A High Goodbye

The French section ended for me not long after the section from Navarrenx - Ostabat. Two days later I was relaxing with Abi in a wonderful little Chambre d´Hote on the banks of the Nive, a couple of hundred metres upstream from St Jean Pied de Port. It was a needed break and having the time to simply relax and enjoy a village, with Abi at my side, was hevenly. St Jean itself is a very pretty little town, nestled at the ´foot of the pass´to Spain. Plenty of bare peaks to be looked at, bubbling stream full of little trout (traditional food for the passing pilgrims), a few good restaurants. Thankfully the weather was spectacular too, so the two of us spent days wondering the town or simply sitting in our hotel´s little garden by the Nive, munching on brebis, local hams, and chocolate that should probably be banned it was so good.
But all good things come to an end, and after three days rest it was time for me to move on (and Abi to go back to work).
So on the 15th of October I set off from the Port d´Espagne for the 1200ish metre climb. I had heard a great deal about how difficult this was, even for experienced walkers, and to allow a good 8 hours at least. I was also a little worried about how fit I was, especially after three rest days. Well... after blasting past a couple of puffing Spaniards, a wiry Frenchman, and a chap on a mountain bike I decided that, yes, I am fit. In fact, I made it to Roncesvalles in a little over 6 hours, including half an hour stopped at the Fontaine Roland (near the border) for lunch. I was quite proud that I beat a person on a mountain bike over the Pyrenees!!
As for the walk itself, it was, simply put, stunning (this PC doesn´t like my camera so no photos for now). The climb was very steep at times, but this resulted in majestic, sweeping vistas being presented to you at every other corner. My only difficulty lay in the 40km/hour (conservative estimate... felt like 60) headwind that raged all day.
Just to make things interesting for walkers I passef through during dove hunting season, which meant apart from the howling of the wind, the bleeting of sheep, and my own steps, the other dominant sound in my memory are the volleys of gunfire that rang through the day. My introduction to this still makes me laugh... At one point the road dipped slightly, a small ridge rising above to the right. As I hummed along, content to be in the lee of the earth and without wind forcing tears from my eyes, I noticed the pretty twitter of birdlife in the few trees. "How lovely!", thought I... Boom, boom, boom, boom (encore). I nearly hit the deck because the blasts from the shotguns were obviously only metres away, just above my head. No more twittering... But also no sign of any hunters, or of their fallen prey . Deciding that exit was the best strategy I made quickly for the bend in the road ahead where I promptly saw the sign warning me of the prevailing artillery. Rounding the bend I could also see the answer to my beffudlement as to the source of the gunfire. Every 50m or so along the ridge was a little ´bunker´, behind which a hunter or two huddled. None of them were moving to find downed birds (I suspect they may have bumped their sights with the bottles of wine they drink to keep warm, throwing their shots wide...). And yes, the fields of fire from the bunkers must only have been a couple of metres above my head.
The rest of the day was spent smilling broadly at the spectacular views, and marvelling (again... this must be so borring for you all) that this is part of my work. Roncesvalles made for a grand site as the highest point was topped, the grey monastery walls standing out starkly against the autumnal forrests.
More on Spain soon.