Pilgrim's Road

There might have been no mountains at all, except for the swollen river, dangerously high and rushing and leaping over the boulders of its deep uneven bed. Remembering the exciting close-up view of the towering barrier ahead, however, I felt a shiver of excitement. Tonight I would sleep in this tiny walled and gated town that guarded the pass and tomorrow, God willing, I would be in Spain.
     

5
     
    Beginning the Camino Francés
     
    C ROSSING the Pyrenees from St Jean-Pied-de-Port, the traveller has a choice of two routes, both of which are steeped in history and legend. The Val Carlos Pass carries the main road, while the Pass Napoleon, once part of an old Roman road, is a rough track over the Col de Cize. Both will eventually bring the traveller to the door of the monastery of Roncesvalles, but on the way there the Pass Napoleon climbs higher, enjoys more dramatic views and is the traditional route for pilgrims who shun the easier way — all compelling reasons for me to choose it, even if I would have to walk most of the way and manhandle Roberts over the rougher places. The solitude and the absence of the reek and roar of motor traffic would be reward enough, and if I could not make Roncesvalles in the day I had my tent and would enjoy camping up in the mountains.
    My resolve was squashed with one word from Madame Debril ‘Impossible’. Snow, rain and neglect, she said, had brought the Col de Cize track to a state where it was barely passable even for a fit well-equipped walker; a cyclist would be unlikely to get through much before late June. Indeed, she added darkly, the weather was so bad at present, I would be lucky not to have my way blocked by torrential rain, or even snow and blizzards on the Val Carlos road.
    Madame Debril is invariably described in the guide books as a ‘character of the road’. She is also St Jean-Pied-de-Port’s authority on the Camino , as the pilgrim route is called from this point onward. Camino Francés — the French Road, to give it its full Spanish title — is an indication of how great a part France and its influential monasteries, particularly Cluny, played in establishing the St James pilgrimage. Five of Cluny’s monks became Pope during the medieval period when Church rather than State was the dominant and unifying power of Western Europe. Although there were undoubtedly genuine pious reasons for promoting pilgrimages, it cannot be denied that by doing so they greatly bolstered the power, wealth and influence of the Church.
    Such thoughts come readily to mind in Mme Debril’s ancient house, which stands on the town’s original main highway — a steep and cobbled street that runs up through the narrow defensive gates to the crowning citadel. For while it is impossible in this age of mass tourism that a town so placed would not become a tourist trap, St Jean-Pied-de-Port has not been offensively restored and retains a genuine feeling of the great age of religious journeys.
    Madame Debril’s dark, stone-flagged little office was crowded with memorabilia of the pilgrimage, amongst which lounged innumerable striped grey cats. Honours, mostly in the shape of silver scallop shells were propped up in their open velvet cases. These had been showered upon her by the various confraternities and organisations who have valued her help over the years. As the local representative of the Amis de St Jacques de Compostelle, the French equivalent of the Confraternity of St James, she had charge of the key to the refuge and was also responsible for issuing pilgrim passports to those who chose to begin their journey at St Jean-Pied-de-Port. But when I came to call on her that morning, I found a young Englishman in tears on her doorstep, having just been given the rough end of her tongue. He appeared a perfectly ordinary and reasonable person, a little over-sensitive perhaps, but then pilgrimage is an emotionally charged undertaking, and he had been several weeks on the road. He said that Mme Debril had been hostile from the outset, accusing him of not being a proper pilgrim, and had refused him the key to the refuge — the simple pilgrim accommodation maintained by some towns.
    Forewarned, I was not too put out by my own reception, which was certainly less than friendly. ‘Why had I not called the previous evening?’ she snapped — though how she expected people to know what was a convenient time for her, when there was no notice about visiting hours on her door, I did not