takes a sip,  shows displeasure and casts the potion to the ground ten paces further...

Ten paces, one hundred paces, one thousand paces further...

The fog disappears, the mist has gone. The sun warms Jérôme’s face. His memories fade into The Memory. His story into History. He opens his eyes slowly. He is thirsty. Jeanne’s perfume dances on the southerly breeze. From somewhere, Aymeri’s bell echoes alone. Over towards Elizacha, a horse neighs.

His moment has come. 

It is time to carry on.

If you enjoyed the translation, you can see the 26-kilometre St Jean Pied de Port to Roncesvalles walk through the beautiful photos of Dale Kathryn Grove by clicking on the picture of the lone walker in the rain and the mist at the beginning of ibili et amets egin, above.

In memoriam Chris Gibbs, 1952-2015. 

Our eternal Mate who first introduced us to El Camino.