April 19

Today’s trek began before dawn, climbing up out of Torres del Rio, cresting a hill looking back out over the valley as the sun rose. I walked out with the two Karls, my German friends, so Karl-Heinz and I discussed books for a few km. He is a remarkably well-read man, particularly with books on walking or travel. It was a day to start extending the kilometers, so I finally pushed past 30. Given the general ease of the landscape, I’m not sure why I’m walking short–just trying to get into a good rhythm but am finding it elusive. Today’s midpoint was Logrono, the capital of the region and home to a number of old churches, all with those huge gilded altarpieces. I wandered them a while, hoping to see the paintings, but all was dark and I didn’t have the correct change to get the lights on. I did glimpse a Michelangelo painting before the lights went down. After Logrono, the path wound through grape fields, and around a large man-made lake. Along the dam, there were older men whose long fishing rods were set, while they say in folding chairs smoking and drinking coffee, casting eyes occasional at the tips of their rods to see if they caught anything. The weather threatened on the way into Navarrete, a medieval town on a hill where I found the municipal Albergue, settled into another evening on the Camino. I seem to have outstripped my original cohort of pilgrims, and now am among a different set– many Americans who laugh too loud.

T. Hugh Crawford

April 18

There can be no doubt this is a wine region. On the way out of Estella this morning I walked past a wine fountain. Even early in the morning, not something to pass up. I thought about filling my camelback but refrained. The fields, which were lined with poppies, were either hay or grape vines of various ages. I saw new fields just being set out with grapes, and fields with vines of all ages. Most stark were the oldest. Set closer together than the newer ones which are laid out for tractor cultivation, those stumps are the very definition of the word “gnarled.” I hope to find someone who can tell me their age as they seem almost Roman. This place is all about time.

T. Hugh Crawford

April 16

Bells, horns, birds, and bicycles. It took a long time to clear the Pamplona city limits, though it was a good walk. The parks are mature and well maintained, the path was clearly marked with metal scallop shell disks set in the sidewalk. An early Saturday morning, so the streets were empty except for the runners. The trek to Puente la Reina was mostly on a path going up over a ridge lined with windmills–a path shared with Saturday morning mountain bike riders. As usual, the way was lined with pilgrims, some familiar, some new. I encountered an older woman walking in boots, but also a shawl and long dress. I felt certain she was a nun, and just as I passed, I heard a ringing and thought it must be a pilgrim’s bell, an idea quickly abandoned when it sounded again right behind me and I jumped to avoid a speeding bicycle–so much for medieval reverie. At the peak were a series of sheet-metal pilgrim silhouettes and some food trucks, then a rapid descent down past trees full of birds. I heard a loud, arresting bird call echoing off the trees which became more and more insistent. Then, once again, a bicycle rushed past on the way down the hill, horn blaring. I guess the lesson is to stop romanticizing the aural landscape. Still, the views on the ridges– fields of rapeseed with forts, churches, and castles on the rises–were spectacular, as was the weather which alternated between bright sun and light rain with clouds mounding up on the horizon promising late day fireworks. Each town had squares, statues, and churches that invited lingering, with Puenta La Reina also offering narrow alleys with shops and restaurants tucked into narrow entryways. The Auberge Santiago Apostle (recommended by the Germans who ran last night’s Auberge) was a new structure set up on the hill half a click up a hill. Clean, efficient, and full of many of my acquaintances, it felt a lot like a locker room. After a shower and quick email check, I headed back into town, hotfooting it just ahead of the storm, to find a tapas bar out of the rain and in the midst of the locals, all enjoying a wet, low-key afternoon. That seems to be life on the way, Buen Camino!

April 14

I didn’t expect to be haunted by Hemingway on this trek, but he casts a long shadow in this region. There are even plaques marking the “HemingWAY.” A number of people started their hike today entirely too early. The auberges are unlike any hostel facility I’ve ever stayed in. Huge clean modern dormitories that efficiently accommodate large influxes of pilgrims– all stored like cord-wood for the evening, then turned out onto the trail the next morning. You cannot lounge in the morning, so I soon found myself walking in the dark of the dawn on my way first to Burguete, a place I have always wanted to visit. Hemingway’s Sun Also Rises details the bad behavior of a group of expatriates, first in Paris and then in Pamplona, but in the middle he offers up a remarkably beautiful pastoral interlude. Jake Barnes, the main character, and a friend go fishing in Burguete. I’m not a fisherman, but that chapter has always made me wish I were. So as the sun rose, I found myself walking into Berguete, hoping to find breakfast and a bit of Hemingway’s world. I walked past the first cafe, to my regret as it turned out to be the only one open, and in my search for coffee, I lost the way, putting in a couple of unnecessary kilometers until a fireman set me straight. Soon I was out in the countryside, still hungry and caffeine starved, but also crossing the trout streams described in the novel. A satisfying walk. The next village supplied a ham sandwich and remarkable coffee, and soon I was in Zubiri, the end point for many pilgrims day. I walked a good bit of the day with Patrick Cooley, a recent Te Araroa hiker, and we pushed on to Larrasoana where we found a whole crew at the Auberge San Nicola, including Michelle, a 2013 Appalachian Trail thru hiker who shares a number of hiker friends. The market next door was run by a Doors fan who insisted on giving his patrons a glass of local Rioja before selling us anything– and of course he had a glass as well. The rest of the evening was spent telling stories and drinking San Miguel– all suffered the next morning.

April 12

Camino minus 1. The day before a trek is all about reading the auguries. Maybe not slaughtering chickens to read entrails, but instead catching the tone or mood of the world that sets the stage for commencement. Feeling good so far about this one. Slept in and packed slowly, then headed out first to les halles at Biarritz because pilgrims need a scallop shell on the Camino. It is the emblem of the trek. At the fish market I found a stall surrounded by scallop shells holding back the ice in the display. I went into my ignorant American pantomime to ask to buy one. The proprietor smiled handing one over and declining recompense. I knew then and there this would be a good trek. Swung by the coffee shop for a large latte, the patisserie for some croissants and caught the bus to Bayonne. The trains were not running because of track repairs, so the SCNF had a bus to St. Jean-Pied-de-Port which, I soon discovered, was full of pilgrims (more than 40). I could hear a few American voices, but most were Scandinavian, French, or German. It is only the beginning of the season, but it appears the way will be crowded. On arrival at the town, I went to the check-in station, only to discover it was closed for lunch. I found a small store for a beer and was soon joined by Jen, a man from Denmark with a good appetite for beer and a good attitude about the trek. We had lunch together, checked into the hostel (good place with a great owner) and gathered our Camino passport, etc. Unfortunately the high route is snowed in so tomorrow I must follow the route along the road. Something of a disappointment but not unexpected. Jen and I sat by the river over red wine and were soon joined by Kai, a Norwegian also sharing our room. There is a real enthusiasm amongst the pilgrims which, even though the trail will be crowded, makes me optimistic about the upcoming walk.

April 10-11 — Arusha to Biarritz

Transitions between treks are all about transit and time. An interminable time in terminals and on planes (Air Ethiopia–good airlines) brought me to Paris, Charles de Gaulle early morning — the cheapest flight I could find from Kilimanjaro to Europe. Some transport brought me to city center and a direct confrontation with western modernity–a place where the electricity is never off. Clothes, gestures, patterns of movement and encounter were all suddenly familiar. As if to underline my return to the west and, more particular, that I was in Paris, I found myself on the metro standing next to a remarkably beautiful French couple making out. I still had a long day’s travel on the TGV to Biarritz for a couple of days recuperation before going over to St. Jean Pied-de-Port to commence of my walk of the Camino de Santiago. By early evening I found myself in a ridiculously perfect seaside town, catching the bus from the station to disembark at the public garden just as the intermission for the ballet took place. The square in front of the opera house was flooded with dance enthusiasts, bringing a certain buoyancy to the atmosphere. My hotel was across the square, and I soon found myself sitting outside the Bar Jean eating moules and frites washed down with cold local beer watching European evening behavior. It was familiar and happy, but also much different from what I have been living these last months in Nepal and Tanzania. Of course I was alone, but that solitude was heightened by that cultural distance. Still, this is a joyful (if affluent) place which does provoke a smile. I keep thinking of the end of Hemingway’s Sun Also Rises when Jake first goes to Bayonne and then San Sebastián, both towns very close to here. On my walk I will also see Burguete and Pamplona, so I’m on a sort of Sun Also Rises tour. I guess I’ll need to include some drunken nights in Paris to get a true feel for the book (given my trip in the snows of Kilimanjaro I guess I continue in his footsteps). Morning brought more delight, including a humorous pantomime with a man in the laundromat who helped me understand a fairly arcane system, followed by a stroll through les halles, the market. Apart from magnificent bread and cheese, what I found most striking was the simple care they take with their food. Everything was arranged and displayed with such care, marking out a different sense of time from life back in the US. People hurry to bring food to you, but its preparation is slow and careful. Spent the day wandering the town and the oceanfront. Hard to believe I was swimming in the Indian Ocean a little over a week ago. People are bathing in the Atlantic here, but it looks frigid.

T. Hugh Crawford