There are two types of Camino pilgrims. Whether outdoorsy and sporty or fresh from the office and soft, the first shoulders a massive backpack weighted by bedroll, air pillow, and similar backcountry/wilderness explorer-gear, and nightly bunks mostly dressed in a hostel or other group-sleep situation where new friends are a mere snore away. The second calls Santiago Ways in Madrid and arranges for them to book fabulous, low-cost hotels along the walk and van-transport their luggage from spot to spot. “We really want a shower,” we told Jorge in Madrid – a shower and dinner and a no-share bed; we wanted a buffet breakfast, working wifi, and…what else? Well, Gina and I were willing to walk 20 miles a day over hills and dales, along country roads, and through ancient towns, but we didn’t fancy carrying more than a sweater and snacks. “You are sure you want the Camino Francés?” asked Jorge, aghast. Sure, we did. The “French Way,” or “Napoleon’s Route,” unlike the Camino Primitivo or Camino del Norte or the Portuguese Way or even English way, promised the Pyrenees! Here we would follow Napoleon up and up – such awesome views! – and really feel that sense of exhilarating accomplishment that only a hard day’s hike can offer. “What, does Jorge think we’re so old we can’t make it up a hill?” Gina, a great and strong walker, scoffed at such a silly assumption.
So here we are on Day 1 of our Way. After a flight to Biarritz, a train to the French Way’s start in the pretty French village of Saint Jean Pied de Port, and the day’s destination noted – the Spanish town of Valcarlos – we are only five miles in to our walk before some pilgrims from Peru partying at a picnic stop tell us that we are not, technically, following Napoleon. Instead, we are on the alternate, “gentler,” or B route – the route used when the mountainous main route is snowed-in, which it is not this mid-September.
“You are on the easy road, for slow peoples,” said Luis from Peru; he held his wineglass aloft in a toast. Slow peoples? Obviously, Jorge in Madrid did not have confidence that Gina and I could power up the Pyrenees and booked our first hotel in a lower town found after a leisurely amble through sheep pastures and cow fields. Green and lovely as they were, I was crushed. Here we were on the old/slow/fat walk of seven miles, while the young/slim/fit trekkers were higher up loving a 16-mile challenge with killer views and more everything: more picturesque, more authentic, more historic, more exciting, more of what you want.
“Let’s just make the best of it,” said Gina as we strolled into Valcarlos; by then we had followed the scallop shells – the symbol and trail markers of the Camino – for a few miles on the freeway. Well, maybe it wasn’t strictly the freeway, but it was the main road to Pamplona and obviously a major motorcycle artery in Spain. Bultaco after Torrot after Ossa after GasGas: the high-speed bike traffic reminded us that, while the slim/quick/young pilgrims were feeling all conquistador, super inspired and accomplished, for us on the slowpoke road it was enough not to be killed by a motorcycle. “We can come back next year and do the ‘real’ route, okay?”
I guess.
Anyway, the next day’s walk promised everything. We slow peoples would join the quick-steppers in the Spanish town of Roncesvalles after at least four hours of up-and-up trekking on a dirt path through forest glade, with a tinkling little river as our companion. On this muddy climb even the partying Peruvians would have to trade their al fresco wine-fest for the walking sticks of the serious hiker, and the other pilgrims who escorted us out of Valcarlos that morning probably would have the first opportunity to ponder the same question that haunted us: why is everyone walking the Camino old? Youngsters in their sixties to the ageless in their eighties: they were everywhere – booking along paths through the sheep pastures, roaring up mounds in the cow fields. Why they weren’t with the slim/fit/quick trekkers of the Napoleon route, I couldn’t say, other than perhaps, like us, Jorge had handled their hotels. Still, the climb to Roncesvalles surely would show how old exactly is old: who will quit, faint, fag out, or otherwise call a taxi for a ride to their room? Who, among the fiercely determined never-quitters, will arrive at dinner three hours late after inching their way, or limping, to the top of the trail in obvious pain?
“This will be easy,” said Gina, as we set off out of Valcarlos. “I’ve done hundreds of hills. No big deal.” The 45-degree angle of the uphill before us is where Charlemagne’s retreating troops met their demise. But surely the Saxon wars begun in 772 wouldn’t – couldn’t – mean anything to us. We had a buffet breakfast on our side, and a long, hot shower in store.
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