Beautiful Navarre

It took me 2 days to walk the 44 km to the walled city of Pamplona, capital of Navarre and historic capital of the Basque Country. From Roncesvalles the route led easily along undulating paths which crossed 3 river valleys ( the Urrobi, the Erro and the Arga rivers) separated by the wooded high ground of the Alto de Mezquiriz and the Alto de Erro. In Burguete, the 1st village I went through, I bought bread and cheese and chorizo sausage, which I ate lying on a patch of grass near the Alto de Erro. It was a remote and beautiful sunny spot in front of a ruined inn (now a cattle shelter) at an altitude of 800m. A cyclist and a couple of pilgrims drifted by. For much of the day the trees had closed in, but from this high viewpoint you could see rolling wooded hills stretching as far as the horizon. Then I climbed down an entertaining rocky path into Zubiri.

Passing a malodorous magnesium extraction plant on the outskirts of this small town, I walked 5 km along the Arga valley to Larrosoana, which I entered over its medieval bridge. The albergue was right in the centre but unusually it had no kitchen (in the evenings pilgrims often prepared their own meals and shared them), so I ate a delicious dinner of Basque food and wine at a bar-restaurant just around the corner. There I saw again 2 lovely Spanish pilgrims, a brother and sister called Fernando and Tere (short for Teresa), whom I'd met in Roncesvalles and at other times throughout the day. I would keep bumping into them for the next 8 days - and with each encounter the delight at seeing each other increased, and the hugging and kissing got more ecstatic!

Roland's Horn

Roncevalles (Ronceveaux in French) is famous for the Battle of Roncevalles Pass - especially for the rather embellished and distorted legend it became, as recounted in the Song of Roland (La Chanson de Roland), the oldest work in French literature.

On 15 August 778 Charlemagne (742/747-814), King of the Franks, was returning to his Frankish kingdom over the Pyrenees from Spain, when the rearguard of his army was opportunistically attacked, slaughtered and robbed at Roncesvalles Pass by native Basques. This was the worst defeat of Charlemagne's reign. Among these unfortunate soldiers was a certain Hrodland, Prefect of the Breton Marches.

However the epic chronicler of the Song of Roland has airbrushed history somewhat in order to retrieve Frankish pride and to accord with a growing sense of Frankish Christian national identity. Hrodland has turned into Roland, Charlemagne's nephew; the Basques have become the Saracens; and this time Charlemagne heads back to Spain to avenge the death of his knights.

In the Chanson 400,000 infidel Saracens ambush the small band left behind to guard the pass. Roland, with his trusty sword, Durandal, and his men fight heroically but are impossibly outnumbered. Charlemagne has told Roland to summon him back if in trouble by blowing his horn. This Roland refrains from doing until only a few of his brave knights remain alive. When he does finally put the horn to his lips birds fall from the trees, the ground shakes, chimneys topple down from houses, and people cry out from the pain in their ears. Charlemagne turns back but it's too late for all have perished.

The Song of Roland exists in various different manuscript sources, the earliest version being the Oxford manuscript dated somewhere between 1140 and 1170. It's an example of a chanson de geste, a literary form of epic poetry telling heroic deeds, written between the 11th and 15th centuries. Lines of early chansons de geste have assonantal endings, but later poems are fully rhymed.

Charlemagne is a pivotal figure in European history. He's considered the founding father of France and Germany. Indeed he was instrumental in christianizing and unifying the whole of Europe. He turned the Frankish kingdom into a Frankish empire, and, having conquered Italy, was crowned Emperor by the Pope.

Is God Feminine?

That first night in Spain I and a small band of other pilgrims attended the 8 o'clock pilgrim mass in the Iglesia de Santa Maria, the church of Saint Mary, in the tiny settlement of Roncesvalles ('valley of thorns'). At the end of mass the 5 of us stood at the altar rail and were duly blessed. Afterwards we shared a simple pilgrim meal in the local bar - bread, soup, trout, deep-fried potatoes and yoghurt, accompanied by a bottle of rough local wine. As usual we swapped stories. The conversation ranged far and wide. One of the pilgrims was a chaplain with the New Zealand armed forces in Afghanistan. He had some interesting practices. One was that he always referred to God as 'She' rather than 'He'. I countered with my own view that God was non-gender-specific. Later it was freezing cold in the dormitory of the refuge, but I was snug and warm inside my sleeping bag with a blanket laid over (the refugios and albergues always provided additional blankets) and I soon fell asleep.

A Day To Remember

The Route Napoleon is 26 km long with a cumulative ascent of 1390 metres and it took me 7 hours to complete - 7 of the best hours of my life. (Napoleon used the route to get his troops in and out of Spain during the Peninsula War.) It's strenuous in parts - but hardly beyond the ability of your average hill walker. For me the day was a total joy. The miles seemed to fly by as I climbed higher and higher, and as ever more spectacular views opened up all around me (see 1st photo). The 1st 16 km is uphill - but after that it's more or less downhill for the rest of the crossing. Half the distance you follow a narrow tarmacked road, but it's very quiet with hardly any traffic. Then it's by natural pathways all the way to Roncesvalles.

After 11 km I reached the panoramic viewpoint of the Pic d'Orisson, where I perched precipitously on a narrow ledge of rock for half an hour and ate my picnic lunch. Close by was a statue of the Virgin Mary, the Vierge d'Orisson, which you can see in the 2nd photo. This statue had been brought here from Lourdes by shepherds. High above me 12 griffon vultures soared effortlessly in the thermals. There's a bigger concentration of these magnificent birds here than in any place in the world. It was bitterly cold. When I began walking again I'd lost all sensation in my nose, ears and lips. But I soon warmed up as I continued along the trail.

It was still a further 5 km to the border. The road now became a path ascending between huge rocks. There was a deep frost and some patchy mist but no real snow. I passed a tiny mountain refuge hut and soon arrived at the border fence and found the border marker stone. I was in Spain! The path climbed more gradually now through beech woods up to the Col de Bentarte. I took a picture of some frosted tree tops illuminated by the sun (3rd photo). A stray dog followed me for a few kilometres.

At the Col Lepreder there was another choice of routes: either down a winding, treacherously icy road or by a more direct, stony path which descended steeply through more woodland. I took the latter. Leaving the high plateau behind me I raced down this delightful track, pausing again briefly for a bite to eat and to take in the view which was more restricted now because of the trees. This forest is one of the largest remaining beech woods in Europe.

All too quickly the path levelled out and I glimpsed the roof of Roncesvalles abbey through the trees. I would spend the night here in the spartan refuge of the old hospital adjoining this monastery. What a day to remember...

Saint-Jean

I had now walked 750 km from Le Puy and was in urgent need of another rest day to take stock before attempting the crossing of the Pyrenees. And what finer place to spend it in than Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port (Donibarne Garazi in Basque) which means "Saint John-at-the-Foot-of-the-Pass". It's a border town with a population of 1400 on the river Nive. You enter via the famous Porte Saint-Jacques (see photo) at the top of the steep, cobbled Rue de la Citadelle. The ramparts of the old citadel or fortress loom above. It's a pretty little town, full of many examples of traditional Basque-style houses with their balconies and overhanging roofs.

From here there's a choice of 2 routes to Roncesvalles. In very bad weather I suppose it's safest to follow the road route along the valley of the river Valcarlos. But for the true pilgrim there really is no choice. It has to be the route Napoleon, a high route up to the Col de Bentarte used by shepherds and pilgrims since time immemorial. So at 9 am on 16 November I set off, rested and eager, through the Porte d'Espagne, and left Saint-Jean behind me. It was a bright, cold, sunny morning, with just a hint of mist...