Day One: August 3rd

SJPP -> Roncesvalles: 25km

I ate a burger called the Tennessee that night in St. Jean. Exhausted from the travel day filled with stress, long wait times, navigating directions in a foreign language I hadn’t used in years, gazing at the beautiful old town around me and… it was too much all at once. I wanted to cry for perhaps the third time that day. But life is brighter after food. Exhausted, I clambered up the first bunk bed of the journey as a group of merry drunk men wandered the streets outside singing loudly. At some point, their voices faded and I drifted off to sleep.

I didn’t know how early to wake up and start walking the next day. My little 18 liter Walmart backpack was not going to last much longer and after a bit of research, I decided to stop by the Pilgrim’s Office the moment they opened and to purchase a new backpack from the little shop I passed the night before.

The man at the Pilgrim’s Office greeted myself and an Australian man warmly. Told us the best route to take from St. Jean to Roncesvalles, where to stay for the night, and his approach to the “rules” of the Camino, specifically in France. “This route is not forbidden but it’s not recommended. Nothing here is really forbidden… I won’t tell you you can’t do that because nothing is forbidden. But I don’t recommend it.”

He stamped our credentials ceremoniously and with a warm smile, handed them back to us.

“You are now pilgrims. Buen Camino!”

I left the office with tears in my eyes and a smile on my face. Hurrying over to the pilgrim shop I purchased probably the worst backpack one could choose in my eagerness to get on the way. Yet as I put down my little green backpack for the last time, I nearly cried again. The realization of moving on and leaving things behind and the strangeness of becoming attached to an inanimate object like a backpack was not surprising to me though I often wonder at the emotions that bubble up in response to this. It’s learning to let go of things that no longer serve you I suppose. But in the moment it feels like loss. I’ve experienced quite a lot of it. I hold things close because I don’t like the thought of letting go, of giving up on the things in life that mean the most to me. Yet there are times when you must let go, even if the grief is great. I shook my head… enough of that. It’s time to begin this new adventure!

The walk to Roncesvalles was one of the most spectacular days on the Camino. I don’t know if it was the first-day feeling, the absolutely beautiful fog and mist that covered the landscape, the struggles and smiles of new faces along the way, or a combination of it all. It was truly the most magical day of walking. I met an older Italian woman at the head of the path where the road diverged and we stood confused for a moment, consulting our maps. We set off together for a bit but it wasn’t long before she charged ahead with a strength I couldn’t quite fathom as I plodded along. Soon after, I met Dorthee, a German woman I came to adore and whose unexpected brand of humor would have us laughing and confusing each other for the next week or so as we passed each other along the way.

The first rest-stop was at a small cafe high in Pyrenees with nothing else around. I threw down my backpack and collapsed on a bench, exhausted. Another American came over to chat. His energy was contagious and his smiles and laughter boosted everyone’s mood, as a quick glance at the other pilgrims showed that they were weary too but feeling better at the rest and conversation. The man told stories of the caminos he’d walked before and encouraged everyone to continue on and keep up the pace. Waving goodbye he soon headed out, disappearing into the mist. The temperature began to make resting body cold and after a quick bite to eat and the purchase of a hydration drink, I too set off.

The mist and fog seemed to pull me in, further down the path, closer to Spain. Magical moments with horses, watching sheep and goats clamber along the mountainside, the sound of the tinkling cow bells, spying strange black slugs that seemed to be everywhere, and beginning to feel the ache of carrying a backpack for so long, I loved every moment.

It was getting colder as I continued to climb up, up into the mountains. Around the corner and out of the mist appeared a food truck on the mountainside. Oh! The one the man at the Pilgrim’s Office had told me about this morning… this morning… It felt like ages had passed since then. One euro fifty paid and I don’t think instant coffee has ever tasted quite as good. A few others had paused on the mountainside, resting from the intense walk. It was quiet and still. A smile and wave to Davide who I’d met earlier. He shared a snack he’d brought with him from Italy.

Davide and I continued the walk together. The gloomy clouds and fog dispersed the moment we set foot in Spain and the sun was a warm welcome to the chilly, cloudy skies of France. At last, we arrived at the great monastery. Checked in, admired my stamp, and met Andrea who was sharing the bed next to mine. Discovering we were both from the same region of the US, we shared a load of laundry, had a drink together and chatted until it was time for dinner. 

A beautiful sunset and a walk to the chapel for the first Pilgrim’s Mass. Wobbly knees and aching feet, it was amusing to see I wasn’t alone during the service as all of the pilgrims sat and stood together in pain. The priest’s beautiful words echoed in my head and heart that night. Andrea and I got in trouble for talking too loudly as we organized our bags and it was a struggle to sleep with the amount of snoring that occurred that night.

I need to get ear plugs.