Day 1. Saint Jean Pied-de-Port - Orbaitzeta [Part 3/3] (A Pilgrim's Diary)

Sunset in the mountains

Start the Camino here:
https://steemit.com/writing/@whymonkey/day-1-saint-jean-pied-de-port-orbaitzeta-part-1-3-a-pilgrim-s-diary

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Day 1. Saint Jean Pied-de-Port - Orbaitzeta (Part 3/3)

Along the path, the sun was plunging into the orange-toned afternoon. A chilly northern wind was starting to grasp its icy fingers around me and still no soul in sight to give me directions or indication towards the town of Roncesvalles - my destination. Terribly exhausted, hungry and unsure I was even on the right track, I found myself physically and morally desperate.

"Just a few more steps…!”

I fought for each step while grasping the handles of the backpack to help my back support the weight.

“Just over this road, just this one and you’ll see Roncesvalles on the other side of it...", I lied to myself, only the faintest shred of hope guiding my feet.

And I kept walking and walking without any sign of Roncesvalles or, rather, any signs whatsoever, just a fool dragging himself through mountain paths while the light kept slowly dying in faint hues of orange

A farm in the distance

A few minutes later, for my great relieve, I spotted two figures on a farm, very far away and way sidetracked from the road I was on, but, without any other viable solution, I decided to abandon the road and dragged myself in that direction.

"Bonjour, parlez-vous français", I asked the old woman who was, at the time of my arrival, with her back turned, concentrated in some task related to agriculture. She turned, very surprised to see me.

"Oui, je parle un peu...!", she answered, intrigued.

"Pardon madame, je suis perdu! Pouvez vous me dire quel'est la distance au Roncesvalles?", I asked in my very limited French.

"Roncesvalles?! Vou viens de St. Jean? ", she asked, astutely deducing from my grim appearance that the only reason I was at that part of the mountain at that late hour was because I was a lost pilgrim.

"Oui, je viens de St. Jean! Je suis perdu…. Ici c'est Espagne ou France?", I asked.

"España!", she replied in her mother tongue.

"Ah España...?! Hablas Español, si?", I continued more cheerfully. My Spanish was somewhat better than my French

At this time, the old man, who was also concentrated in some task at the distance, approached us. I greeted him when he came close, but he seemed defensive, and so continued my conversation with the old lady.

"Ah! I had no idea I had already passed the border ... I'm trying to get to Roncesvalles. Am I still far away?", I asked in Spanish to the couple who kept looking at me, baffled.

“You’re about 10 kilometers... ", the old man replied gravely while looking at me, and then, after a brief moment of composure, he couldn’t hold it in anymore:

"What the hell are you doing here, hombre?!", he asked me not so much in a rude, but rather in an worrisome this-could-have-gone-all-kind-of-ways-wrong manner, “did you get lost in the mountains?!”

I briefly told my tale. After listening he seemed appeased and looked meaningfully at the old lady. A look that lasted no more than a blink of an eye, but where, I believe, they had a long conversation about me as a couple, the kind that only people who have shared a lifetime can have: he asked her if they should trust me, and she replied that yes, my expression and my appearance left no doubt that I was a stranger that had lost his way on the mountains and they were left with the choice of either help me or leave me be and let the impending cold night fall down on me.

"You’ll never get there before nightfall", the old man assured me, "Come with us, we’ll arrange you place to sleep... Tomorrow I’ll take you back to the path and you can continue your trip to Zubiri or, if you wish, turn back to Roncesvalles."

I was overwhelmed with thankfulness.

"Gracias, señor, muchas gracias ...!", I thanked him sincerely. Their kindness was equaled only by my relief. They responded with a simple smile, as if it was no big deal, while I struggled to keep control of myself, but a big tear threatened to flow uncontrollably down my face, which I wiped hastily with my sleeve, "Como se llama?" I still managed to ask.

"Ricardo, very pleased to meet you. And you? " He asked me.

"Nuno" I replied as we shook hands. I felt like hugging them both.

"Stay there and rest a little while we finish feeding the horses, then we’ll take you to a place where you can rest", he told me.

I sat on the grass, watching the road I had come through, outlined in the green fields stretching before me, and hiding behind the white peaks of the mountains, that stood like pale fingers extending towards the darkened sky. Pulling the hood of my jacket to cover up my face, I tried to keep my feelings to myself, but could not prevent two or three big tears running down my face from the feeling of relief. It had been quite a first day, and it felt so good to know that I could rest somewhere safe for the night.

I took a deep breath and thanked the Universe for them.

The mountain peaks

I waited silently and by myself while the old couple finished their errands (apparently they were there because, on a streak of luck on my part, they had decided to replace the food on their horses’ stable that very day). Darkness had fall upon us when I entered the spacious backseat of their old van which smelled warmly of earth and dust. Irene, the old lady, opened the rusty tailgate, held their dog firmly by the thick leather collar, who was barking nervously due to my presence, and took him to the front division to try to calm him down. I threw my backpack along with my walking stick to the top of a bundle of ropes, farming tools and other artifacts piled up in the back, climbed up to the van and chatted with them along the trip, in a healthy mix of Portuguese and Spanish, practically screaming whenever the van had to go uphill to have myself heard above the noise that came from the loud engine. From what I understood from that loud and hazy conversation, some days before, a rather vigorous storm had ripped most of the signs that supposedly guide travelers through the crossroads of the Pyrenees. They assured me that it is impossible for someone to cross the border without an indication that one was entering another country and I was positive I had not seen any sign indicating me that I was crossing the border from France to Spain throughout the whole day. About five minutes later, we stopped at the front door of a small traditional hostel, built in rough, grey stone. Irene got out of the van, walked to the house and knocked on the door, waited a few minutes but as nobody opened the old wooden door, she walked back.

"Cerrado", she concluded to us, when she reached the van. Closed.

For moment she stood there, half in and half out of the van, and she and Ricardo looked again at each other, communicating through the eye language only they understood.

"Look", Ricardo finally told me after a brief pause, "I do not see another place where we can leave you to rest ... We’ll take you to a house we own, somewhere near. You’ll sleep there tonight and tomorrow, I'll get you back on the path..."

“Thank you…!” I replied cheerfully, hoping not to be too much of a nuisance to them. At that time I’d take any place with a roof over my head.

Their kindness was the one typical of small villages, so simple and heartwarming. If there’s a good thing in visiting small villages, in any part of the world, is the way people appreciate each other. One feels that there is true concern for the well being of others, something that does not happen often in big cities, for modern man always makes the mistake of taking everything for granted, everyday.

They took me to a small village called Orbaitzeta. Along the way we crossed a sign which read "9.8 kilometers to Roncesvalles”, I wasn’t sure I would be able to do those 10 kilometers that day, mostly at night. Probably not. From the way my legs felt after all those ups and downs, it would be very challenging. A few hours later, looking at the map, I realized that I had deviated too far east and passed about 5 kilometers to the side of Roncesvalles. Compasses are tricky instruments, especially in narrow passes.

Ricardo opened the door to the house. I walked in and dropped the heavy backpack on the floor near the entrance, where it stood while they guided me through the divisions of the house. A typical rustic village house with two floors, traditional decorations from the region adorning each room, some paintings and the whispers of many memories throughout the hallways. Ricardo told me that he would be back at 8am the next day and wished me good night. Once again, I thanked them for all the kindness they offered.

I took off my heavy boots and, with a sigh of profound relief, allowed my sore feet to finally breath. Stretched out my mattress on the floor of the living room and freed the sleeping bag out of its own bag. Only then I remembered that the zipper was damaged from previous trips.

It wasn’t that cold inside the house, so I’d just use it as a blanket. I went up the stairs to the kitchen and began to cook my dinner with the only ingredient I was carrying - white rice. You might laugh reader, but with a sprinkle of salt, it tasted like a whole chicken!

Shortly after dinner, even though every muscle in my body ached, I was fast asleep.

My first day of the Camino... I was overwhelmed by the whole experience.

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Day 1. - Part 2/3
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Day 2.

Index

Day 1. Saint Jean Pied-de-Port - Orbaitzeta (YOU ARE HERE)
Day 2. Orbaitzeta - Roncesvalles
Day 3. Roncesvalles - Zubiri
Day 4. Zubiri - Pamplona
Day 5. Pamplona – Puente de la Reina
Day 6. Puente de la Reina - Estella
Day 7. Estella – Torres del Rio
Day 8. Estella - Logroño
Day 9. Logroño - Najera
Day 10. Najera - Grañon
Day 11. Grañon - Belorado
Day 12. Belorado - Atapuerca
Day 13. Atapuerca - Burgos
Day 14. Burgos – Castrojeriz
Day 15. Castrojeriz - Fromista
Day 16. Fromista – Carrión de los Condes
Day 17. Carrion de los Condes - Sahágun
Day 18. Sahágun – Mansilla de las Mulas
Day 19. Mansilla de las Mulas - León
Day 20. Léon – Hospital de Órbigo
Day 21. Hospital de Órbigo – Rabanal del Camino
Day 22. Rabanal del Camino - Ponferrada
Day 23. Ponferrada – Vega de Valcarce
Day 24. Vega de Valcarce - Tricastela
Day 25. Tricastela - Ferreros
Day 26. Ferreros – Palas del Rei
Day 27. Palas del Rei - Àrzua
Day 28. Àrzua - Santiago

Disclaimer. I did not carry a camera with me, but I will do my best to illustrate these texts with free for use images found around the web and later sent to me by my fellow pilgrims. All images that are not mine will be attributed to their rightful owner at the end of the post, even if no attribution is required. When no attribution is stated, the image is from my notebook.

Thanks to the following authors for kindly providing the CCO License Free To Use photography that illustrates this post:

Sunset in the mountains - Neok (Pixabay):
https://pixabay.com/en/users/Neok-6702333/

A farm in the distance - macayran (Pixabay):
https://pixabay.com/en/users/macayran-3105531/

The mountain peaks - macayran (Pixabay):
https://pixabay.com/en/users/macayran-3105531/

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