Behind the Albergue Door: Inspiration Agony Adventure on the Camino de Santiago

victor is caught urinating in the communal shower, whichever comes first.





Trail Overview
    One of the most intriguing things about the Camino Frances is the impressive variety of terrain and scenery hardy pilgrims will encounter along the way. Of course, a certain amount of diversity is to be expected on a trail that starts in one country, ends in another, crosses two mountain ranges and one of the most famously harsh stretches of dry prairie in all of Europe, but the constant shifting from forest path to medieval village to rocky hillside is fascinating, not to mention very helpful in staving off the suffocating boredom for at least an hour or two each day.
    We hiked the most common, but by no means only, route starting in St. Jean Pied de Port just over the border in Southern France. Other more daring, or foolish, pilgrims started at a variety of locations in France, a few of them even coming from as far as Paris. Others we met started all the way back in Switzerland in early summer. Obviously, those people were wrong to do so, and really had no right to make the rest of us look bad like that. And even though we are only qualified to describe a mere 800 kilometres we still feel that our hike was pretty cool and I still fully intend to use it to abruptly change topics whenever someone gets a little too interested in my spotty employment history.
    So, as I have now made abundantly clear, we started out in St. Jean Pied de Port. And, as I will no doubt allude to numerous times throughout the remainder of this book, our first day tackling 1,200 metres of elevation gain up and over the Pyrenees before descending steeply into the tiny hamlet of Roncesvalles was probably the single most difficult leg of the entire hike. All the lush green farms dotting the rolling hills was like something off the box of a Fisher Price farm set, ages six to ten. The gloomy fog that rolled in at the top created a haunting atmosphere and bonds of uneasiness among exhausted and uncertain pilgrims for whom finally reaching Roncesvalles was like discovering a verdant oasis in a barren desert. An oasis of stone run by German retirees with beds covered in plastic, but an oasis nonetheless.
    From there to Pamplona was a refreshing mix of idyllic pastures, sparse woods, recently tilled fields and one messy magnesite mine all leading to one of the most famous cities on the Camino. Pamplona’s beauty, history and penchant for pinxtos and beer all preceded it by word of mouth and guidebook description alike. Then there were more fallow fields slowly climbing through descending fog to the wildly panoramic viewpoint at Alto de Perdón. The slowly spinning wind turbines and expansive views delight the senses while the metal cut -outs of pilgrims desperately bucking the prevailing winds speak to the idiotic chuckler in all of us.
    Ancient Roman roads then lead us over rolling hills, across medieval stone bridges, through thigh-high stands of scrub brush and past stacks of recently harvested bales which make a great place to stop for lunch, especially if you yearn to spend the next two days picking straw out of your socks, backpack and, inexplicably, underwear. Around a week into the hike we see our first real change in the tone of the Camino. Coming out of Logroño pilgrims pass through a wild and partially manicured park before climbing through the first of many bountiful fields of grapevines and their rapidly ripening cargo. Unfortunately, this is also where you will get your first taste of, as the John Brierley guidebook describes them, the “soulless sendas”. These are purpose-built pathways that run immediately adjacent to major roads and highways, presumably to simplify the route, remove any needless meandering and guarantee that if you hadn’t started struggling with bouts of boredom yet, well, there was certainly going to be no denying it now. And don’t bother passing the time with interesting conversation about things like quick-drying socks and mysteriously disappearing leg hair, because all you’ll hear are the sounds of passing traffic, and maybe that clicking noise in your right knee. Your iPod awaits your imminent attention.
    This soon passes, however, as you head back to wooded hills and wide logging roads dramatically hemmed in by thick stands of pines (for the time being, at least), which slowly emerge into scenic pastures where you will suddenly face a number of route choices for the first time, but don’t let it stress you,