Roncesvalles - Larrasoana

Day 2 (Thursday 9 May). When I checked in yesterday, I was initially confused as to how to get to my bunk. A large crowd was milling around outside the check-in desk. I tell my problem to 2 French ladies and they patiently explain that the albergue doesn't open until 14:00 (duh). In the 10 minutes remaining, I find the boot room and then, on time, make my way up the stairs to my "room".

I manage 6 hours of sleep - my performance in that department is improving. The IPad Mini is a small blessing in the middle of the night as I can read an e-book without disturbing my bunk mates. When I awake at 05:30, there is a sense of urgency in the air as people are already packing, even though the corridor lights don't come on until 06:00. Initially I fall into this spirit, but then consciously slow down. Even though I had prepared some items the evening before for an early departure, I don't want my Camino to be a race. I am savouring this experience. My Italian room mate looks out a corridor window at a hot light source and says in English: "not raining".

The albergue (hostel) at Roncesvalles (ronthesbyess in Spanish) is the gold standard for the moment. Clean, neat, and well managed. I'm out the door at 06:30 (I've always been a morning person) and down the trail towards my destination - Larrasoana - 27K away. The weather is gorgeous: temperature in the low teens, no wind, and high broken cloud ahead of me to the west with extensive mist.

About 1.5K from the albergue I see 2 French girls ahead of me. Having seen them yesterday, I know that they are good walkers. They are fossicking through a rucksack on the side of the trail. As I get closer one of them gets up and jogs past me back towards the hostel, saying "I've forgotten something". They're day just got an hour longer.

In the village of Burguete (3K along) I pass a hotel that was apparently a favourite of Ernest Hemingway. I've seen his place (now a museum) in Key West too. Given that he left this earth via a 12 gauge shotgun, I hope we don't have any more overlap. I stop at a cafe for a zuma naranja (OJ), some apple breakfast cake, and a cafe con leche (descafeinado? Non. I'm going to have caffeine withdrawal symptoms when I get home). Part way through the village, there is a sharp right turn to stay on the Camino. A young Japanese girl who passed me a minute before has missed the turn and carried straight on. It's too late to call after her. She's going to have an adventurous start to her day.

The Camino is generally well marked, but in different ways. Some markers are at your feet, some just below eye level, and some up higher (typically on the sides of buildings). If you're not paying attention at a critical point (such as when you have your rain hood up and your eyes down), it's easy to miss a turn.

I think that the next village along is San Miguel until I get to the 3rd one and realize that this is a popular brand of Spanish beer. At about 10:20, a light sprinkle of rain begins to fall, off and on. I put up the rain cover on my backpack and the one on my belt-mounted camera case and press on. No need for full rain gear yet. Rain jackets are primarily for controlling your core body temperature, and rain pants are to keep your socks dry. If your socks get wet, the inside of your boots get wet, and then you're likely to get blisters; plus it's the devil to dry out the inside of your boots.

Today's trail is almost all on natural pathways, with some parts on quiet roads. On the former I tend to stay right as cyclists rocket past me on the downhill parts, calling out the linguistically universal greeting of "Buen Camino". On the roadways, I walk on the left facing traffic. Diane and my kids are rolling they're eyes now (he hardly ever turns off his threat assessment radar, even when he's having a good time). I munch on a leftover croissant and some chocolate for lunch. Say what you will about croissant, they compress nicely in a backpack and stay fresh for 2 days.

As I enter the village of Zubiri (the 22K waypoint) the church bells are chiming the noon hour and a light rain begins to fall steadily. I put on full rain gear and press on. After a minute, the route doesn't feel right. I've made the mistake of following some pilgrims into town who are spending the night here. After a quick check of my guide book map, I reverse course back across a short bridge and pick up the Camino on the other side. As I trudge along alone in the rain I recall my thinking before I set out on this adventure. Will I have days where I'm feeling cold, wet, and lonely? In the event, I think of Diane, my son Tom and my daughter Sarah, my grandchildren: James and Victoria, family, and friends. I won't ever be alone.

Seven hours after I start out, I enter the village of Larrasoana. From my pre-Camino planning I know that the municipal albergue here is not well rated (and I've annotated my printed guidebook accordingly). I find a private pension that has 2 rooms left and I take one of them. It's more expensive, but I have a room to myself and a cotton towel. Mark Bucken (the hostel king) is rolling his eyes now, but I may do this again should the need arise. The local bar has WiFi, so after cleaning up I head down there for a glass of vino tinto, to post my latest blog, and to check my e-mail. A Brit couple who's Spanish is quite good help me to get connected. I also chat with Chris from New York and Mike from somewhere in the Kingdom of Uck (I mean the UK). Feeling magnanimous, I buy everyone a drink before I head back to my pension.

I go back to the tavern for the 19:00 sitting of the pilgrim's meal. I'm seated at a large table with many others. Israelis, Americans, Italians, Danes, French ... While I don't share the sentiment, I'm reminded of an old air race movie wherein a pompous Brit says: "The trouble with these international events is that they attract so many foreigners". The Italian gentleman next to me is on his 4th Camino and one of the Israelis is on his 3rd.

French fries (patatas fritas) seem to be as ubiquitous on the pilgrim "prix fixe" menus in northern Spain as vegetables are rare. Mindful of the good advice from Diane (the unpaid spokesperson for the fresh vegetable industry), I ask for an "ensalada" to go with my fish. The total cost for appetizer, entree, bread, wine, and dessert is 12 Euro.

The forecast for tomorrow looks like more rain. I've turned in by 21:30 with, a first, an alarm set for 05:30. The air is so humid that there is no way that my socks will dry overnight; a reserve pair is already out of the bag.

 

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