The Pyrenees, day 1

Day 1, St. Jean Pied de Port to Orisson

Who knew a bed could matter so much? It wasn’t the walking, it wasn’t the hunger. It was our sleeping accommodations on the first night that put me over the edge. I’ve stayed in many “humble” abodes. But there is a line, and I had found it.

The day started late. I woke up to the sure signs of a bladder infection. Knowing we were setting out to cross the Pyrenees I wasn’t about to “hang in there” and see if it resolved on it’s own. For one thing, they don’t. For another thing, they don’t. We found a small clinic in town with a French doctor (imagine that) and a 1:00pm appointment, delaying our departure for hours. This created a conundrum.

The prospect of leaving so late in the day was far from optimal, especially crossing a mountain range, and would likely result in us walking in the dark. Despite being in Spain in July, evening temperatures were dropping into the 40’s in the higher elevations. But we had a reservation at an alburge at the end of this first stage and it was the only game in town for food and a bed in the middle of the Pyrenees. Orisson as it is known, was booked and rescheduling to the next day wasn’t likely. Further more, leaving a day late would have a domino effect on an already tight time line. When scheduling, Sandy forgot to take into account the extra three days of walking from Santiago de Compostela to Finesterra, where we would see the Atlantic Ocean after walking 550kms across Spain.

So I took the antibiotic and off we went, starting our walk, that really started with a hike.

8kms of steep mountainous hiking on well managed trails later, we arrived at Orisson late, but just in time for dinner being served in a bustling, rustic hall. After eating, as late arrivals, or at least this is how it goes in my head, all the usual rooms designed for human occupancy were already filled, and we were taken to what I am imagining was an over-flow below-grade bunker that sure, is better than sleeping out side without any camping provisions, including a sleeping bag.

The 15” x 25” room had five bunk beds end to end for 10 people. The choice for storing belongings like your back pack, your shoes, your anything valuable, was either on your bed or on the cold, wet floor in this unheated room. There were no windows, the ceiling height was about 8 feet. The white tile of the floors was also on the walls and not surprising, cold and wet with condensation. The single bathroom for the occupants had a door, but the light was out, there was no seat on the toilet, and most decided to forgo their privacy in favor of being able to see what they were aiming for, so left the door open.

Sandy has walked the Camino de Santiago numerous times but this time is different. He is writing a guide book which requires extra gear, including cameras and a lap top. After a day or “stage,” he writes about the walk which requires being able to sit up. Usually this means he would take the top of a bunk, but with the ceiling height so low it was unmanagable and I took the top, accessible via a functional yet not exactly foot-friendly tubular metal ladder.

The miracle one-shot wonder UTI antibiotic given to me by the charming French doctor had an unusual effect. It was like a purge, and the reference to race horses is fair as the amount coming out of my bladder constantly defied what I had actually had to drink, all night long, resulting in many trips to the throne. Wrangling myself out of my sleeping bag in my three foot crawl space of a bed without bashing my head or disrupting my belongings that were carefully placed where they would not get wet or stolen, going down the tubular medal ladder, finding my flip flops and negotiating the slippery, cold wet floor in the pitch dark to the no-privacy toilet which had now run out of toilet paper, making it back up the medal ladder without waking Sandy, and then attempting to warm back up after the damp cold of the room had permeated my bare nether regions while sitting on the freezing steel seatless toilet, repeatedly, was too much.

Shivering in my dank, crawl-space bunk in the the dark, with sleep avoiding the hostile environment in my head, I decided that was it. If this is what the Camino de Santiago had to offer for accommodations for the next 5 weeks, I’m out. Easy enough to catch a plane back home. All I had to do was make it to dawn, face a room of noisy, excited pilgrims all happily seated together for breakfast, and break the news to Sandy. Did I mention I’m an introvert?

I’m not sure why my unflappable husband wouldn’t acknowledge how bad the below grade bunker was, other than he is unflappable. He was also in his element. Nothing makes him happier than being on camino, waking up and immediately interacting with dozens of soon to be friends. Did I mention he’s an extrovert?

It took two rounds of coffee and Debbie Downer here to puncture his high. When he finally acknowledged the situation wasn’t up to even low standards, I was over it. I knew at that moment better beds laid ahead. He’d make sure of it.

Moral of the Story? Don’t get a UTI.

See below for photos of the day, including proof of the bunker.

Much of the walk, that is really a hike, is on a grade like this.

Toto, we are not on the Via di Franscesco anymore. A vending machine on the side of the trail in the Pyrenees in it’s own little hut. The first indication of the extent of the impressive infrastructure that supports the Camino de Santiago.

Cantina selling much appreciated provisions for pilgrims.

What my heart looked like going over the Pyrenees, day 1.

Uh, did we take a wrong turn? I reluctantly took this photo and never intended to use it. Looking at it now I can see; yep. Not exaggerating.

The Pyrenees, day 2

The Beginning

Theresa Elliott