Week 1
	St Albans to Los Arcos

I will now try to recollect the whole journey from St. Albans all along the El Camino to Santiago de Compostela. On Sunday, April 14th 2002, after very careful preparations I left home at 8 am to walk with all my gear and rucksack to my local church, St.Saviours, who also sponsored me, a distance of (only) 3 miles to attend morning service and after a farewell our vicar's wife, Mrs. Jean Moore took me to Stansted for the flight to Paris.

St Saviours in St Albans

I was told a shuttle service existed to get to the Metro. Ok, so far. But there was no sign where the Metro would be, and everybody suddenly speaking French. But when the bus stopped a little longer, I guessed this must be it and I scrambled out. Yes, I was right, but where to buy a ticket in this massive place? My French is normally "un peu" but when in difficulties it is " un petit peu". I had plenty of time so I got my ticket to 'Gare d'Austerlitz' (the French cannot forget their battles) and heading that way I had to change to another line at 'St.Michel Notre Dame'. Aha, I thought, Notre Dame must be near, so I left for a walk to visit this famous cathedral, rucksack and all. After this short visit and a coffee back to the Metro and the railway station for the night train to Bayonne, which left just before midnight. It was a bit of a squeeze with 6 bunks plus much luggage. From Bayonne on another local train to St.Jean Pied de Port, end station, arriving about 10 am. Off I walked in this strange place to find the local refugio, my very first one. The warder offered me a coffee, showed me round, but then suggested I could start my walk today rather than tomorrow as planned to a private hostel about 6 km into to the mountains to Huntton to get a better start next day.

The start in St Jean de Port

As it was still morning I decided to move on, visited the local church that had beautiful recorded music playing, crossed a bridge, and following the detailed instructions given me by the warden, promptly made my first mistake (see earlier). I also came across the steepest piece of road, about one in 3 or 4 that I would find along my way. What a start on the first day! I was still in France, stayed in Huntton in a comfortable room with en-suite bathroom and had a plentiful meal with the family.

Crossing the Pyrenees next day, 16.4. , I started as soon as daylight appeared, about 7 am as the only pilgrim in sight for hours, gradually, often steeply moving from about 900 ft.= 272 m. to the summit at 4719 ft.= 1430 m. after which I had to walk downhill to the monastery of Roncasvalles at 3142 ft.= 1952m. All in one day, my first full day. It was pretty tough going on a dry day and nearly all on my own. A French pilgrim in rather a hurry overtook me first and further on Melanie, Alan, and Tobi. Up and up I went, it was getting quite cold and I had to stop to put on my fleece jacket.

Sun breaking through over the Pyrenees

Any change of clothing, undoing all the belts, waist belt, removing the rucksack, adding or when hot removing clothing, refitting the rucksack, and then putting everything back on again takes 20 to 30 minutes each time. So you avoid doing this as much as possible, but it was often necessary. I crossed the almost invisible border to Spain (just a barbed wire to step over) whilst still with Tobi, but he then marched on. Most pilgrims actually prefer to walk on their own, myself included. It gives one time to reflect, to meditate, to repent, and to pray. It also saves energy when not talking. I now came into snowy patches and quite a lot of it at the summit. The descent was gentle and easy but it had me worried for an hour, as I could not see any yellow arrows or shell signs.

The story of the Santiago shell, as it was told to me, is as follows: When the boat from Jerusalem with the remains of the apostle James approached the harbour of Padron, nearest to Santiago, a man swam out to meet the small boat. He could not reach it and drowned. Later, when the locals fished him out of the water or he just surfaced he was covered in shells and these shells, which I found plentifully at Cap Finistere, are now the symbol of all pilgrims.

The Shell routemarker

I arrived first at the Ibaneta pass where a large stone monument commemorating Roldan or Roland stands, sadly vandalized, and then had only two more miles to go to find Roncasvalles monastery for that nights stay. It was only 3 pm! You could hardly miss this monastery; it was visible from the summit. I expected it to be a town, as it is mentioned on every map, but it was only this large, ancient, 12th century monastery, one of the earliest pilgrim refuges, plus a small restaurant and a more modern hotel. It was the famous "Chancon (tune) de Roldan" which came to immortalize Roncasvalles, setting the famous battle scene there, when an associated Basque and Aragonese army massacred the rearguard of Charlemagne's army in AD 977 as it retreated to Valcarlos. The story of the death of Roland, a giant of a man, with his Twelve Peers, the tragic wail of his enchanted horn, Olivant, summoning help, it all gave Roncasvalles mythical status. Here I first met Lothar and Werner from Germany who became my companions for many days. Tobi also turned up later, having walked the wrong way for one hour, 2 hours lost. Some refugios do not open until 2, 3, 4, or even 5 pm. Here we had to wait until 4, but in lovely sunshine.

Roncasvalles Monastery

After registering, a monk took us to our very large rooms with bunk beds. It soon filled up as many pilgrims start here and not in St.Jean. After an almost cold shower I went with Tobi for the 'pilgrim's dinner', a somewhat cheaper meal than normal, which turned out really good and ample. We had lots of rice soup, whole fish, a sweet, plus wine for €6 = £4.'Pilgrim's dinners' were only offered in a few locations. Two Swiss girls, Sabine and Jaqueline, joined us at the table. Before that, at 7 pm, we were encouraged to attend evening mass in the Collegiate Church of the monastery. At the end of the service, spoken in Latin and Spanish, all pilgrims were called forward to receive a special blessing for our way ahead. These blessings we received several times later. Everything was new to me and us now, but one learns quickly and has to adjust. For instance the shell signs (to guide us) were often found quite high on buildings instead of low like the yellow arrows. These shells could easily be missed. I found later that many of these shells, made of pottery and glaze painted were often chiselled off, but not by pilgrims, who do not have the tools. Therefore fixing them higher would be safer. There were some beautiful shells, when still intact. Later, walking along the plateau, there were several hundred lovely shells fixed on 3 ft high pillars along our path. Nearly all were removed or damaged.

Saving weight, I had copied only eight favourite hymns in the hope of singing to myself in the stillness of the mountains or whenever. My first try was when climbing the Pyrenees. It was "Morning has broken, like the first morning", but with the constant effort of climbing and struggling for breath the result, as I recorded it, was most disappointing. I only tried this once more later. All my recordings turned out to be of inferior quality because of my heavy breathing and other interferences such as footsteps, wind etc.

I was now in the province of Navarre, in Basque country until just before Logrono, which is in the well-known La Rioja area, famous for its wine. All over northern Spain, especially in the Basque region, many political slogans in large letters could be noticed on all possible surfaces. But the most outstanding or outrageous one I came across much later in Ponferrada which read: 'Todo religiones estan manipulaciones' which could mean: all religion is manipulation. It gave me much to think about. I always started the day about 6 am when most pilgrims were still sleeping and with the help of my little torch, crept to the showers/toilets, got dressed, packed my rucksack - the sleeping bag had to go to the bottom because of its lightness - and tried to leave about 7 am. It didn't always work out like that, as once or twice I was persuaded to stay for breakfast, which I always regretted later.

The bridge at Pamplona

From Roncasvalles I crossed the river Arga the first time to get to Larasoana (2nd stop) and then along this large river, crossing it several times, until Pamplona, the first large town. Here I went with Lothar and Werner to visit the impressive cathedral, but we decided to walk on a few km to Cizur Menor. A very helpful Senora managed this refugio. We were the first arrivals and could choose our bunks. No shops in sight, so I walked (yes, walked again) another 2 - 3 miles to get my provisions for the next day and also some food for others, who could not face another yard. Here I met Antoinette from Holland, a strict vegetarian, who managed somehow. Sabine was having knee problems. We all went to a bar for a cool beer and later to the only restaurant for a good meal. The next day (day 3) I walked with Sabine who suffered more and more pain in one knee. I was advised not to miss visiting the unique octagonal church in Eunate near Muruzabal. This meant a 6 km detour on this hot afternoon. So I walked all on my own to this splendid 12th century building, fortunately open, and standing in the middle of fields.

The Eunate Church

A serene and relaxing atmosphere here. I spent an hour there, met several pilgrims again and my photos captured it all. I reached Puente de la Reina with its outstanding medieval Roman bridge (puente) over the river Arga rather late that day. We could relax in this pleasant town. But Sabine decided to give up the walk after only three days, to return next day by bus, train and plane. The first known casualty, more to follow.

Puente de la Reina

The two most travelled routes from France over the Pyrenees meet in this town and the point is marked by a large pilgrim statue. From Puente d.l.R. the El Camino follows either side of the N 111 road over the river Salado at Lorca to Estella. According to ancient records, the water in the river Salado was reputed to be bad and horses (of pilgrims) that drank it did not survive. This was known to the locals who would not tell pilgrims but would wait with knives so that they could skin the dead animals. Such was life .We all knew that at Irache there was a 'bodega', a wine distillery near the monastery with free wine available on tap to all pilgrims with a suitable warning notice not to indulge too much, which no-one understood. So off we went at 7 am in the hope of striking lucky. But we found it opens at 9 am. We could not wait that long, so Melanie with her long legs climbed over the gate (we were god-fearing pilgrims, remember) and tried to get us at least a cupful of wine. But the wine was switched off inside and all we got was half a cupful between the four of us. The hand of God is everywhere. I remember arriving in Los Arcos that day on my own, on Sunday, April 21st, lucky to find a shop for bread. I met up with most of my friends again and some new ones: Flavia, 19 and sister Estefania, 17 from Brazil, but living in Paris. Antoinette organized fruit and vegetables for a delicious vegetarian meatless meal for 6 of us to share.

Los Arcos Cathedral

In Los Arcos we were again asked to join for evening mass with communion in their beautifully decorated church of Santa Maria. At the end all pilgrims were asked to come to the front again, we received special blessings, the priest asked us all our nationalities and each was given a special prayer card in our respective language for our way. I wonder what my Japanese friend got, whom I befriended, but could never remember his name?