DEBA

Once we got to into the town proper, we had to find the police station, where the keys to the albergue were kept. The police were out fighting crime somewhere, so we decided to get some lunch. Ana soon winkled out the location of the restaurant we’d been told about, and that was a good thing, because we would never have found it on our own. It was on the second floor of an office building; there was no sign, and you had to ring a bell to gain admittance. We stomped in, packs and all, and created a bit of an uproar among the very conservative wait staff. Evidently, this was a “local” restaurant. Once the sticks were in the umbrella stand, and the packs had been banished to the geranium bedecked balcony, things settled down and everyone was quite civil. We had a bang-up lunch for 10 Euros, wine and bread included. I ate menestra de vegetales, merluza a la romana; battered hake, and my beloved arroz con leche; rice pudding.

Eventually, the policeman came back and we were able to get a room in the small albergue next to the Red Cross station, at the end of a little seaside park. A good thing too, because if it had been full, and I had had to climb the hill into Deba Alta to the large albergue, I might have packed up and gone home.

This albergue had a tiny room with two triple and one double bunk in it. Thank goodness everyone took pity on my poor knees and let me have the bottom bunk. We crammed in with our two Norwegians, whom I called the Viking Women in my head, and one young Brazilian cyclist, who was finding the going quite challenging, as much because of the dangerous highways as the hills, but the hills were no picnic either. He wasn’t sure he wanted to continue.

No amount of alcohol of rosemary, prescribed by the Vikings, nor Reiki, administered by Gisbert, seemed to help my knees. Like the cyclist, I was questioning my fitness for this adventure. It didn’t help that it was raining and cold.

We decided to find our own food for supper. Bread, cheese, apples, pears, olives and wine were found by various explorers of the town. When we got them back to the albergue we realized that it would be impossible to eat in that room, it was just too cramped. So, in our raingear, and lugging our many plastic bags, we set out to find a picnic spot. We ended up in the arcaded courtyard of the town hall, sharing the space with young kids playing pelota against a wall on which a sign strictly forbidding the playing of pelota was prominently displayed.



We tried to “borrow” a table from an outdoor café which was closed, on account of rain, but the owner rushed out and took his table back, so we were stuck with the stone bench which ran along the wall of the arcade. As darkness fell, we looked out on the townspeople under their umbrellas, scurrying home to supper.

We were cold, but the atmosphere we created was warm and full of laughter. I was only sorry that I was going to have to leave our merry band, because I just could not go on.

BEAUTIES OF GUIPUZKOA: or What goes Up must come Down!

From Zumaia, it was another steep climb through the suburbs to the high farms and vineyards. Without exception, everywhere you looked was so beautiful that it gave you a lightened feeling. Here a beautiful white farm with its giant caserio, a communal farmhouse cum storehouse cum stable; there an ermita on the top of a bluff overlooking the sea. I was continually amazed by the remote locations of the houses; how did they haul the materials up there? Ana emphasized what I was thinking when she explained that when the Basque language came to be written down in the nineteen twenties, there were nearly as many dialects as there were caserios.

It was a great walk, mostly on unpaved tracks. We had to cross the N-634, a national highway a couple of times, which was terrifying, but the rest of the day was spent in farmland, with the occasional hamlet. We had a rest stop in a park just outside Elorriaga, where a public works truck was also parked. One of its two occupants was taciturn and grumpy, but the other was more than happy to converse about the area. He told us the good places to eat in Deba, the next big town. We knew that we’d have to stay there that night, even though it was only thirteen km from Zumaia, because the next stage was 22km, and the hills were terrifically hard work, and not just for me.

There was something quite magical about the little country roads which turned into footpaths. I remember one segment on the outskirts of the village of Itziar which began in a little river valley with sheep grazing on either side of what was a very old road. From here we travelled into a damp little dell, very green with ferns and flowers underneath huge old trees, then up a steep incline, past a magically friendly horse, who didn’t even get up while we passed, but who sniffed our hands and let us pet his velvet nose.

We had thought about lunch in Itziar, but the one choice was a hotel by the main road, which didn’t appeal. At my insistence we went up and up into the village proper because I wanted to see the thirteenth century statue of the Virgin, associated with yet another of the tales of miraculous discovery which have been a theme along both my Caminos. It was worth the climb. The sixteenth century church was huge. Since the Virgen de Iciar is the protector of sailors, there was a model of a full-rigged sailing ship hanging from the ceiling. I wondered how old that was! The back wall of the nave was decorated in geometric wall paintings in dark blue and red and white, on either side of massive wooden retablo, so dark as to be almost black. In the centre of this, backlit, was the golden statue. The story goes that a boy met with an apparition of a woman and child, who told him to build a church on the height of Itziar. Somewhere along the line, he received a gilded statue. The people of the village, seeing the miraculous statue, did as they were told, but decided to put the church in a place less awkward to reach, lower down, and not covered in scrub and thorns. They made a start, but in the night angels descended and moved the stones to the place the apparition had mandated. The people realized that they’d better follow the instructions and a church was built on the site where the current church stands today.

When we came out of the church, it was right into a spirited game of soccer in the courtyard. Children from the ikastole, the Basque-language school were having recess.



We threaded our way through them and headed further upwards. One of the things I liked best about these walks was watching the towns and villages recede as we climbed. I took lots of pictures, but they hardly ever replicated the experience. The lens foreshortens everything and makes the distances look like nothing at all.

It wasn’t far from Itziar to Deba, only about three kilometres. Unfortunately, it was nearly straight down.descending nearly three hundred metres to the sea.



The way was lovely, with the road banks crammed with wildflowers in bloom. Ana and I feasted on wild strawberries. But the last section, on paved roads, and what was likely a 1 in 3 grade literally did me in. Gisbert and Margi went on ahead, while Ana insisted on keeping me company. I felt like such a wimp but I was in extreme pain. I was thrilled to see the town at the foot of the last hill, until I saw that to get to it I had to go down several sets of stairs. When I got to the foot of those I had to laugh because before me was an escalator, and just beyond that was a series of two elevators which led to the town proper. Somehow, seeing those made me feel better. Even the people of Deba recognized how ridiculous it was to be climbing down a cliff.



Elevators. Best. Invention. Ever.

A DIGRESSION OF SORTS

While I'm thinking about food, I want to wax poetical about membrillo, a most unlikely confection. It isn't a very nice word, admittedly. It sounds more like the inside of a cow's stomach than the jewel-like cube of sweety fruity goodness that it is. In English it is quince paste. I don't really like the sound of that either, as it conjures up memories of flour paste and primary school craft projects gone wrong.



Quinceslook like a cross between an apple and pear, and smell like flowers. Unfortunately, when raw, they are dry and coarse to the touch, more like cardboard than anything else I can think of, and I haven't yet got up the nerve to put one in my mouth. But if you boil them up with lemon peel and water and then add an equal volume of sugar to the resultant puree, you get a beautiful ruby coloured gel, which holds its shape and can be sliced or cubed, and paired with cheese. I've eaten it sliced thin and very dry with an aged Manchego, and bright yellow and fresh tasting. My fondest memory of it was at a communal dinner in Ribadiso. It had come from a local cafe, and was soft and salmon pink. We had it with a huge round of the local Arzua Ulloa cheese, which was buttery and seemed to melt in our mouths. A peak culinary experience if ever there was one.

The closest thing I can get to membrillo here is the Portugese mermelada, which is essentially the same thing, but since its mass produced and comes in a plastic tub, it lacks the vividness of colour and essence of the good life in Iberia.

So, to remedy that, I decided to make my own. I had trouble finding quinces locally so I begged some from my daughter, who works in a toney Italian grocery store in the big city. After that it was easy. Boil, puree in the food mill,



add the sugar, boil and boil and boil and simmer and simmer and simmer, and bake in a slow oven....unfortunately, not quite slow enough. After several hours of this nonsense it was the right colour, except around the edges where it was decidedly blackened. It didn't look like it would set into a block, but I let it cool and hoped for the best. It tastes delicate and looks fresh, but is definitely jammy rather than gel-ly. It should look like this.





But, it looks like this.



I have found some more quinces, and will try again, since I seem to have eaten the whole batch! Membrillo Mach II, coming up!

ZULOAGA, ZUBARAN, ZUMAIA

After lunch, we reconnoitred on the main street and headed for the hills. We travelled up and up passing by small aldeas, or hamlets, some with oranges and roses growing in the gardens. In one small place, San Prudentzio, we passed a large building where we heard gorgeous singing coming from a basement room. The windows were frosted so we couldn’t get a look at the singers, but since it was Sunday, and the music sounded liturgical (angelic, even) we decided it must be a choir practice or a church service in progress. We passed vineyards planted with grapes for txakoli, the famous local white wine, too sour and resinous for my liking.



We entered a small village with friendly gray ponies and a donkey pastured near a a church so squat and square it looked fortified.

We met lots of farm animals that day, especially donkeys, some of whom were eager to beg for scraps of food; others more intent on “horseplay” or “pequenos jaleos”—little battles, about sex mostly.

After Azkizu, the land started to drop off sharply, and by the time we reached the paved road on the outskirts of Zumaia, the slopes were very steep indeed. I had fallen behind the other three, and was in a lot of pain. I had to go down the last hill (read cliff) backwards, with Ana and Margi taking turns to steer me by hanging onto the ends of my hiking poles, while I held the grips. We must have looked like some kind of crazy train! It sure helped with the pain though.

As we walked into the town, where we had decided to stay, we passed an ancient ermita with beautiful lush gardens which had become an art museum featuring the works of Zuloaga, a famous local artist, with some Zubaran and El Greco thrown in for good measure. Despite our tiredness, Ana and I determined to come back the two kilometers and see it when it opened at 5.00. In the meantime we crossed a bridge over the Urola River, where locals were fishing, hopelessly and disgustedly. All they were catching were shrimp. This was the second time we’d been told of the failure of the local fishery. As if to prove it, there were rotting fishing boats on the river bottom. It was a shame to see these beautiful wooden craft, gracefully curved at each end, holed and covered in green algae. We also saw a large blue shipyard building with BALENCIAGA emblazoned on it. Apparently they specialize in tugboats. I guess the marine heritage of Zumaia isn’t completely lost.




There was a really attractive promenade along the far shore of the river. Zumaia looked pretty prosperous, although there were a few streets away from the front which looked a bit grim. There were lots of bars and restaurants, and even at 10 at night I found a farmacia where I could by ibuprophen crème for my knees. We found a private albergue in a grand old house. The owner was very kind, and if the surroundings weren’t quite up to scratch, his openness and willingness to be of service had to count for something. He let me use his own internet to send a message home. His kids had left it sticky and with missing keys, but it was better than nothing. Internet cafes, which had been all the rage on my last visit, had been replaced by texting. Eventually, I joined the ranks of those who had no cellphone in the locutorios. Me and the African and South American immigrants.

There were loads of Senegalese all along the north coast. Some had come as fisherman, while others arrived looking for any work at all. One fellow with whom I had a long conversation told me that he and his brother had come to Spain because it was too hard to get papers for France. He had made great progress in learning Spanish, in less than a year. In another village, I saw children with deep brown skins, some African, some Arab shouting in Euskara with the other children, completely integrated. To be a Basque, you must speak Basque.. It appears to be a sufficient condition. My respect for these people was increasing daily!

We had arrived fairly early in the day, so there was time to do laundry before going out to find supper. We had decided to eat out, since we didn't really like the look of the outdoor kitchen in the albergue. We did have some tea there, and got to know some more peregrinos. One pair of Norwegian sisters whom I'd seen in Orio were there, and were quite friendly and eager to chat. They were redoubtable women, aged 63 and 74. I think this was their sixth Camino, and they'd done others in Norway too. They gave me some ointment for my knee, along with the story of how the older of the two sisters had walked two hundred kilometres on a broken leg on her last Camino, after a fall. They were to become our walking companions as far as Bilbao.

Later, Ana and I went back across the river on complaining legs to the museum, only to find it closed. Such a disappointment! I'd have to wait until Bilbao to encounter paintings by Zuloaga.



I forget what the reasons were, perhaps just that it was Monday, but none of the restaurants seemed to be serving food. We went to a couple of bars, and got whatever we could. We were too early even for tapas. I had some merluza and some sidra. Its a funny thing but walking reduces rather than increases one's hunger.

GETTING TO GETARIA

It was Sunday morning, and as we set off from Rosa’s we could hear the church bells ringing. A stylishly dressed matron hurried by us, late for Mass. Her bright red jacket was a cheery note on a grey and misty morning.

I’d read in the guidebooks how one of the frustrations of the Camino del Norte was the up and down nature of the walk. I could begin to understand it. For every crossing the many rivers flowing into the Cantabrian Sea we had to descend steeply, only to ascend just as precipitously on the other side. I often think I could climb Everest, but getting down would kill me. My knees were beginning to complain about the sharp descents.

We crossed the Rio Orio on a bridge and passed through the industrial part of town. Soon the road gave way to a flowery, hillside trail, with lovely views of caserios, including Rosa’s, in the soft green hills above the town. One of the oddest things for a Canadian on the Camino in spring is to see roses in full bloom while the leaves on the trees are barely showing. Another shocking sight is the crosses commemorating the fallen from the Civil War, one of which we found by the side of the trail overlooking the village. It was quite horrible to imagine someone being killed in such a beautiful place in the woods, possibly in sight of his own home. I suppose in the Pais Vasco, the cross might equally well commemorate an ETA casualty, instead.

Soon we were out in the country walking on minor paved roads. The air was fresh and the grey seas refreshing. There was rain threatening in the distance, but for now we were dry and happy, except on the downhills. By midmorning we had covered the 7km to Zarautz, where we stopped for a break. We walked through the town which looked as if it did a thriving tourist trade. Ana was searching for the casco viejo, the old town, and being Ana, found it without difficulty. We stopped at a bar on the Plaza Mayor. Gisbert and the ladies had a beer and some tapas. I stuck to café con leche, to which I admit, cheerfully, I am addicted. The rain had started to fall, but it was the friendly siri miri , or sea mist, for which the region is famous, and didn’t stop us from enjoying the walking.

We walked together and apart, sometimes one with another, sometimes all together, but always in sight of one another. We chose the coastal route out of Zarautz on an amazing promenade, beautifully paved in stone, with gleaming decorative stainless steel railings, extending an amazing 4 km to the next town of Getaria.



Everyone from both towns seemed to be out enjoying the day. There was heavy pedestrian traffic going both ways. What a great opportunity, I thought, for people to enjoy some exercise and see the sights. It would have been a lovely walk to one town or the other, for some lunch and some wine, and a stretch of the legs in the brisk sea air on the way home to wear it off.

We saw a bit of a shipwreck on the way, a fairly sizeable sailboat capsizing, and other boats in the vicinity coming to the rescue of the crew. As we approached Getaria, we could see the aptly named island, El Raton, (the mouse) sitting off from shore with its humpy back and a small crest looking like ears, very naturalistic.

In Getaria, just by one of the many statues of Juan Sebastian Elcano, the town’s most famous son, we were drawn down the hill by the sight of a crowded street bedecked with pennants, with a Cathedral at its foot.


I think Ana and Margi were contemplating another fish fry, but at 60 Euros for two, it seemed rather too extravagant for lunch. Instead, we sat on a plaza above the harbour, sharing our bread and cheese and a bottle of sidra, which Ana had wormed out of one of the tony restaurants on the front. Below us we could see the local fishing fleet, decked out in red, white and green, the colours of the Basque flag, which fluttered above the boats. A market was also in full swing, odd on a Sunday, I thought.

Behind us was another statue of Elcano, who was with Magellan on his circumnavigation of the globe, and who, when Magellan died enroute, completed the venture! No surprise there! I was starting to realize that to live and thrive in the Basque country, you had to be as tough as nails. Those high hills, that wild sea, and the rain all work together to create hardy self-reliance. Elcano was variously a soldier, merchant captain, debtor, explorer, mutineer, a commander who survived several mutinies, tribal warfare and foul weather. He died of malnutrition somewhere in the Pacific Ocean on his second voyage, but not before receiving a title which he could pass on to his (illegitimate) son. I’ve since learned that Getaria is also the birthplace of the fashion designer Balenciaga, an explorer of a different sort.

PEREGRINA PERDIDA

Lost AND Found....wherein the peregrina loses her way, finds a menhir, a magical bar, and several kind people.



Before long I had reached the summit of Monte Igueldo. I followed the yellow arrows across a road, and into the parking lot of a bar. I soon saw one of the wooden montones which mark the Camino in the Basque country.Thetrail was taking me toward the sea. Fantastic! I couldn’t wait to get away from the urban area and I was thrilled with how wild things looked. Thrilled for a little while at least. In about half an hour, though there were yellow arrows aplenty, it became clear to me that if this was the Camino, it was a highly alternative route or perhaps, indeed, a former route. I stopped at a little menhir on a saddle between the mainland and a near island to rest and snack. I couldn't see any trail going on from there, but I had no interest in going back the way I had come, so I pressed on. I was nearly down the other side of the hill near the rocky shore when it became crystal clear to me that I would have to climb back up again and try to find the right road. I was hot and tired. My feet ached and I needed to go to the bathroom.



I passed some sheep huts and saw lots of footprints, both of sheep and men. At one point, I found myself walking on what had once been a tarmac road, but which was quickly reverting to nature. A little later and a little higher, I came upon some huge sections of tarmac which were uprooted, and lying at crazy angles, as if there had been a highly localized earthquake. I decided that it must be a municipal dump of some sort, but there was no choice but to climb up and hope that nothing tottered when it should have teetered. After some pretty major bushwacking, I came out of the undergrowth into a field which led to a lane which led to a road. There were markers advertising a pequeno recorrido, a local walking trail, and I followed it west, hoping that it would, at some point, hook up with the Camino Proper.

I knew I had to be on the right track when I entered a small suburban neighbourhood. I flagged down the first person I saw and asked him the way. He wasn’t a local but was visiting a family to whom he took me. They were wonderful! They assured me that I was on the Camino already and would soon see a yellow arrow. Then they invited me in for a chicken barbecue. I was sorely tempted, but declined. It was such a relief to know I was heading the right way!

Soon I was walking on a section of Camino what was also part of the Gran Recorrido, a system of paths which are intended to make Europe one continuous walking path. This part went up and down the hills along the coast. There were beautiful white farms set into the hills; glorious on a day like this, but perhaps a little forbidding in winter



As the road went ever onward, I was rather wishing I had gone for the chicken barbecue. I had drunk the water they’d given me, and was getting no satisfaction from my map, since I didn’t know if the Camino I was on was the main route or the alternative shown in the guide. I was just wondering how many extra kilometers I had let myself in for when, by Camino magic, the Bar Nikolas appeared by the side of the road. I was thrilled and relieved. I still didn’t know where I was, but here was a source of water, toilets, a place to sit down, and best of all, Coca Cola. There is something about the Camino which makes me crave its throat-stripping, insulin-boosting, sweetness. I had two!

Just after the bar, I understood that I was on the alternative route, since the road disappeared and the Camino went through some beautiful ferny woodland on a dirt footpath, with paved sections here and there. It was very quiet and still, and just a teeny bit spooky, since it was that mid-afternoon time that is always a bit creepy when you are on your own. There were signs on the gates telling you not to let the wild horses out, which made me want to see the wild horses. Later someone reminded me that the horses were food animals, which made me want to leave all the gates open. There were lots of ups and downs and sharp bends, especially when the trail left the woods and came into open grasslands. There were all sorts of trails made by animals and fourwheelers. You had to keep a pretty close eye on the markers to make sure you were still on the right track. Pretty soon I could see and hear the main highway up above on the top of the ridge, so I thought I must soon come to Orio where the albergue was. No such luck! The road seemed interminable. At one point, as I was crossing a style and talking to some inquisitive donkeys, I was surprised by a cycling peregrino. I felt a little silly getting caught like that!

I saw an hermitage up on the hill and thought, “Aha!, at last”. My albergue was supposed to be very close to the hermitage of St. Martin. This, however, was some other hermitage, and I still had miles to go. When I came to the hamlet of Aupe, there was a sign telling me that Santiago was now a mere 787 km away. This was not as daunting to me as the fact that Orio was still 2.4 (Spanish ) kilometres distant, and that the path seemed to be heading down a cliff. I plunged down into the woods below. All was very beautiful except for the new A-8 highway I could see in the valley. The road was obviously an ancient one, made of red sandstone cobbles. They were high and domed and slick. I had to pick my way very carefully, and my knees were starting to protest. My mind was starting to get a bit desperate and my body was very tired.



As I neared the road it looked as if the Camino came to an abrupt stop, but some makeshift yellow arrows marked the detour to the new route, a tunnel under the A-8. If I had had to cross that crazy highway, I might just have given up and gone home. I wanted to do that too, when I realized that on the other side of the valley, I had to climb a road almost as steep as the one I’d just come down. At least this one was paved. I passed the hermitage of St. Martin with scarcely a look. I just wanted my albergue!

I met a couple out for an evening stroll, and asked them if they knew the Albergue de Rosa. They didn’t but were happy to help me look for it as we came into the outskirts of Orio. There was a large house on the left which looked promising. It had no sign but on the front porch were lots of symbols of Basque agricultural heritage, wooden shoes and the like. I told the couple I would ask at this place. As I went up the walk, a woman wearing an apron rushed out, and grabbed me in a hug. “You must be the Canadian!” Putting two and two together, and wiping soapsuds off my face, I exclaimed “You must be Rosa!”. De veras! I felt like the lost sheep and the prodigal son rolled into one! Such a welcome! Ana and Margi hugged and kissed me and told me how worried they had been that I was lost. The couple with whom I had been walking wondered what had become of me, and came round the back to make sure that this was the place. My energy roared back. Suddenly I was having a great day.

Ana and Margi were going into Orio to have some fish roasted on open hearths, and they invited me to go with them, but I had done enough walking for one day. I opted to take my supper with Gisbert and two French couples, in Rosa’s little cabana overlooking the beautiful hills on the other side of the Orio river. Rosa was a great cook, and the company was good. The day was saved.

FORMING UP THE POSSE

By the next morning the four of us were bonded. Nothing was said, but all of a sudden we moved in a group. We breakfasted together in the main square, boarded a little tugboat for the short hop across the inlet to Pasaia San Pedro, and started up the mountain.

At breakfast, I learned that our two ladies were Anna and Margi, childhood friends having a short holiday together. Anna, or Ana, as she is now called, is a Swiss woman who married a Spanish architect and who has lived in Madrid for the best part of forty years. She worked as a translator, which was a bonus for me because she became my interpreter with Margi. Ever since I’d been learning Spanish, my highschool French seemed to have been squeezed out of my ears. I could understand what Margi said, but found it difficult to express myself. Margi had French and German, and Gisbert spoke excellent English, so we managed to play ‘broken telephone’ quite well.

Despite our inability to converse, Margi and I seemed to have a connection. She was warm and humorous despite a somewhat dolorous exterior. Ana was lively, and somewhat arch, and laughed at every opportunity. She was also a person who liked things done to her satisfaction, and wasn’t above the odd grumble. She was also really good at getting things for us, like lunch, outside the usual hours. My mother would call her a “going concern”. She was forever being called on her cellphone by friends in Madrid, or her daughter, with wedding plans. “hello, darling” is a phrase I will always associate with Ana. In my mind, I called her my Hispano-Suisa. Gisbert took a bit longer to know, and had depths I would not have suspected.
Once across the water, we set out for a walk that was advertized as strenuous but worth the effort. Right on both counts. We watched a crew of lifeboat rowers out for their Saturday morning training session. Lifeboat racing is a HUGE deal on the Bay of Biscay, with regattas held in almost every town of any size. These lads were relatively young, and very fit and jaunty in their purple jerseys. We walked along the front for the best part of a kilometer before starting the climb. We came round a corner to see a set of concrete stairs hugging the side of a cliff. Very well, I thought, I can do this.

Straight up they went, and round the curve of the rocks, to the next set, and the next, and the next. All told, I think there must have been five sets of stairs stretching up several hundred feet. I remember the watching the lighthouse which we’d encountered at the top of the second flight of steps getting smaller and smaller as we climbed above it.



Finally we reached the road which curved round the hill, still not quite at the top but close enough. The view was entirely worth the effort. Huge cliffs stretched away to the west, and the lesser hills were covered in wild flowers. The sea crashed away at the base of the rocks, and I felt very free, and happy that my body had weathered the effort of the climb. After that we walked on a footpath all the way to San Sebastian, meeting people out for a morning constitutional, and at one point finding ourselves in the midst of a cross country footrace, and having to step off the path to let the runners go by.




We walked as a group down the first promenade in the city. I marvelled at the sunbathers and water bathers so early in April. San Sebastian’s two beaches were fully developed and we were to be walking on pavement for the next several kilometers. We parted ways at the end of the first promenade as we went in search of food. Margi and Ana were going somewhere specific, and I’m sure that neither Gisbert nor I knew where we were going at all.

What a gracious town! Of course there was the usual spate of construction marring the facade, but I was impressed at the prosperous feel of the place and the beautiful fin de siecle architecture. This was after all, a royal watering place. The central plaza was aglow with flowerbeds, and full of laughing children out for a walk with their parents. There was plenty to amuse them, swings and monkeybars and an amazing carousel, with dolphins, horses, carriages; just about any ride you could imagine, all lit up with fairy lights and surmounted by double tailed mermaids.

About midway down the second beach, I found a tourist café that catered to Spanish tourists, where I had some water and tea and some tapas. It felt great to sit down in the relative darkness and take a load off my very hot feet. Refreshed, I carried on to a park at the end of the beach where I took off my shoes and socks and rested. Because I was starting to get some "hot spots", I took the precaution of regreasing my feet with Vaseline, and put my silicone toe protectors in place. I had learned last time to take preventative measures rather than wait until I was injured.

The Camino now entered a residential area and began to climb up the ridge of Monte Urgull. At the top, there was an amusement park which, mercifully, one bypassed, but it might have been nice to take the funicular.
About halfway up, I came across Gisbert, who was sitting on a low wall, obviously in a state of meditation. He nodded, but it was clear to me that he preferred me to go on, so I did.

PASAIA SAN JUAN

The albergue I was looking for was newly opened and the buzz on the internet was that it was a good place to stay. I arrived before it opened, and spent a relaxing hour in the shade of an old wall, eating nuts and exposing my feet to the cool air. I unpacked my bag and got out my shoes. I’d had enough of boots for the time being. When the hospitalero arrived, he ceremoniously poured me a glass of water, for which I was mightily grateful. He showed me around and I got clean. Soon after the bearded peregrino arrived. He introduced himself as Gisbert, from Hanover. The afternoon passed pleasantly.

I sat in the kitchen talking with Gisbert about his first camino; and looking at blossoming trees in the garden. Each time I went to check on my laundry flapping, but, mysteriously, not drying in the strong afternoon breeze, I encountered a young teenage couple necking unabashedly behind the albergue, seemingly continuously for several hours.

After I’d had some rest, I braved the stairs down from the church to the town below. I was feeling strange about travelling down through what would have been people’s yards had they been on solid ground;a little like being a kid taking the short cut through other people’s backyards; trespassing. But in fact, these were public stairs which happened to get dressed up with plants and sculptures. Evidently, people require an outdoor outlet for their creativity. All the restaurants in town were pretty pricey, so I opted for groceries. This was probably a bad idea, since the place is a bedroom community for San Sebastian. The places which sold food were poorly stocked. Eventually, I found some cheese and stale bread. I passed the house where Victor Hugo famously stayed. It was a big deal to the local tourist economy, but I discovered that he was only there for a week or so, and didn’t achieve any great literary conquest while he was there. I also passed a shrine commemorating a real conquest, of the Basques over Charlemagne, but didn’t realize it until later.



I remember the resolute closedness of the restaurants, the sound of shoe heels on the empty stone streets, echoing louder under the arcades. The open stares of local teenagers when I sat down on a bench overlooking the harbour. The pro-Basque, anti-Spanish posters plastered on the decrepit building facades, and the ETA flags flying gaily from the jettied balconies of the ancient houses.




As ever, I was struck by the fact that its almost impossible to take a photograph of a building in its entirety, so closely and higgledy-piggledy has development been throughout the ages. Because I couldn’t have (or didn’t choose to afford) any decent food, I was feeling bereft. But when I returned to the albergue, our host had just finished cooking up a tortilla of egg and tomato for himself and his invigorating friend, Saturnino. Saturnino was a force of nature; trim, energetic, his tanned face creased with laugh lines, his mouth crested by a luxuriant yet well-kempt moustache .He seemed to have an endless supply of information; his generosity was boundless, and his enthusiasm was infectious

We, for Gisbert was there too, sat at the table with them. Gisbert had purchased a bottle of wine which he shared with me, and we ate our bread and cheese while Saturnino told inexhaustible tales in Spanish about how the albergue came to have a mosaic of Che Guevara on the wall of the diningroom and of the superiority of Basque sidra, which he more or less forced us to taste. After supper, he took us to admire the church, told us of his recent wedding (second, I’m sure–he was a handsome devil), with a dissertation also on Basque wedding customs. He also took us up into the belfry to see his pride and joy, a medieval clock which he kept wound and greased and in perfect working order.

By the time we left the church, the sun had gone down and the lights were twinkling across the water. There was a gorgeous full moon rising in the blue-black sky. As Saturnino was locking the door, two exhausted looking peregrinas came round the corner. They had gotten lost on Day One! They’d ended up on the seashore, quite a long way down and a long way back up from the trail. The four of us spent what was left of the evening lying on our little cots, sharing our aches and pains in the pilgrim way, making light of it and laughing with one another each time someone let out an involuntary groan.

THE PEREGRINA SETS FORTH IN EARNEST

A Long Day's Journey into Mid-Afternoon




Leaving Hondarribia was easily accomplished, but taxing. Beginning on the outskirts of the town the Way went essentially straight up. When I got to the Sanctuario de Guadelupe, I was ready for a good rest.
I'd already consumed my water and I was only about four kilometres into it. I'd been able to see the Sanctuary almost the whole way up the near-cliff like slopes of Monte Jaizkabel. In the neatly groomed suburbs, I came upon an early morning ambulance call for an elderly man. Nothing like a heart attack to start your day, and nothing like the reminder of human frailty to start your Camino Proper. On my walk, I saw only one other pilgrim, a middle-aged bearded man with a huge backpack, who caught up with me as I was peering through the windows of a small ermita about halfway up. I said hello, but he didn't acknowledge me.

I needed to fill my bottles, but hesitated at the fountain in the courtyard of the sanctuary. The icon showed a tap with a stroke through it, and after the digestive woes of the first camino, I didn't want any trouble. A local man who was resting on a bench while his wife went inside to make her devotions assured me that the water from the fountain was in fact, fantastic, coming from a spring further up the mountain. The icon was merely to indicate that the water was untreated. Potentially suspect. I took him at his word, and did not suffer for it. Later I read that there is a healing spring at the sanctuary, good for skin conditions in particular. I wonder if that was the one?

The sanctuary was about to be inundated by busloads of the faithful, so I pressed on, after enjoying the great view across the valley of the Bidasoa. Almost immediately I was presented with a detour because of roadworks, but because there was no other way to go, I headed into the construction site.Huge earthmoving machines were gnawing a deep trench beside the established Camino path. The workers looked at me as if they'd never seen a pilgrim in their lives. Disconcerting. And irritating, because I knew for certain they'd seen at least one other that morning. However, soon the path diverged up a vertical rock face to a flat picnic area and I left the machine noise behind.

The bearded man was lying in the sun, resting on his backpack. His eyes were closed and he was smiling. I now had a choice. I could walk along the road to the village of Pasajes, a level route by Spanish standards, and only ten kilometres, or I could take the "alpinist" route up Monte Jaizkabel. It was longer, but promised wonderful views, and I knew there were a number of ancient monuments up there. And I liked to think I was up to the challenge. About halfway up the vertical climb to the ridge along the top of the hill, I began to wonder if I'd made the right decision, but following my motto..."forward, only forward!" I persisted.



The view from the top was worth it. I could see the long beaches of the French coast laid out as if with a ruler. I looked down into the smoky valley at all the little towns lining the river's edge. In
front of me was the vast and sparkling expanse of the Bay of Biscay. As I looked along the ridge to the west, I saw a string of watchtowers, and what looked like a fort on the highest pinnacle. The air was clear and the sun was shining. It felt like the right thing to do. The alternative would have been 10 km by road along the shoulder of the mountain. That didn’t sound like much fun at all. In retrospect, it would have been kinder to my body to take that route, but I wouldn’t have had anywhere near the fun and excitement of being in the high places.
I met lots of pilgrims up there, more than I would have imagined. Long lean French pensioners; Spanish ex-fishermen who’d been to Canada more times than they could count. The walk weighed very lightly on them. They carried only their water supply, and some didn’t even have shirts! They were planning to go to Pasajes or San Sebastian. I have no idea where their backpacks might have been. As usual, all were much quicker walkers than I.

I was more than content to traipse along the spine of the hill. I sat by one of the watchtowers, the Torre Santa Barbara, to eat the provisions I’d purchased in Hondarribia. As I sectioned a delicious Spanish orange, I looked back over the town, and inland along the valley, obscured in places by some kind of industrial smoke. On the other side of the river, I could see other ridges like the one I was sitting on and marveled, as I often do, about the immense size of the world. If we had to go everywhere on foot, we could wander for a lifetime, and there would be more than enough to occupy us.





The sun was hot, and the way was long, though not particularly difficult once the initial climb had been achieved. The trail was mostly over open fields, some containing tough looking little horses. Almost always, I could see the ocean to my right. I did my usual first day foot pampering, changing my socks and applying Vaseline to my feet. At one concrete cross, I had a little lie down, and drank the last of my water. There was no explanation as to why the cross was there, but I had a pretty shrewd idea that it had something to do with the fallen of the Civil War. Other wars had left physical remnants too. The watchtowers were medieval, and one of them had been a rebel hideout in the Carlist wars of the mid-nineteenth century.

I decided not to go up to the fortress of Guadalupe at the very pinnacle, because it seemed an excessive climb if one was only going to drop down again. I decided to follow what looked to me like a yellow arrow off to the right. It turned out to be a flower. Eventually, after having to backtrack one field’s length, I found a stile and got onto a paved track, which ran between the sea and the hill on which the ruins of the fort are located. That suited me fine.

There were much older monuments than any of these forts. Along the ridge lay several ancient tombs, dolmens mainly. One of these, was most impressive, with a tall slab of stone on end in the centre. Someone had marked it with an inscription “Mendiabal“. As I learned later, Mendi means hill in the Basque language, Euskara. They had also marked it with a cross in a circle, which I found irritating, in the same way that the superimposition of a cross on the stone piles at Cruz de Ferro had bothered me. It seemed completely unnecessary, and in the case of the menhir, it struck my conservator’s mind as a defacement of an ancient monument.









On the far side of the hill surmounted by the fortress, I could see San Sebastian in the distance. The way down the hill was precipitous, and I had to pick my way amongst boulders, and pay attention. The sun had started to beat me up a bit, and I was feeling the lack of water. My guidebook showed a village not too far away, so I was looking forward to some refreshment there. I was worried because it was getting close to two o’clock and everything would be shut. I needn’t have worried, because there was nothing there anyway except a couple of farms and a short street of houses. Everything had that hollow stillness of a place where no-one is home.
I was practically despondent, and definitely dehydrated by this point. I sat down in a small patch of shade by the garage of a shuttered house. I couldn’t walk another step.
I couldn’t believe my good fortune when, a few minutes later, I heard someone come out of the house. I scooted round to the steps leading up to the door and saw a woman, probably about my age, with her gardening gloves on. Apparently, it wasn’t just me and the mad dogs out at this time of day.
“Buenas tardes! Puedo pedirle de aqua, por favor?” Even in my semi-delirious state, I was proud of myself for getting the verb construction right! Of course, she was more than happy to help. I drank the entire bottle right down. How far is it to Pasaia? I asked.
She said that I was almost there, just had to go down some steps. Duh! Sure enough, just round the corner the steps down into Pasajes began, and continued for a couple of kilometres.

THIS IS WHY I COME TO SPAIN!

So, things were not going as planned, but it wasn't so bad. I was glad of the chance to stretch my legs and get the feel of the pack. I had no idea where I would stay when I arrived, but I was sure I would find somewhere to stay, since Hondarribia is set up for tourists, and advertised as a lovely fishing village. The entire 4 km was on sidewalks and there were no hills except the one the town was built on. I soon discovered that Hondarribia is actually a walled medieval town, with ornate gates, cobbled streets, a huge parish church and in the plaza at the top of the hill, a fortified palace, which is now a parador. I walked to the wide open end of the plaza, on a bluff overlooking the sea, and a flock of white sailboats over on the French side, and thought "THIS is why I come to Spain!". The view, the air, the ambience were glorious. The rest of the town was just as picturesque. There was a street of nineteenth century hotels, and a labyrinth of older streets. I was wandering down one of them when I came to the little hotel which I had fallen in love with on the internet, and decided to try my luck at the Hotel Palacete. To my great joy and relief, there was a room available. It was a tiny, expensive room, full of a double bed and a television. It had its own bath, with pocket doors to save space, and it looked out on a small cobbled lane and the Plaza de las Cadenas--which, true to its name was bound with huge chains, probably from ships, I thought. I didn't mind that it was small and expensive, because to get to it, I had to climb an ancient, spiral stone staircase. How exceptionally cool is that! I found some food and some sunscreen in the lower town, and did my laundry in the sink like a good and prudent pilgrim. I fell asleep to the sounds of the children playing soccer in the plaza.