The Santiago Road: The Eleventh Day

Monday, June 3, 2002

Portomarin to Santiago de Compostela
97.54 km, total for trip 952.29 km

After an excellent night’s sleep in Portomarín, I packed up the bicycle and headed west. Leaving the town I immediately came to a long, steepish hill and the road gradually took me away from the Río Miño watershed, through a green region of thick gorse and heather and rolling hills. Apparently in medieval pilgrimage times this section was notorious as an open-air brothel but 800 years later there was no sign of anyone. The green landscape was barely settled and I enjoyed riding along the quiet road although skies were overcast. After 20 kms or so I came to the hamlet of Ligonde and then went on to Palas de Rei. The latter, according to legend, was named after a palace constructed by a Visigothic king of the 8th Century, Witiza, but there is no sign today of its significance.

I took a break in a little park near the path and using the last bit of power in my cellphone gave my friend Karl in Canada a call for his birthday. It was nice to hear a familiar voice after this length of time cruising semi-inhabited Spain by myself.




I was now on a major road, the N 547, which would take me most of the way in to Santiago. It was still early in the day and rather than hurry the ride, which was going to be less than 80 kms, I made a detour and followed the original pilgrimage route for a while. This was a dirt track not far from the main road and although it was muddy in some parts that fact that I was riding on 25 mm tires helped my passage. It was nice to have the feeling again of being on the original Camino and occasionally I saw old stone crosses or milestones marking the distance and direction to Santiago. I passed a few hostels, and numerous walking pilgrims, and had my credencia stamped in several places as well before I turned back towards the N 547. It was getting darker and I was worried about the weather. This proved to be well-founded as an extremely light rain began to fall.

Next on the road was the village of Leboreiro, which had blossomed during the pilgrimage heyday, offering support for pilgrims from the 11th to 13th Centuries but there is not much there today but an old church which was rebuilt in the 18th Century. Continuing onwards, I crossed a small medieval bridge with four arches over the Río Furelos into the village of Furelos and then arrived in Melide, which spread out along the Camino.

I passed several smaller towns: Arca, Ferreiro, Cerdeda. Soon I saw signs for the Santiago de Compostela airport and passed through Lavacolla, where pilgrims traditionally stopped to bathe in the stream before entering Santiago. Ahead of me now was a 5 km climb up Monte de Gozo. Arrival at this summit was a momentous event for many pilgrims, who recorded their joy at reaching the top of the last hill, from which they had a view of their destination, Santiago de Compostela.

The Monte de Gozo today has a number of communications towers on it, along with a huge establishment for housing visitors. Rather than being isolated, it is actually now within the easternmost suburbs of Santiago. I swiftly rolled down the hill and entered the outskirts of the city. As I approached the Old Town, the roads narrowed and traffic was pretty terrible. I went in through one of the gates but turned around as I saw a likely-looking little hotel. A room was available and there was an courtyard where I could lock my bicycle up, although it was open to the elements.

After unpacking my panniers, having a shower and getting dressed, I went outside to survey the city. I decided to bring my credencia with me in the hope that I could get it stamped, which I did at the Oficina de Acogida de Peregrinos opposite the Puerta de Platería. I was given a questionnaire to complete about my motives for making the pilgrimage and after I had done this I was presented with my compostelana, the treasured certificate (in Latin) entitling me to all the benefits of being a successful pilgrim, such as spending a reduced time in Purgatory.

I had actually taken less time to ride the Camino than I had expected and now I found myself in Santiago with a few days to spare. I decided to just relax and enjoy the city to its fullest. I looked briefly at the cathedral, deciding to spend more time in it tomorrow, and then found a musical performance was being offered at the University. So on my first day in Santiago I not only became a certified pilgrim but I enjoyed a lovely concert version of Gluck’s opera “Iphigenie en Tauride.”

The Santiago Road: The Eighth Day

Day 8–Friday, May 31, 2002
Leon to Rabanal del Camino
74.14 km, total for trip 683.84 km

Leaving in the cool morning air, I headed out of León, ever westwards. Just before crossing the bridge over the Río Bernesga that would take me out of town, I passed an enormous establishment on the right side. I stopped in front of it to consult my map and the guidebook. I was standing before the former monastery of San Marcos. It was built on the site of a 12th century pilgrim hospice and had been taken over by the military Order of Santiago. This group was first organized in 1160, and Pope Alexander chartered it in 1175. Their purpose was to eliminate Islam and they were active in fighting the Moslems in Extremadura but do not seem to have been particularly supportive of the pilgrim traffic. The King of Spain took control of the Order in 1476 and decided to build a huge monastery but things moved pretty slowly and it took 200 years to finish it. By then, the Spanish monarchy had turned what could have been a political and military threat and turned it into an honorary organization. In 1837 it lost its function as a monastery and went through a series of incarnations: high school; Jesuit residence; cavalry barracks, veterinary college; military warehouse; hospital. In 1961 it was converted into a parador luxury hotel and a museum. As I rode by this huge building, there was no trace of this uproarious past in the morning silence.

I rode onwards through another series of small villages: Trobajo del Camino; la Virgen del Camino; Valverde del Camino; San Miguel del Camino; and San Martín del Camino. At least there was no doubt that I was on the right road! The little villages were not much to look at and I rode swiftly over the dry flatlands, arriving fairly quickly in Hospital de Órbigo.

Now, this was something interesting to look at ! The road into town took me over the Río Órbigo via a wonderful Gothic arched bridge, with no fewer than 19 arches. Since its construction in the 13th Century, floods have washed away some of the arches, while two others were destroyed by the British in the Peninsular War against Napoleon, but the reconstruction was always done in the same style so that while portions are from the 13th, 17th and 19th Century they all appear correctly medieval. I rode carefully over the cobbled bridge, enjoyed the view, if not the bumps.

As I crossed into the town, I saw a series of tents had been erected. There was going to be some jousting here, in commemoration of a great tournament held in July 1434, possibly the last true medieval tournament in Europe. It was a battle by a knight from León, Suero de Quiñones, who challenged all comers on the bridge. He was disappointed in his lady and wore an iron collar as an indication he was a prisoner of love and his challenge spread like wildfire through the European nobility as a chance to reclaim that mythical Age of Chivalry they had all been raised with. Not only was there a huge band of knights and their retinues but it was Holy Year and two weeks before St. James’ Day, so the place was full of pilgrims as well. Suero claimed victory, after two weeks, as he had kept his oath to break 300 lances and he gave his iron collar to the judges and became a pilgrim himself. Great stuff–the anti-Quixote, perhaps.

I rolled through the little town and found a sign that advertised a particularly nice stamp for the credencia and made my way to a little store where I received the promised stamp and bought something to drink as well.

The scenery was quite lovely as I continued on my way although I could see that there was going to be work ahead. At this point I could see in the distance two mountain chains, one to the north and one directly in my path to the west. I was coming to the end of the great plain of Castile and ahead were the Montes de León. The soil looked pretty barren to me, but apparently there are trace elements of gold in it and the Romans had actually operated some mines in the region. After 17 kms of easy riding, I reached Astorga and I could see the clouds forming ahead in the distance.

Astorga was originally a significant Roman city, gateway to the mines in the mountains beyond, and eventually, as the pilgrimage assumed greater importance, the city’s location ensured its prosperity. Not only was it a staging post on the road west from France, but a second road from the south joined here. Pilgrims prepared themselves for the difficult passage of the mountains as they headed towards Santiago de Compostela, or they recovered in Astorga on their return journey. At the height of the pilgrimage, Astorga boasted no fewer than 21 hospices, many of them devoted to particular professions or nationalities.

The city is rather compact and I rode into a park, where the Visitor Information Office was located, where there were traces of the original Roman walls and a map that I used to orient myself. I rode a bit further along, turned left past an adobe structure that was once a water reservoir, and climbed a hill past another section of Roman wall before turning into the city proper and locking up the bicycle near the very impressive cathedral. I then went by foot all over Astorga.

First stop was the cathedral itself. This was begun in the mid-15th Century, with most of the work being completed in the 16th. The impressive Baroque west facade is somewhat later and is extremely ornate and detailed.

Nearby stands the Bishops’ Palace and Museum, which looked vaguely like the Casa de Botines in León. It turned out that in fact it was also designed by Antonio Gaudí, with construction beginning in 1889, but the death of the sponsoring Archbishop and various other issues meant that it was not completed until 1913. It is a charming building and now houses a large museum devoted to the pilgrimage.

The Ayuntamiento is the Baroque city hall of Astorga, standing on its own square and very horizontal in appearance. There were many visitors the day I was there, including what appeared to be a local marching band wandering around the square. The whole city was very striking in appearance and in spite of its small size one of the highlights of the Camino. I would leave the main road, following quiet LE 142, as the Camino moved away from the A6 highway at Astorga.

Castrillo de los Polvazares







I also could see that the weather was not improving, so I went back to the bicycle, rode downhill and off to new adventures. The first of these was riding into the village of Castrillo de los Polvazares, which seemed almost entirely deserted. The buildings were unlike any I had seen so far, being of light brown stone. There are small windows to shelter from the heat–which was already tiring me–and overhanging balconies. It looked like some sort of Wild West town, except for the stone corrals that you could see everywhere.
















The Camino, with heather and pilgrims


The Donkey at El Ganso


Following the quiet road, I passed pilgrims walking along the original dirt Camino. It was starting to rain, but extremely lightly, and it was a relief from the oppressive heat. Everything smelled fresh and there were wildflowers to be seen. I passed through the village of El Ganso, which had a little church with a one-dimensional steeple, and there was only a sole donkey to greet me. The road was climbing gently now, and the landscape had become scrubby, with heather and wild thyme in abundance. Soon there would only be brush to be seen.

The rain was a gentle mist and as it was approaching 6 pm I thought that I would stop in the next town of substance. This was Rabanal del Camino, which had been founded by the Knights Templar in the 12th Century to protect pilgrims and the red cross of the Knights was still in evidence as a sign of local pride. There is a hostal here administered by the Confraternity of Saint James, who had issued my credencia, but instead I pulled into a small stone hotel and found a room for the night. I began to sort out my gear in my little room when I heard an amazing sound: the sky opened up and the rain was hammering down on the roof as if it was a hurricane outside. I looked outside and saw what must have been the heaviest rainstorm I have seen outside of Asia when the typhoons come.

The dining room

The rain showed no sign of letting up and the hotel was obviously prepared as huge plastic garbage cans had been set up in various spots, including the dining room, to deal with the leaks. I had a simple dinner, but it was like sitting near a waterfall with all of the drumming noise of the water. I was glad not to be out on the road!

Eventually the rain passed and after dinner I walked around the village. Everywhere under the eaves were swallows, flying to and fro and fiercely concentrating on their nest-building. It looked as if hundreds of generations of swallows had come to Rabanal.

Views of Rabanal

The Santiago Road: An Interlude in León

May 20, 2002

As I rode into the city, I was impressed with how hot it was as the sunshine reflected off of the white stone. I quickly found myself in a pedestrian area, which eventually turned into a street named after Generalissimo Franco, the first I had noticed on my travels. I walked my bicycle into a square and admired the magnificent white cathedral but, more immediately, I saw a drugstore across the square and I hurried over. One of the problems of riding around the countryside in hot dry weather under a blazing sun is chapped lips and mine were so bad that they were bleeding. My Spanish is limited as it is but the pharmacist understood with my mixture of French/Spanish/hand gestures and I purchased what must have been the world’s single most expensive tube of lip balm. However, it was worth the money as it worked immediately and I had instant relief.

No cars in León!

Lips back in order, the next thing was to figure out where I might stay. After the refugio in Sahagun and the serial snorers I really wanted to get a good night’s sleep so I wandered up and down the streets looking for a small hotel. It appears that there are no small hotels in León, at least in the old city, and I was hot, sweaty and discouraged. Then I saw a small sign that read “Hostal San Martín” and I thought that sounded promising. I went down a small street a few blocks to the Plaza Torres de Omaña and found the Hostal. It was on the third floor, so I brought my bike inside and chained it to the railing before climbing the stairs with my gear.

The couple operating the hotel did not really speak much English. The place looked very clean and cool and I was pretty exhausted by this point. I was quite shocked when they told me that the room would be 50 Euros but at this point I was beyond caring and did not want to look around any more. The communal bathroom was in the hall next to the small room and was quite wonderful, with lots of marble and several big showers.

I unpacked my panniers and organized my gear, taking some of my dirty laundry into the bathroom and cleaning it as best as I could. This worked quite well since my room had a little balcony and everything dried almost immediately in the blazing sun. I took a long wonderful shower and then napped for an hour, awakening completely refreshed and ready to see the town. The only thing left before going out was to enquire about a laundromat where I could clean some of the larger items. My touring shorts were getting kind of stiff and I was pretty anxious to look after them. The hotel people could not comprehend what I needed at first but then they understand and told me about a laundromat which was near the university, several miles away. But then they were very nice and offered to put my touring shorts in with the hotel laundry since that was all I had. When I came back from my walk around León they were all done and I had nice fresh clothing for the next few days. The Spanish are not well set-up for travellers wanting to do laundry and it is not practical to bring clothing for two weeks straight when cycling.

All practical matters attended to, I was free to wander the streets of León for several hours. The sun was not so intense now in the late afternoon and I was able to go back and enjoy the cathedral, which is a magnificent Gothic structure, the fourth church on the site. It was begun around 1205 and is apparently a 2/3 scale replica of the cathedral in Rheims, France. It was pretty well finished by 1302, although there were some alterations made in the 15th Century for the more modern taste of that later time. The stained glass windows are particularly striking, and apparently the León cathedral has more glass and less stone than any other cathedral in Spain.



Stepping out of the cool gloom of the cathedral back into the streets of the city, I walked around, admiring the impressive remains of the Roman city wall, which was originally constructed in the 3rd or 4th Century and was destroyed and rebuilt many times. The current section dates only to the 11th Century! Next to it is the Basilica de San Isidoro, an 11th Century Romanesque complex, which was built to house the bones of San Isidoro, which were brought into León in 1063. The king of Castile and León, Fernando I, had harassed the Muslims in Extramadura to the extent that they offered him the saint’s bones, not having any gold as their own kingdom was in decline. Pretty lucky that they had some spare saintly relics around...










The church was expanded later in the 11th and 12th Centuries but otherwise was not changed much except by the collapse of its central apse in 1513 and damage caused by the French invasion and by a lightning strike and fire in 1811. As I walked around, I saw several tall columns, and on one of them a family of storks had a huge nest. The baby storks were being fed and I watched them for a while. Nobody else paid the slightest attention.

Another very interesting building in León but quite modern in construction if not appearance is the Casa de Botines, an example of the work of the celebrated Catalan architect Antonio Gaudí. Constructed in 1892, it looks like a grey stone Gothic/Art Nouveau fortress but was meant to be a commercial building, housing a department store on the ground floor and three floors of apartments above.

I spent the remainder of the day sightseeing, enjoying the carless streets and exploring the hidden squares. I even walked past the main refugio in the city, but was happy to finally return to the Hostal San Martín and get a good night’s sleep.

The Santiago Road: The Seventh Day

The Puenta de Canto

Day 7–Thursday, May 30, 2002 Sahagun to Léon
64.96 km, total for trip 609.69 km

At 6:00 am, the first pilgrims were gathering their packs and crashing around in the refugio as I tried to get some sleep but it was no use. We let most of them clear out to begin their walk in the cold morning air and assembled our own stuff without any hurry. We knew that within an hour we would have passed the walkers and left them behind as even a slow cyclist will easily overtake the most determined of those on foot.

We were out on the road by 7:00 am, heading westwards as ever. We passed through an impressive arched gate leaving town and then crossed a remarkable bridge, the Puenta de Canto, over the Río Cea. This structure was commissioned by Alfonso VI in 1085 and was the only bridge across the river until 1992.

On the shore of the river across from the bridge is the legendary site of a battlefield where Charlemagne’s force was reputed to have met a Moorish army. Some of the Christians stuck their lances into the ground the night before the battle and when they awoke the next morning they found that the lances had grown bark and leafy branches. This miracle was not enough to stop Charlemagne’s forces from being annihilated, however.

Bercianos del Real Camino

The route, running parallel to the A231 highway, was not terribly interesting. We rode through the village of Bercianos del Real Camino, which had been given to the monks of Sahagún in 966, and continued on, passing concrete benches and picnic tables, and a gravel walking path for the pilgrims. The road took us under and then over the highway at Grañeros and into El Burgo Ranero, a town with a pond and some colourful houses but little to recommend it. El Burgo is an agricultural town on the great plain of wheat of Castile, but it did not look very prosperous.

The road was empty and the whole area a bit desolate as we proceeded through the villages of Villamoratiel de las Matas and Grajalejo de las Matas, before turning right onto the N601, a busy road with, luckily, a wide enough shoulder for us to ride on. Four kilometers along the road we came to Mansilla de las Mulas, a small town that was originally established by the Romans. It was famous from the 10th Century, when it was retaken from the Moors, for its mule market; hence the latter half of its name. It was a major commercial centre for the region and still maintains the major part of its medieval walls.

Spain: the open road

The next 14 kms. passed uneventfully as we rode through the gently rolling countryside, crossing two rivers and passing through Villamoros de Mansilla, Puente de Villarente and Valdelafuente before rolling into Léon through the traditional route via the Barrio de Santa Anna in what was becoming the uncomfortable heat of midday. At this point Max took his leave and headed westwards as I decided to explore Léon and relax for the remainder of the day. And see about getting laundry done somehow.

The Santiago Road: The Fourth Day

Above San Millán

Monday, May 27, 2002
Logroño to Santo Domingo de Calzada 67.92 km,
total for trip 319.29 km

My experience coming into both Pamplona and Logroño was that the outskirts of large Spanish cities are really dreadful and no pleasure to cycle. This was confirmed when I left Logroño and, successfully following the signs taking me in the correct direction, I soon found myself riding the shoulder of a limited-access highway, completely illegal in Spain. Even worse, I was riding into a headwind and the road seemed only to go up. This continued for an interminable 11 kms. Just before it ended, I regained my composure by having breakfast at a highway rest stop but was glad that I was able to get onto the smaller N 120 road soon afterwards. On the highway, I had been passed by a number of police cars but they seemed to be escorting buses and paid me no attention.

I followed the N 120, which was not a terribly interesting road and then soon found myself riding with the three Asturians again but we did not speak a lot because of the effort of fighting the wind. I parted company from them again when I turned south near Nájera. My guidebook suggested that I should go to San Millán de la Cogolla where the monastery was a part of a UNESCO World Heritage Site and as the route ran along quiet country streets I thought this detour would be worthwhile. However, even though the hills made it a bit more difficult than I had expected, the massive headwind slowed my speed down to almost nothing. When I rode through the town of Cardenas, I actually rode downhill in one of my lowest gears, usually reserved for going up mountains. And the wind howled so much I could hardly hear anything.

By the time I reached San Millán I was quite tired, even though it was only about 18 kms from the N 120. There was a little road behind the village that was supposed to take me to San Millán de Suso where the famous 6th Century hermit San Millán was born, and where he died a century later. But the road went uphill with much more enthusiasm than I could muster. It did give me a view over the village and past the monastery to the impressive mountains behind. There was even snow on one of the peaks, San Lorenzo. I took some pictures and decided to roll down into the village and look around. This was San Millán de Yuso. No confusion here.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered all the buses, and their police escorts, that had overtaken me on the highway had occupied the entire village. The story was that the EU Ministers of Public Works were meeting in Spain and were making a visit to San Millán. The Spanish unions of public servants had organized the buses for a political rally and now the streets of the little village where totally jammed with office workers with signs. They were in a good mood, however, so I was not very worried. I locked the bike up to a post and began to walk. With all the demonstrators, it was a bit difficult to walk through the streets to the monastery. And the village only seemed to have two streets altogether. But when I finally did make it there, I found the monastery surrounded by armed police who were obviously the ministerial escort. So much for my detour.

The monastery in the village became a going concern in the late 11th Century when the upper monastery was deserted and the relics of San Millán brought down from the hill. Under the Benedictine Order the monastery grew and was rebuilt between the 16th and 18th Centuries. It looks massive for such a small village and was perhaps too much in the end. The Benedictines moved out in the 19th Century but other monks have more recently returned to inhabit the building. My guidebook refers to the “interminably long guided tour” so perhaps I did have something to thank the EU Ministers for after all.

After having some bread and cheese and a lot of water, I prepared to ride into the hellish wind again. The scenery was wonderful, but difficult to enjoy and I moved up and down the hills at a snail’s pace. I crawled through Villar de Torre and then soon after saw a big sign marking the location of an 11th Century convent. “Well, that’s what I am here for!,” I thought, and turned eastwards, out of the wind at last.

A short ride of 5 kms took me to Cañas where a Cistercian convent had been founded in 1170. It had flourished through the Middle Ages–apparently St. Francis of Assisi had stayed there on his pilgrimage--but then fell into ruin. It was restored after 1945 and reoccupied. It was my luck that it was time to restore it again or something since most of the building was surrounded by scaffolding. Nothing in sight was open and it did not look as if tourists were abundant. I had the feeling I was the only person in Spain.

Turning west again, the short 5 kms became a very long ride into the wind. I was in gently rolling green farmland, but it all looked a bit desolate. There were no houses and almost no trees. It was so tiring for me to ride up a tiny hill near Manzanares that I actually got off the bike and walked for a few minutes to get my breath back. It was embarrassing to think that I had crossed the Pyrenees without too much trouble yet was crushed by this molehill.

The road now ran downhill and soon I was on the outskirts of a real town, Santo Domingo de la Calzada. I passed a carwash. And some warehouses. And then I was on an ancient street of a town that really owes its existence to the Camino de Santiago.

Until the engineer-monk St. Dominic arrived, there was nothing much here on the banks of the River Oja. The Camino, passing from Nájera through swamps and forests was exposed to bandits and was considered one of the most dangerous stretches for pilgrims. Domingo García, born in the area around 1019, had been a shepherd but turned to the monastic life. He did poorly in his studies at San Millán and was not allowed to continue, so he chose the life of a hermit instead. After a time in the forests along the Oja, he turned to assisting pilgrims and improving their travel conditions. Beginning with improvements to the local roads, he went on build a famous 24-arch stone bridge over the Oja and a small village grew up around a hospice he organized in an old ruined fort.

St. Dominic was long in his grave when a legend became attached to him in the 12th Century. An innocent German pilgrim who rejected the local innkeeper’s daughter’s advances was framed for theft and hanged. A month later his family arrived to collect his body from the gibbet and were astonished to see that he was still alive and in good spirits, due to the intervention of St. James or, in other versions, St. Dominic. The family rushed to the presiding magistrate was eating his dinner and told him that their son was still alive. Gesturing at his meal, he scoffed and said that the son was as alive as his roasted chickens. Whereupon the chickens reassembled themselves, feathers and all and flew off cackling. A pair of white chickens are kept in a coop in the cathedral and there were some being kept at the hostel I stayed in that evening. The town coat-of-arms also bears white chickens proudly upon it.

Bustling Santo Domingo

Until I arrived in Santo Domingo, I was not aware that the pilgrimage route had made significant changes to any cityscape. The town was clearly built along an east-west axis as I did not have to deviate from the Camino as I rode directly into town. The town, with its sand-coloured buildings and quiet streets, was appealing enough that I considered quitting for the day although I had not even ridden 70 kms. But the wind had made the ride so arduous (not to mention the morale-sapping highway out of Logroño) that I thought I would allow myself the luxury of stopping in mid-afternoon and doing nothing. I was dirty and windblown and exhausted and felt enough like a genuine pilgrim for one day.

As I was thinking these thoughts and riding gently down the main street, protected from the wind by the low buildings, I saw a refugio sign on the left and pulled over to a large building that appeared to be a convent. Leaning the bike against the wall and putting myself into a slightly better appearance, I approached the Nun On Duty at the window and asked if there were any beds for the night. Unfortunately, the refugio was full, to my surprise given the early time of day, but I thanked her anyway and decided to think up an alternative. There was a fountain and a courtyard, so I sat down and took out some bread and cheese and made a sandwich.

A moment later, I was delighted to see the three Asturians ride into town. I had parted from them near Nájera earlier in the day and I am certain that they did not have much fun grinding into the wind with their heavily-burdened bicycles. They pulled off the road and joined me and we chatted in our limited mutual vocabulary.

The refugio

They planned to press ahead as there was still lots of light but I had had enough. After we parted, I rode down the street a little further and discovered a second refugio, a large old building from the mid-19th Century on the right side. There would be space here for me, I was pleased to learn, and I had my pass stamped.

I unloaded the bicycle and set up my sleeping bag and panniers next to my bed. Then I got back on the Marinoni and rode back out of town the way I had come to the car wash. Luckily I had enough small change that I could use the car wash and rinse off my poor bicycle, dusty where it was not spattered with mud and, uh, agricultural detritus, to be delicate. For inexperienced cyclists reading this, a high-pressure hose works very well, but should be used with great care on a bicycle as aiming it at the hubs or bottom bracket could blow out all the grease in the bearings, resulting in a short and expensive ride the next day. But a few minutes’ work suffice to bring back Signore Marinoni to his sparkling best self. Without the burdens of the panniers and handlebar bag, the bicycle felt so fleet and responsive and we joyfully zipped back to the refugio at racing speed. After a welcome shower and an attempt to do my laundry, I was refreshed and relaxed and ready to look at the town. The heat of the afternoon had passed as we moved into early evening and the weather was much nicer. And the wind had thankfully died down.

The cathedral

Well, there is not a whole lot to see in Santo Domingo de la Calzada. There is an impressive cathedral, built in differing styles from 13th Century Romanesque to Baroque. St. Dominic had built the first church on the site and the current building has gone through several cycles of decay and restoration. Strangely, the tower of the cathedral stands alone across the street, unattached to the principal building. Nearby is the impressive hospice which replaced St. Dominic’s basic original structure in the 15th Century and served pilgrims for a further 300 years before falling into disrepair. It has been rebuilt as part of the Spanish national parador system of luxury hotels.

Around the corner was what looked like the city hall on a large open square. The demonstrators that I had seen at San Millán were here as well to protest the EU Ministers, but I avoided them and headed in the other direction. This gave me a chance to find a grocery store, where I stocked up on the inevitable bread and cheese and chocolate, along with a few big bottles of mineral water and some fruit. I even found postcards of Santo Domingo and spent the evening writing them out. I also chatted with other pilgrims, including a husband-and-wife team from Germany, and talked at some length with Max, a young Argentinian living in Barcelona. He was riding a mountain bike and not adverse to some company on the road, so we decided to head out together the next day.

The hostel gradually filled up with hikers and more cyclists but it was not uncomfortable and, exhausted as I was, I had an excellent night’s sleep for a change.

Hit the Trail, Pilgrim! The First Day on the Camino de Santiago

Friday, May 24, 2002
Bayonne to St. Jean-Pied-de-Port
66.84 km

Having successfully assembled my bicycle in my not-so-grand room in the Hotel Grande the night before, I had a decent night’s sleep and got up around 8 am to begin my first day of cycling. I immediately discovered that I had forgotten to bring my razor–so much for using a comprehensive packing list. Foregoing the hotel’s 10 Euro breakfast, I checked out, leaving my bicycle case with the hotel. Bayonne is not very large and after only a few minutes’ of riding and checking out tire pressure, baggage loading and brakes, I soon rolled up to the railway station in plenty of time to take the 9 am train to St. Jean-Pied-de-Port.

The nice lady at the ticket counter was all set to sell me a ticket for the 15:30 train. My wonderful German railway Website had steered me wrong: the 9 am train (and there are only two trains per day) did not carry bicycles, so it was on to Plan B, which was to cycle the 60 kms or so from Bayonne to St. Jean.

The weather was coolish but otherwise looked promising for my first day on the road. With only limited confusion I retraced my route and headed towards the airport and then onto the D932, a rather busy multi-lane road with quite heavy truck traffic. Luckily, there was a good paved shoulder I could ride on and my initial nervousness wore off as I got used to the traffic and the loaded bike’s somewhat sluggish handling. The D932 soon started to climb and I warmed up quickly. The landscape became quite hilly and was a lush green. Without the trucks it would have been an excellent ride.

Near Ustartitz, I turned off for a break and found a typical French “hypermarché” where I bought a razor and something to drink. Next door was a little bakery and I chose a pain au chocolat from the extremely sparse offerings.

As I continued on the main road, the traffic began to thin out, the sun emerged and I felt finally in a holiday mood. The road ran through the deep and twisting valley of the Nive, a river wild enough that there was camps offering white-water rafting (“Le Rafting”) along the way. The road passed near the resort of Cambo-les-Bains, where the author Edmond de Rostand, famous for “Cyrano de Bergerac,” had had an impressive manor house built in the typical Basque architectural style.

The highway now turned into the D918 and the traffic had almost disappeared as we continued along the path of the Nive. All the signs were bilingual, in French and Basque, and it was some entertainment on the longish climbs to consider how the Basque names might be pronounced. The railroad line also ran parallel to the road but its singletrack was barely noticeable. The scenery was enchanting, with charming little red-and-white Basque farm houses everywhere, forests and lush green fields and the rushing river. I was going through film at an impressive rate already.

Near the crossroads at Ossé, there was a pottery factory but the direction of the sun thwarted my efforts to photograph the enormous pots on display outside. I saw a sign directing travellers to a chateau and thought this would be a worthwhile detour since it looked like the kind of country where chateaux, rather than fortresses, would be rare. I crossed the Nive and continued on the quiet D948.

This seemed like a bad choice as the road almost immediate began to climb and seemed to be going in the wrong direction. There were no settlements and no other signs for the chateau. The road took me through quite dense forest, along a little river and through the Vallée des Aldudes, but I let the spirit of adventure draw me along. After all, this was France and sooner or later you arrived somewhere, unlike Canada. It had become very hot and the sun beat down and I wanted a cold drink.

After a sharpish climb, around 8 kms from Ossé, the road suddenly went gently downhill through a little farm town. I came to another crossroads, with a village ahead and a bridge to the left. Turning left would take me to a gas station, so I rode in that direction and was able to buy some orange juice and a cold mineral water in the adjoining grocery store. It was almost noon and everything in France was set to close in half an hour for the Nation’s Holy Lunchtime, so my timing was ideal. The cashier told me that the chateau was only a short distance away in the village.

Refreshed, I recrossed the bridge and turned left into the fairy-tale village of St. Etienne-de-Baïgorry. It boasted the usual Basque architecture and was spotlessly clean, filled with flowers everywhere. There was a main square with government offices and a pharmacy and as I continued along I turned right to follow a little paved road that rose steeply and which revealed some of the chateau.

Although closed (lunchtime, you know), the chateau was worth the detour. Overlooking the river and the village, it was a jewel, with a little tower on each of the four corners of the main structure. It made me think of the famous Canadian Pacific hotels in their rather ludicrous faux-chateau style, except that this was much smaller, better proportioned and, well, real. The Chateau d’Etchaux was constructed between the 11th and 16th Centuries and is now a bed-and-breakfast, as well as being open, when open, for tours at an exorbitant 6 Euros. But I walked around the outside, took my photos from every angle, and then rode back downhill into the village.

I continued my tour by crossing another little bridge and enjoyed a wonderful view of a superb high-arched Roman bridge to my right. More photos, of course. The a bit further along I came to the large village church, an impressive structure of stone. Although it looks quite ancient and there are records about a church on the site going back to 1263, the current building dates mainly from the 17th and 18th Centuries. The interior is characterized by remarkable wooden galleries running the length of both sides of the church, a feature I had never seen before and which gave the place something of the feeling of a theatre.

On the other side of the river was a four star hotel with a terrace overlooking the water, and full of diners on this summer day, all travel-guide-France. Walking back to the church, I struck up a conversation with a cyclist in his 60s, wearing the colours of Euskadi, the Basque pro cycling team. As I was to find on my trip, many French people are happy to meet Canadians and he called me one of “the cousins.” It seemed to make no difference anywhere that I was not from Québec. He was riding an expensive Look frame and although he had an impressive belly, he also appeared to have legs of iron. We talked about the roads in the district and I asked about the road that ran behind the church and the hotel. He had just come down it and I believed him when he said it was very difficult, running along the Vallée of Aldudes and, after passing the village of Aldudes, climbing even more steeply and crossing the Pyrenees at the Pass of Roland. But I was following the traditional pilgrimage route and wanted to do the famous Pass at Roncesvalles, so after bidding “Adieu,” I rode east and quickly covered the remaining 11 kms to St. Jean-Pied-de-Port.

St. Jean was awash in traffic, amazing for such a small town. It is, in fact, Pilgrimville, luckily remaining on the correct side of the line separating quaint from kitsch. I was sweating profusely in the afternoon heat and was thinking it was time to find a hotel and have a shower, but first I visited the local tourism office for a map. They directed me to the Pilgrims’ Reception Centre located in the Old Town.

Pushing the bike up a narrow cobbled street, I just followed a stream of hikers with big backpacks and soon came to the Reception Centre. A man and a woman were scurrying about, assisting the various pilgrims in various ways, and I sat down to wait my turn. The lady immediate came over and offered me a glass of water, promising to look after me once she had shown someone to their quarters for the night.

True to her word, she came right back and helped me with great courtesy and speed. My “ Credencia” received its first enroute stamp, meaning my pilgrimage was now official, and then she arranged for me to have a bed at a hostel. I bought a nice pilgrimage pin to add to my handlebar bag and then rode down the steep hill to find the residence of Monsieur Jean on the Rue d’Espagne.

This was a most entertaining establishment. There was a narrow hallway leading off the busy street, with its little shops, and suddenly one was in a monstrous house from the early 19th Century, with an open central area and a massive wooden staircase circling the walls upwards for four storeys. M. Jean, who was horrified that I called him “Monsieur,” insisting on “Jean” only, was a bundle of Gallic energy who appeared to be restoring this behemoth of a house single-handedly. On the second and third floors, two of the rooms had been arranged dormitory-style and he put me in one of these, pointing out that the next bed was already occupied by another cyclist. There were perhaps ten beds in the room.

The price for the night was 10 Euros and fresh bread, jam and tea or coffee was available after 7 am. I had made the discovery that cyclists usually arrive at their destinations much earlier than walkers, so I was able to enjoy a nice hot shower and get changed in solitude. I organized my stuff, learning once again that when travelling with panniers you have to pretty well unpack everything each night, and then went to buy some postcards and get a new battery for the camera. It had acted strangely during the day and I had used my replacement battery, but it too did not seem to be working properly.

The lady at the camera shop was very nice and showed me that in fact there was nothing at all wrong with my battery and that the indicator showed it was fine. It seems there is a lack of contact with the mechanical link to open and close the cover and I learned to press it back to make it work. Perhaps the little Olympus was not really designed to go through a roll or two of film every day. Luckily I had kept the old battery as they are quite expensive and there was nothing wrong with it either.

Going back to the hostel, I saw that the room was filling up. There was a French mountain biker in his early 30s who was next to me and we were joined by a group of four or five French walkers, a British walker, an older Belgian cyclist named Paul and, somewhat later, an older German cyclist named Siegmar. The language of the evening was French, spoken in a wide range of accents.

Paul joined me when I went to find a café where I could write my twelve postcards and he also bought cards at the camera shop so the lady was rewarded for her battery advice. After we had a pleasant coffee together outside, Paul and I split up as he went to mail his cards and I finished writing my big pile. When I left the café to go to the nearby post office, it must have been over 30ºC.

At the post office, I ran into the French mountain biker, and then I continued for a walk around St. Jean-Pied-de-Port. Much of the traffic had disappeared now in the late afternoon, suggesting the place was a popular destination for day-trippers. The main road ran parallel to the Old Town, which was within the walls of a citadel. Several impressive gates still remained, including the traditional entry for those walking the Camino Santiago, the Pilgrims’ Gate. To the south was a much more impressive gate, surmounted by a clock tower that led to a bridge across the Nive and onto the road that goes to Spain.

There were many little shops selling artisanal items and I bought a bottle of Basque hot pepper sauce and a jar of cherry jam, sweetened with honey instead of sugar, that I was to drag all over Spain with me. One of the problems of cycletouring is that you always keep on paying for any purchases you make.

I had an excellent dinner in a Norman restaurant, enjoying a mushroom crepe, a salad and some excellent Basque cider. I struck up a conversation with two Dutch hikers who had been discussing Basque/French bilingualism and the situation in Québec! They had been speaking Dutch, which I found very easy to follow. They were doing the pilgrimage route as well and after I had told them about the chateau I had seen, one of them said he had stayed at a chateau b&b where the family had done everything possible for him, including washing his sleeping bag at no charge. Perhaps I should organize my next bicycle tour to just go from chateau to chateau...

The hostel doors lock at 22:00, so I was back half an hour before that and ready for bed. There was a long and animated discussion about the proper nourishment for the pilgrimage but the Frenchmen really went all out when the subject turned somehow to coffee. One of the walkers had been a coffee buyer and gave a fascinating dissertation about the differences between arabica and robusta coffee strains which, amazingly, was amplified by his countrymen. It boggles the mind to imagine what the French could accomplish if they could concentrate on details of things other than food and drink. The plumbing at the Lyons airport might be a good start.

Lights out, and before I could fall asleep I discovered the No. 1 Big Problem of hostels–snoring. In our room, the French mountain biker snored with great vigour until midnight. A blessed few minutes of silence followed but it was quickly broken by the next snorer, who carried on until 6 am. I think I must have slept at some point but did not wake up in top condition for the crossing of the Pyrenees.