The first 150km have been chaotic, beautiful and good. A linear recounting would not do this story justice – it is circular, repetitive, singular, chaotic, beautiful and a complete fucking mess.
You will cycle across every type of thing before the sun rises – in an attempt to beat the heat, Andalusian style – down hard packed dirt and soft gravel; across cobblestones, asphalt and river rocks; down steps of stone and earth; up through treed mountains and down hills of grass; alongside rivers, vineyards, olive groves, downtrodden sunflowers and tall springy dill plants; and once, accidentally, through a patch of wet concrete. There will be parts that look like hikes in Banff; others like the rough stoney trails of the trek to Macchu Pichu and yet others that look like the country lanes that kiss Alberta’s blunted wheat fields. At one point, you will spend no less than 4 hours pulling your bike up and then guiding it down, what looks like a dry river bed, with large round unpedalable rocks – you will curse those rocks. The air will smell like sweet red cedar and soft damp moss; of dust and dirt; of gasoline and the crush of 70 sweat laden bodies, bunked one on top on top of the other. The sun will be omnipresent – biting at your hands and face. Cycle from shade to shade, praying for wind and clouds, in an attempt to keep your wits. It is 40°C. You will consider if sunscreen futures are a thing to invest in, because your own personal consumption has become borderline obscene. Were this my first tour, I would have quit. In the evenings fellow peregrinos assume incorrectly you are cycling the road not the paths – but even by Ronces? Even and most definitely by Ronces.
The road from Roncesvalles begins at the tail end of the Pyrenees, but on the road it doesn’t feel like the end or the middle, rather, it is the charming and terrible beginning, as penned by Lemony Snicket. It is sometimes shady, and impossibly steep. Question how this constitues a vacation. But the evening will bring new friends, and warm bowls of Carbonara, prepared by one of the pasta of Italians you’ll have the pleasure of meeting.
Now they say that which goes up,must come down; but do we really have to come down quite like this? Downhills on pavement are wonderful and speedy, but through rocks and down gravel a concentration so intense is required that it will feel as though you’ve spent the last 2 hours reading Oxford’s Organic Chemistry. Going slowly and carefully to avoid falling, you are bested at kilometer 95 just before Los Arcos, in the middle of a treeless wheat field, when the road diverges and you try to go right – instead sliding hands first in slow-motion across the rocks. It hurts. Slowly a crew gathers to first-aid you – a kind 20 something American and organised white-haired Pole come first. As not to scare them, let them know in a very business-like tone that you Just need to cry for 2 minutes real quick, because I am experiencing some shock, but it doesn’t hurt more than it did 30s ago. Cycle the last 7km to town, pounding out the adrenaline. The pharmacies with extra bandages are closed, because Saturday. Your knee sticks to the flimsy paper bed covers.
The evening brings new friends, from all corners – gathered around with cervezas and tintos de verano, chatting about life and love, eating potatoes with hot sauce and mayo, under the shade of a large red umberella; periodically interrupted by the clang of dissonant bells. Meeting not an hour ago, but this conversation has become a full on heart to heart.
Small towns dot the countryside, and announce themselves with the spires of their 1000 year old churches. The camino will guarantee you’ll visit them, and they’ll inevitably be on the top most part of the hill. Inside, alters are plain and concrete; ostentatious and gilded – but all stand with purpose, pomp and circumstance. We have stood for 1000 years, and we will stand for 100 more. Just once, it would be nice for a church to be named Jesus Christ the shining star of the valley – at least then you’d get to cycle down.