Day 2, June 9th, 2023
Everything is damp when I wake up in the morning. Right next to my tent, a blackbird is serenading away with its sober medley of notes, unlike anything I have ever heard from a songbird of this species. As I wriggle out of my sleeping bag whistling in return, hoping to encourage the blackbird to try something different, it starts to drizzle. I don't want to put anything on the wet grass, so I carry my things into the woods, where it's still relatively dry, and get myself organised there. Dark clouds are gathering in the sky, and I can't help thinking about Andrew and Aki, who have to cross the Pyrenees today in this weather.
The tent is quickly taken down and packed away. Shortly before eight I say goodbye to my friends, the unimaginative blackbird and the horse jaw, when I spot my bag of food hanging from a tree branch as I pass by. I hung it there last night a little further away from the tent, just in case some hungry forest creature showed up and mistook my sleeping quarters for a pantry. I almost forgot it.
About half an hour later I reach the historic pilgrim hostel Orreaga in Roncesvalles. This former monastery was converted into a hostel as early as the year 1127 to offer accommodation and food to pilgrims on their way to Santiago de Compostela.
I didn't see a single person the entire way here, and even now there is nobody around for miles, certainly no shop or café. A small path leads past a dilapidated building to an archway. I go through and find myself in a huge courtyard. Everything seems deserted, there is absolute silence. The gloomy weather enhances the atmosphere. I spot another archway on the opposite side, could that be the entrance to the hostel? I go through and find myself in front of yet another archway, and then there is a door. It looks locked, but if not here where else could the way to the pilgrim's office be? Did I come in through a back entrance again?
I cautiously open the door and see a staircase leading upstairs into warm light, and I can hear the occasional voice. And there is the smell of coffee! I walk upstairs and find myself in the middle of the hostel's breakfast room, but there are no pilgrims to be seen. Instead there are cleared tables, only a few still have place settings with breakfast-cake, jam, orange juice and an apple. A few of the volunteers are bustling about, and when one of them spots me, she looks at me with wide eyes. From the outside, from the forest I come, I initially want to say, but I refrain and politely ask for a coffee and something to eat.
»Como? Pardon?« the woman asks confused. Oh dear, what’s the Spanish word for breakfast again? I gesture as if I were eating, whereupon a torrent of Spanish words washes over me. From the few words of Spanish I know I understand that only pilgrims with a certain ticket get breakfast. And that only applies to those who stayed overnight at this hostel. But I could have a coffee.
Well, I see I need to bring out the big guns. So I put on a deeply pitiful face and thank her for the offer of coffee, it would certainly help prevent me from collapsing from exhaustion. That does the trick. It isn't long before the woman comes back to ask if I would perhaps like some bread as well.
»Oh, si, muchas muchas gracias! Thank you very much!« I reply, and slump heavily into a chair. I am then served a delicious coffee, a plate with a large slice of toasted bread, a croissant, butter, honey and jam. I practically devour everything, because I am truly hungry. After all the exertion yesterday and the meagre dinner at my tent, my body is screaming for food. I would have loved to eat another portion like that, but I am grateful and leave a generous tip. It is not at all common for hostels on the Camino de Santiago to let in and serve pilgrims from outside in the morning, something I don't yet know at this point of my journey.
I get my stamp from the pilgrim's office and then I set off towards Zubiri, my destination for today.
Thunderstorm
I walk for a long time without seeing any other pilgrims. The way is beautiful and leads through a lot of ancient forest. I cross rivers and pass through small villages like Burguete, or Auritz in Basque. If it weren't for the brick-lined ditches on both sides of the road instead of pavements, I would assume I was strolling through a village somewhere in Hesse.
I almost miss the turn here because I didn't see the yellow arrow marking the usual route. Instead, as if by some miracle, I happen to glance at my map because I want to know the name of the place I am in. If I hadn't done that, I would have just kept walking straight ahead.
In the distance, I see flashes of lightning, and there is an ominous rumble of thunder. I manage to walk a few more kilometres before it starts to rain just before I reach Espinal. I put on my yellow Mickey Mouse poncho, walk quickly until I reach the village and find shelter in a doorway just as the storm really breaks. I work my way from door to door, hoping to find a café where I can comfortably wait out the rain. Instead I come across a French woman named Anne, who has also taken shelter in a house. Anne suggests we run to the church diagonally opposite, which we do. We call out to another pilgrim who is also looking for a dry place, and soon there are four of us in the Parroquia de San Bartolomé, because someone else is already sitting there. But no one is talking. It is quiet and reverent. Anne is praying, I am looking for a socket to charge my phone. I know, I sound like an atheist, but I am not. I just don't necessarily need a church to pray. What I need is juice right now. I had my encounter with God years ago, and on and off since then. It is more that churches make me sad. I have no idea why, but I almost always end up crying when I sit in a church and let myself to feel it. But what it is that I feel, I can't say, but it is profound and powerful, and it makes me sad. Perhaps that is the whole point. I don't actually know anything from the Bible, and I don't know who this James is, on whose path I find myself, except that he was an apostle of Jesus. But do I need to know all that? And do I have to pray in a church just because that's what people do? I briefly consider whether I should at least pretend to, so that others don't think badly of me. But as Meryl Streep says:
The minute you start caring about what other people think, is the minute you stop being yourself.
So I continue looking for a power source.
Meanwhile the thunderstorm is raging. It takes about half an hour before the rain lets up and I dare venture outside again. Around the corner from the church is the café I had been longing for earlier. Here I now order a coffee and a croissant with cheese and ham. As if the croissant wasn't greasy enough, the innkeeper drizzles oil onto it. Then he puts it in the oven so that the cheese can really sweat nicely in its fat-bed.
Later the sun briefly comes out, and I take the opportunity to spread my wet tent out on the ground to dry it. The rain has made everything muddy, there are puddles everywhere. On top of that, the paths are now often unpaved, full of scree and in places deep ruts open up before me. And my feet hurt so much!
Then it rains again, and what a downpour! I am deep in the woods and can only get shelter underneath a tree to avoid getting completely soaked. A small group of people strolls past me, oblivious to the weather. One of them is wearing sandals with socks, in which he slips and slides through the wet mud. A woman with white trousers is now black with dirt up to her knees. The thought of pitching my tent in this muck and crawling inside, filthy as I am, doesn't appeal to me. No, I don't want to camp tonight. Besides, everything hurts. Yes, I want a bed.
Shortly before Zubiri I simply sit down, I can't go on any longer. Now pull yourself together and keep walking, it is not so much further now., I hear an inner voice saying. I obey, but it hurts so much. It is a steep downhill slope the whole time, through all the mud and over even more scree and eroded stone grooves. How that lad in sandals managed this is beyond me. I think I would break my neck here without my hiking boots.
Zubiri
In Zubiri, the refuge Zaldiko has a bed available for me. The very friendly landlord speaks English and explains the house's features, which I appreciate as I am a complete newbie when it comes to pilgrim hostels.
»The bed costs fourteen euros, without breakfast, but there is a bar next door. Shoes stay in a cupboard by the entrance, the tap water is safe to drink, the showers and toilet are here on the left, the bedroom is over there, and your bed is up in the corner.« Then she takes my poncho and even hangs it up for me.
»And at ten o'clock the front door will be locked,« she adds, handing me a package of bed linen.
Oh the top bunk again, I think, but I am grateful and happy and looking forward to a hot shower and later being able to put my feet up and be dry, because it is pouring down with rain again outside.
A pilgrim lies exhausted in his bed underneath mine, so I try not to make any noise while I am making my bed. This is anything but easy, because I practically have to sit on the mattress while I put the fitted sheet on, otherwise I can't reach the corners! Besides, the sheet and pillowcase are made of some kind of paper, and I am afraid they will tear if I pull on them too hard. And anyway, have you ever tried climbing the thin metal rungs of a bunk bed ladder with sore feet?
I am starving, so I head straight to the bar across the street. The food selection is rather sparse though, apart from tortillas, tapas, and bocadillos there is nothing. I would really love something proper like a plate of meat, vegetables and potatoes, or something like that. Instead I am having a piece of tortilla and a large beer.
I check on Aki and Andrew via WhatsApp because I am really worried about how they managed the Pyrenees in the thunderstorm. Aki actually hiked all the way to Espinal, the place where I found shelter in the church, while Andrew stayed in Roncesvalles. They both got soaked along the way, but thankfully they were not struck by lightning.
I am popping to the supermarket next door to buy some fruit and biscuits for tomorrow. They have everything a pilgrim's heart could desire, even pre-packaged sliced sausage, and ham hanging from the ceiling.
I am lacking conversation tonight, so after a nice refreshing shower, I head straight back to the bar, buy another beer and sit down at a table with two women drinking wine. We immediately clink glasses and have plenty to talk about. The two women are around fifty and have traveled from South Africa. One of them walked the Camino de Santiago four years ago and actually met her current husband on the way back then. She tells me that he proposed to her after just one week on the Camino, and they weren't even walking together the whole time. Well, she accepted and they have been happily married ever since. Crazy. You go on a pilgrimage and come home engaged.
Now I am really looking forward to my bed. It is raining cats and dogs still and I am so glad I am not in my tent, I would drown! So I climb up the painful ladder, stuff my earplugs in, and it only takes a few minutes before I am asleep.
Distance: 24 km / Steps: 42030
Here again the today's route from Camino Time Lapse on YouTube.