Pilgrim's Road

priory of the Franciscans which seemed the oldest building there. I called in and my record was stamped and inscribed ‘Paix et Joie' with the Basque equivalent underneath — which as far as I could make it out reads ‘Bake ta Bozkario'.
    Gibraltar is the spot where the three routes, from Vézelay, Le Puy and Paris come together, and today a stele marks the junction. Had there been a place of refreshment instead, it would have seemed altogether more appropriate, but at least my arrival at the stele marked a halt in the rain, and I pressed on more cheerfully to Ostabat. Alas, here too I drew a blank, there was not even a village shop to sell a hungry bicyclist a bit of dry bread. Ostabat, the first pilgrim halt after the joining of the routes, had once boasted as many as twenty hospices. Now even the damp depressing-looking church was locked. Hopes were raised, however, when I was hailed in English from the steps of the building opposite, an Hôtel de Ville currently in the process of being rescued from total decay. ‘Come and have a cup of coffee,’ called a man, a Basque it transpired, who seemed to be in charge there. As soon as I was inside and had shed my dripping waterproof, the young man pushed the coffee jar aside after only the most cursory glance at it, remarking casually ‘Only enough for a weak American brew’, which made me suspect that I had been lured in under false pretences. Not that I could blame him. If I had to spend time in such a rain-sodden depressing place I too might be tempted to lure in passing travellers in order to relieve the monotony.
    AimeryPicaud called the Basques ‘A barbarous people’, citing examples of their murderous customs, their perverted sexual practices and their gross eating habits. Their language came in for just as much condemnation: ‘when you hear them speaking it is like the barking of dogs,’ he wrote.
    The origin of the Basques and their unique language remain a mystery, though Picaud thought they had descended from the Scots, citing the similarity of their customs and appearance as proof — clearly he also harboured a low opinion of the Caledonian race. If Frenchmen in general had shared Picaud’s views of the Basques, then it seemed to me no wonder that I sensed an underlying hostility in my host. In fact his conversation was blatantly confrontational.'
    ’You know Brighton?’ he began innocently enough, as soon as I was seated. ‘I been there with my punk group.’ He had since abandoned punk, he told me, except for the ring in his ear, which he said he kept as a reminder, as well as helping in his work with Basque youth groups. In answer to my query, he said he had not liked England. ‘Nasty country with a bad record.’ The British Empire was the worst of all empires, apparently, especially in India. It had committed outrages more horrible than the genocide of the American Indians. Having dealt succinctly with the improbity of the British Empire, he ran through a comprehensive list of other empires, none of which had been other than bloody and repressive. Only the Roman Empire was spared; for that he had an unqualified admiration — though I couldn’t discover why. While I was still reeling from this sweeping panorama of the sins of history, he launched into a political lecture on the perfidy of both the French and the Spanish in their dealings with his people. Their greatest iniquity, I learnt, was in attempting to deny the Basques their linguistic rights. By this time my head was spinning, and I was more than keen to escape, but in the best Ancient Mariner tradition, he barred my passage. I had to listen to yet another lengthy discourse, this time on the Basques’ incomprehensible language (not constructed like any other human tongue, he told me proudly). Finally I seized my moment, and ducked smartly beneath the arm he had firmly braced across the door frame.
    The weather at least had improved during my unrefreshed stop. As I rode away from Ostabat and the one-sided airing of opinions, I saw with a sudden glad lifting of the spirits that the clouds were peeling off the high wooded slopes of the Pyrenees. It was only the briefest of glimpses, but enough to set the heart beating faster; further cloud fronts raced into the vacuum, sealing off the high peaks once again. By the time I reached the small town of St Jean-Pied-de-Port, nestling at the foot of the Pyrenees, the rain had penetrated my defences and was trickling coldly down my neck.