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Published: January 31st 2010
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The electronic beeping of alarms stirs me from a restless sleep. I try to bury my head under the pillow but the sound of rustling plastic bags penetrates even the stiff foam. I don’t need to check the time; after a few days on this holy path I’ve learnt that the beeping begins at 5am. I reach down through the darkness and fumble for my ear plugs which are somewhere in a side pocket of my rucksack, somewhere under the creaking metal bunk bed. I’m aided by the regular beams of head torches swinging around the room like search lights. I hate the feeling of the fluorescent yellow rubbery stubs in my earholes so rather than drifting off to sleep I lay cursing these early risers.
Within half an hour I’ve admitted defeat and join the melee in the cramped spaces between bunks. With minimum rustling or zipping - I bet that’s what everyone thinks - I locate my sponge bag and stumble blindly for the bathroom, apologizing to the owners of now slightly flatter toes. After a few seconds of adjustment to the bright neon lights I see fellow zombies, peering with eyes half closed at their contorted faces
St Jean Pied de Port, France
This is where it all started. The pilgrim office is the building on the right. as we all perform those weird and wholly unnatural stretches - although usually when no one is looking - in front of the big toothpaste dappled mirror. No words are shared as faces and teeth are scrubbed.
Now accustomed to the white light, finding my bed again becomes a challenge in the liquid blackness of the room. Arms flail wildly ahead, hoping to grasp anything that might make the journey easier. Whispering “disculpe” and “perdon” to the owners of whatever body parts I grab on the way I soon find what I think is my bed. I sit down. A muffled “ouch” reveals that my bed is actually the next one.
A sleep sheet is stuffed in its sack and I haul all of my stuff onto the landing to pack where there is a bit of light and I won’t be disturbing the sensible and enviable people who are still sleeping soundly. Shorts are on despite the cold, it’ll soon warm up. Hat and flip flops are strapped on to the pack. Tracky top is zipped all the way up and I begin the methodical application of electrical insulation tape. Heels, big toes, between little and next
to little toe, all places that have started to rub a bit, are covered with a strip of my green and yellow - Earth, in the UK - secret weapon. Don’t knock it. A hundred or so kilometers in and not one blister. Trainers are on, water bottles’ filled, slightly squashed and brown banana devoured, and I’m off.
Despite being one of the last up, I seem to be one of the first out and begin looking for the yellow arrows that will lead me on my way. They aren’t easy to spot in the pre-dawn gloom, particularly in the narrow streets of little mediaeval towns like this one. Someone else bursts from the albergue brandishing metallic shock absorbing sticks and a head torch that rightly belongs at the top of a lighthouse. I decide to follow their click-clacking assuming that they know the way but it’s a fearsome pace. The sound soon drifts away somewhere around a corner ahead of me. I don’t get much further before I encounter a small group coming the other way.
“Has viste las flechas amarillas?”
To be honest I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen one.
“Si. Vamos por ahi”. I
reply, pointing in the general direction of where I last saw robohiker.
“Muchas gracias amigo. Buen Camino!” They shout back as they head who knows where. We’ll all get there in the end.
I catch up with a stationary and familiar lone hiker, torch waving in all directions.
“Estas perdida?” I ask.
“Sorry, you speak English?” Comes the reply before I’m recognized.
“Oh it’s you. You frightened me to death yer bugger. You’d think after doing this bloody walk so many times I’d know the bloody way by now.”
There are very few British people on the Camino so when two of us meet we like to take advantage of the opportunity to talk proper.
Yawning and rubbing eyes we find a yellow shell marking the path hidden in the scrub. We pull on waterproofs to guard against the chilly and heavy morning mist.
“Why the hell do we do it?” She asks, grinning.
We walk on together a while, chatting about her previous epic treks during the last 60 years of her life. I stop to tie my lace, look up, she’s gone. Quite competitive some folk.
Suddenly the light rears up behind me as I head
out into the countryside. The mist soon disappears. Day comes very quickly and I indulge in a bit of backwards walking so as not to miss yet another glorious sunrise. Shafts of sunlight poke through the church spires of the town behind me and awaken the fields of sunflowers that line the path. They seem to perform the same contortions as we did as they start their day. Then all they have to do is twist from the east to the south to the west and then they can go back to sleep. Not a bad life really.
Just as rumblings are felt deep within my being, church bells are heard and a sleepy hamlet appears a kilometer or so ahead. Somewhere within that ancient cluster of buildings is a little café - at least that’s what my frequently inaccurate guidebook says. Within that probably scruffy, cigarette butt carpeted spot; a café negro grande and a chorizo bocadillo awaits me. This knowledge spurs my passage along the gravel path as the birds wake up to cheer me on.
“Why the hell do we do it?”
I don’t think there’s anything else I’d rather be doing.
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