September 26, 2013: After flying from Atlanta to Paris, where I met up with Susan, we took the train to Bayonne. The next morning we took the “little train” to St. Jean Pied de Port, where we stepped on the the Via Frances — the Camino de Santiago de Compostela. The journey of a lifetime.

Who knew the people we would meet or the sites we would see?

Rereading my journal, I realize that there are things that I have conveniently forgotten. And that there are events, places and people that didn’t get journaled, but that stay with me. Interesting to read about how badly my feet and calves hurt, but to mostly have forgotten the pain. Interesting to take note of how often, especially early on, I wanted to quit and go home — but I have almost totally lost memory of that feeling. Memory is a very fluid function it seems.

Officially, I began my Camino when I stepped out of the Pilgrim Office in St. Jean-Pied-do-Port, France. In reality, the camino began well before that… perhaps when I left my home in Alabama on my way to the Atlanta airport to fly to Paris. Probably long before that when I read an account of someone else’s journey 2 or 3 decades ago in the Utne Reader and thought “Wow. I would so love to do that. But I have a husband, and small children, so I’ve missed my chance.”

My day began the evening before. There is a time change between home and the Atlanta airport, so on the clock you have to leave about 4 hours before a flight — maybe more if it is international. John dropped me at the then new international terminal where I checked in. My poles and pocket knife were stashed in a mailing tube that had to be checked. During the wait, I talked with a woman (caucasian) who was returning to Kenya. She had been in the mall shortly before the bomb went off. Me? I’m not sure I would have gone back.

Next morning, I land at CDG slightly ahead of my walking companion, Susan. After a bit of a search, I find my mailing tube containing my pocket knife and walking poles stashed to the side with “oversized” baggage. As usual, I’m feeling draggy. Not to worry as this is my usual state when I fly across the Atlantic. This too shall pass.

Susan and I connect and proceed to find out way to buy train tickets. In line we meet a couple also with backpacks and hiking shoes. Hmmm… excitement! Pilgrims? Our first brush with other peregrinos. And indeed, Grant and Brenda ( Canadians ) will be among those who paths cross ours frequently for the next few weeks.

Light rail to Paris. Moments of rushing and disorientation trying to get from the Orange line to Gare Montparnasse. Turns out we have plenty of time. Chilling on the train to Bayonne trying to stay awake.

The train to Bayonne passes through city and countryside. I see the signs for Portiers. I hear the sounds in my head from centuries past and Poitiers brings up two different novels I read recently, both of which include references to the Battle of Poitiers in the fourteenth century. Yes, I am in Europe — yes, I am in the Old World once again. Old World, New Adventure.

From my journal:

Our pension/hotel in Bayonne was only a couple of blocks from the train station. The elevator was a small, quaint bit of equipment. We discovered WiFi available in a bar (we bought a glass of wine); At dinner we met another couple of Canadian women who would be setting off about the same time as we would.

Little did we know how such meetings would repeat themselves and weave throughout our journey. People come, people go; people return at times, sometimes to stay to the end, sometimes to disappear once more forever. And some, only to return at the end!

Ah! Buen Camino!

Jumping the gun

We took the early train to SJPP and found ourselves there by 10 am or so. Pictures of the station. Map study to orient ourselves. Trekking into the village to find the Pilgrim Office… Jet lagged.

At the Pilgrim Office, we found scallop shells, and helpful folks who called ahead to Orisson to arrange the promise of a bed for the night if we made it by 2pm. And so, we decided to step off one day early, and do the short (8km/5mi) walk up to Orisson. Did I mention being jet-lagged? And it was really warm. Not a great combination with a rigorous 8k assent. By the time we made Orisson I was so exhausted I couldn’t even eat a late lunch.

But the view was glorious. Without the daily sounds that fade into our unconscious, it was a day of peacefulness. No electric motors, no radio music, no cars. Just trees, breezes, quiet conversation, running water on occasion.

Orisson is a wide spot in a narrow mountain road. If you need something to eat or drink, this is your choice. If you want to stay the night and there is room, you pay your money and get a bed, a token that gets you a shower and dinner and a bit of breakfast (cafe au lait et panne).

Day two: Roncesvalles

Day three: Larrasoaña

Day four: Pamplona (de bulls!)

Day five: Puente la Reina

Day six: Estella

Day seven: Los Arcos (and we meet our very own “Jack from Ireland”)

Day eight: Logroño (tragedy of the busted phone)

Day nine: Nájera (our choice of alberge’s was full)

Day ten: Santo Domingo de Calzada (Crows the rooster)

Day eleven: Belorado (where Susan fell leaving town)

Day twelve: San Juan de Ortego (lunch in Villafranca; met Hans-Pater; Susan works at the monastery)

Day thirteen & fourteen: Burgos (private room, real towels)

Day fifteen: Hontanas

Day sixteen: Boadilla del Camino

Day seventeen: Carión de los Condes (sing alongs)

Day eighteen: Terradillos de los Temparios

Day nineteen: Calzadilla de los Hermanillos

Day twenty: Mansilla

Day twenty-one: León

Day twenty-two: San Martin del Camino (Johann 2k km; Bates motel)

Day twenty-three: Astorga (crossing the bridge at Hospital del Õrbigo)

Day twenty-four: Rabanal

Day twenty-five: Molinaseca

Day twenty-six: Villafranca del Bierzo

Day twenty-seven: Herrerías

Day twenty-eight: Fonfría

Day twenty-nine: San Mamed

Day thirty: Portomarin (THE BRIDGE)

Day thirty-one: Palas de Rei (brand new albergue, private room)

Day thirty-two: Arzúa

Day thirty-three: Labacolla

Day thirty-four: Santiago de  Compostela

And beyond: Finesterre, Muxia, Santiago, Madrid, home…

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