WHEN WALKING

Home to Santiago – Day 44

Bayonne to Saint-Jean-de-Luz: 26km

The group is divided very neatly into those who snored and those who stayed awake because of the snoring. But a cup of coffee later, it’s amazing how you can just carry on.

We have breakfast together and exchange a few names. The people going on the Camino Baztan to Pamplona leave first, the two Dutch women, Annelies and her aunt, who has the advantage of being able to switch off her hearing aids at night, and one of the louder snorers, Hubert, the Argentinian. The non-snoring Catalan leaves early, followed by the loudly snoring Andalusian. They’re going our way, so we get one each. Finally, I leave with Mickey, a handily tall Dutch guy, who has walked from Paris, mainly with hotels. It is something of a baptism of fire.

And so I have another sociable morning walk. Mickey seems to have a similar motivation for walking to me. He likes walking and just seeing what happens. He also, I’m very glad to discover, gets excited by the sight of the first boulangerie-pâtisserie, and we sit down by the road with coffee and pastries.

Mickey is also keeping a blog. Mickey also regrets not taking a photograph of breakfast.

I take us accidentally on a shortcut by the airport. One great highlight is seeing a Ryanair plane landing right in front of us, but we slowly make our way, with instructions from locals, towards some nice wooded lakes and a prettier way out of town.

While walking through one of these woods, we see Jesus, the Andalucian, walking towards us, telling us we’re going the wrong way. We’re not. And now we are three, walking into the outskirts of Biarritz.

As we enter the city limits, we see a campsite, a bar and a shop. All three of us linger in the shop to enjoy the air conditioning of the shop, before coming outside to drink. The appearance of a string of dinosaurs emerging from the campsite and entering the shop, while singing the theme tune to Jurassic Park is one of the strangest camino bonding moments.

So we carry on companionably until we come to a fork in the road, at which point I decide I want to do the pointless detour because I like watching surfers. The guys, slightly surprised by my decision, walk the other way. Much as I love company, the walk always comes first.

Even then, my plans will be interfered with.

I leave the beach, having enjoyed watching the surfers, ice cream in hand. There is something beautiful about them. It is almost walking on water.

By the main road, a man stops me in my tracks and, for a good ten minutes, tries to persuade me that the coastal route is no good for the English or the Irish. It’s much too hot. It is very hot. I am wishing he had stopped me in the shade.

“It’s okay if you come from Andalusia,” he tells me.

Which is strange, because the only person who’s complained about the heat so far is Jésus.

I agree that I will sit down at the first opportunity, look at my map, and replan my entire trip based on his advice.

“You have to go inland. It’s twenty degrees up in the mountains. Much better for the English and the Irish. It’s where I come from.”

To be honest, this is the route I wanted to take. But time, Brexit time limits, have decided otherwise, and I must return to the ‘awful’ coastal path.

Sitting at the beach bar at another plage, the barman spares me the minimum necessary friendliness or courtesy. As little Jimmy Somerville sings insistently, Run away, run away, run away, I can’t help thinking, firstly, how strange a contrast between the video of the song, British Rail trains, grey days, the sad, pasty young man – and the place where I am now.

But it does feel as though he’s trying to tell me something. Perhaps I do belong with the pasty types up in the mountains. Maybe the old man on the road was right.

It’s getting hotter and hotter. The humidity must be 100%.

I walk past some snack-bar trucks, then walk back past them again, having gone the wrong way and cursing every extra step, when I hear a voice calling my name. It’s Jésus, suffering in the heat even more than me. Mickey has left him behind because he was too slow and there was a football match to watch.

So I accompany him, with as many breaks as he wants and as much shade as we can find, all the way into Saint-Jean-de-Luz.

It’s a beautiful entry, despite our exhaustion and he kindly waits while I order a lemon sorbet on the waterfront.

“It’s blue,” the man says.

“I don’t care,” I reply.

We find the albergue in a little courtyard, with the strictest French hospitalera I’ve ever met. A Catalan woman called Montsi, short for Montserrat: tiny, full of life, with a deep, gravelly voice from the homegrown tobacco she smokes, translates for her into Spanish, brilliantly conveying the sternness of the instructions.

“You must be back by ten, or you will be locked out on the street.”

Later, when we ask what time the lights go out, she tells us, “Ten o’clock. But a good pilgrim is asleep by nine.”

But it’s a beautiful hostel, on the first floor above a huge courtyard, with a veranda. The town is stunning and the atmosphere is friendly and fun. Yves, walking with his brother, Bruno and cousin, Michel, helps me make the bed. I go for a peek at the church and a beer with Montse, Ivan, the other Catalan, Jésus and Lithuanian Paul. With great pride, I introduce the group to Monacos.

Finally, on my last night in France, I have become sophisticated.