gerardcarey
Veteran Member
- Time of past OR future Camino
- CFx2, CPx1
It’s all go in the dorm when I open my eyes at Orisson.
Folks dressing and busily packing. Setting a good example for me. My watch says 7am.
By 7.30 I’m downstairs eating breakfast.
Not very substantial, French breakfasts. Coffee with bread & jam.
After breakfast the girls at Orisson deliver my takeaway lunch. An apple and a bread roll filled with meat and cheese. That’s not enough to sustain me for a 6 or 7 hours walk.
Lucky I’ve got some leftover shrink-wrapped cake/bun things and a banana from yesterday. I’ll have to remember to continually keep a stock of tucker in my pack, for occasions when I get caught out like this, or for a picnic lunch.
I filled my water bottles, swung my pack on and headed off up the road.
It’s 8am. Slowly now Gerard. Quote the mantra.
“Head up! Shoulders back! Open your chest! Slow down! This is not a race!”
The gentle steady walking rhythm returned.
As I proceed I see the narrow road reaching upwards, way ahead, is peppered with earlier leavers. Some had left even before I woke. Before breakfast even!
It didn't seem to take long until I was thru the tree line and out onto those wide green treeless slopes across which are scattered the wild horses and black-faced sheep.
I think it was the first time I entered the zone.
The mind wanders. A strange conversation from months ago came to mind.
“You have considered the fact that you may perhaps be re-converted to Christianity on this pilgrimage trail?” my catholic friend had enquired. "Like get unlapsed?"
“How do you figure that?” I asked in reply.
“Happened to St Paul didn't it,” he said, “all alone on the road to Damascus. Bolts of lightning, fell off his horse, booming voice from the clouds, made him come to his senses quick smart didn't it? Could happen to you.”
That’s the thing about Catholics of my generation. Bit loose with their biblical facts.
Not surprising. Nobody I knew ever read the bible. We had a priest in a pulpit who had a direct clerical link to the Pope in Rome who was infallible in matters of faith and morals.
It was like, “don’t worry too much about that bible, we've got all that sorted.
All you have to do is what we tell you and you can’t go wrong.”
I laughingly think to keep a weather eye out for bolts of lightning. I mean if it was going to happen anywhere this was a likely spot right?
A toot from the rear makes me jump, brings me back to the present. Approaching is a shepherd in a little yellow car with his dogs hanging out the windows excitedly sniffing the air. The dogs give me a welcoming woof as they approach. I move further to the side. “Bon Camino,” the shepherd calls as he passes, then tootles away, up and over the next hill.
As forecast it was a nice fine day with a chilly wind. I stopped for 2nd breakfast and to admire the view at the Virgin’s statue. I left my pack and wandered about the hillsides for a while.
Onwards and upwards, stopping next at the coffee van for a strong sweet black, a boiled egg, and a chance to chat with fellow pilgrims, while sheltering from the now stiff wind behind the van. Lots of pilgrims arriving now, and in between customers the van man is tallying up the day’s numbers of each nationality on the side of his van with a felt pen.
Roland’s fountain is further on, the wind has dissipated now. Perhaps we are over the top.
On arrival, it’s time for a sit down and more food. I drink a toast from the fountain to Roland and check the kindle to see how the battle is going.
Then came the Saracen Valdabrun,
Of whom King Marsil was foster-son.
Four hundred galleys he owned at sea,
And of all the mariners lord was he.
Jerusalem erst he had falsely won,
Profaned the temple of Solomon,
Slaying the patriach at the fount.
Gramimond named he the steed he rode,
Swifter than ever was falcon’s flight;
Well did he prick with the sharp spurs bright,
To strike Duke Samson, the fearless knight.
Buckler and cuirass at once he rent,
And his pennon’s flaps through his body sent;
Dead he cast him, with levelled spear.
“Strike, ye heathens; their doom is near.”
The Franks cry woe for their cavalier.
Roland and his mates are not doing so good. The battle is turning.
I’m checking the cattle-stop adjacent to Roland’s fountain which apparently is the France/Spain border when up comes a bloke with an enormous pack. Must have been 15+ kilos and he wasn’t using his waist belt. Every 10 or so steps he pauses, bends forward and shuffles the pack up his back.
“G’day mate,” he said, ”the names Roger.” He’d be fifty-ish I guess.
“Hi Roger, Gerard.” We shake. “Bit of a tough pull up the hill?”
“Yes,” he said, “don’t know much about this hiking business. Was on the couch at home in Sydney two weeks ago when I read about this Camino thing. Phoned and bought my airline tickets on the spot, got my son’s old army pack out of the shed and here I am.”
I was well impressed.
“Well done!” I said, “but you do look somewhat oversupplied.”
Aussies usually don’t mind you getting straight to the point.
“Probably right,” he said, “People have been looking at me rather strangely.”
We discussed then repositioned his gear, and talked over the options of either dumping unnecessary stuff or posting it forward. I showed him how to set the pack weight on his hips, lock it in place with the waist belt, and then cinch it in to his shoulders.
A little further on and it’s not far apparently to where a chapel stood. A solitary monk tolled a bell at night to guide pilgrims thru the dark and the snow and the storms to safety.
As I walked along I scanned the slopes. I thought of the wolf packs that once roamed these hills, and of the lost pilgrim in the snow, as the pack closed in, and blood on the snow.
Just a short distance now to where the Way splits. The main path goes left, down thru a forest to Roncesvalles. An alternative route goes off to the right. It’s the way to go if it’s wet as the steepish forest path can be slippery and dangerous.
You don’t want to even chance an injury this early on your Camino.
But it’s a fine day so I’m heading down thru the forest into the ‘Valley of Thorns’ when the muscles controlling my two tin hips seize up.
I've plonked myself down to rest awhile when down the steepish forest path come two middle aged pilgrim ladies who stop to see if I’m ok. I explain my problem but tell them that after a short break I should be fine. However they absolutely insist on taking an arm each and frogmarching me the rest of the way down into Roncesvalles. I suspected, from both their manner and speech, that they were nuns, and confirmed this after they happily informed me that in payment I must accompany them to the pilgrim Mass that night. Of course I had to agree, but by the time we got accommodation sorted in the big new albergue, then showered and got the laundry done it was 6pm. Mass was at seven so dinner would have to wait.
“I don’t know about you gals,” I said, “but I have an hour to spare and a divil of a thirst. I’m off for a G&T and a beer chaser”.
“We’re coming too!” was the cheerful reply. We found a nice little bar where we consumed two beers each. My G&T came in a glass swimming pool and must have had 8 or 10 good measures of gin in it. Like the Guinness worker who fell into the vat, you could happily drown in it, although, I am reliably informed, he did climb out three times for a jimmy riddle.
The G&T was too big for me so I had to share it with the gals.
Mass was great, full house. Again I got frogmarched, up for the pilgrims blessing this time.
But, I’ve gotta tell you, I have never heard nuns sing so loudly or enthusiastically as I did that night.
May their God bless them.
Never saw them again.
On reviewing the day I recalled that I’d walked 17ish ks over the mountain from Orisson and sure I was tired. But that must equate to 20+ ks of a normal days walking.
So that’s just fine. Appears I'm fit enough to walk this Camino.
I was glad I had split the crossing of the Pyrenees into two stages. It enabled me to enjoy it more. And after all, isn't that what I’d come for?
As I lay in my bunk that 2nd night I realised that what lay ahead on the Camino Frances no longer held any fears for me. I was now pretty certain that I could handle whatever lay in store for me on the way to Santiago.
For the first time I could regard myself as a proper pilgrim.
Regards
Gerard
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the spreading
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
(Under the vine of the dark verandah)?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
Who hadn't got a penny,
And who weren't paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the Din?
And the Hip! Hop! Hap!
Of the clap
Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl
Of the girl gone chancing,
Glancing,
Dancing,
Backing and advancing,
Snapping of a clapper to the spin
Out and in --
And the Ting, Tong, Tang, of the Guitar.
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
Never more;
Miranda,
Never more.
Only the high peaks hoar:
And Aragon a torrent at the door.
No sound
In the walls of the Halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground
No sound:
But the boom
Of the far Waterfall like Doom.
TARANTELLA ~ Hilaire Belloc
The inn in the High Pyrenees referred to in the poem is the inn at Canfranc, a small mountain village in the valley of the River Aragon, before Jacca on the Camino Aragones. This is where Belloc met Miranda Mackintosh in 1909.
20 years later, in 1929, he completed the poem and gave it to her as a present.
And to you and me.
Many thanks to our forum member annakappa who reminded me of the poem.
Back to Part 1 of "Tenderly Over the Mountain".......St Jean to Orisson.
Folks dressing and busily packing. Setting a good example for me. My watch says 7am.
By 7.30 I’m downstairs eating breakfast.
Not very substantial, French breakfasts. Coffee with bread & jam.
After breakfast the girls at Orisson deliver my takeaway lunch. An apple and a bread roll filled with meat and cheese. That’s not enough to sustain me for a 6 or 7 hours walk.
Lucky I’ve got some leftover shrink-wrapped cake/bun things and a banana from yesterday. I’ll have to remember to continually keep a stock of tucker in my pack, for occasions when I get caught out like this, or for a picnic lunch.
I filled my water bottles, swung my pack on and headed off up the road.
It’s 8am. Slowly now Gerard. Quote the mantra.
“Head up! Shoulders back! Open your chest! Slow down! This is not a race!”
The gentle steady walking rhythm returned.
As I proceed I see the narrow road reaching upwards, way ahead, is peppered with earlier leavers. Some had left even before I woke. Before breakfast even!
It didn't seem to take long until I was thru the tree line and out onto those wide green treeless slopes across which are scattered the wild horses and black-faced sheep.
I think it was the first time I entered the zone.
The mind wanders. A strange conversation from months ago came to mind.
“You have considered the fact that you may perhaps be re-converted to Christianity on this pilgrimage trail?” my catholic friend had enquired. "Like get unlapsed?"
“How do you figure that?” I asked in reply.
“Happened to St Paul didn't it,” he said, “all alone on the road to Damascus. Bolts of lightning, fell off his horse, booming voice from the clouds, made him come to his senses quick smart didn't it? Could happen to you.”
That’s the thing about Catholics of my generation. Bit loose with their biblical facts.
Not surprising. Nobody I knew ever read the bible. We had a priest in a pulpit who had a direct clerical link to the Pope in Rome who was infallible in matters of faith and morals.
It was like, “don’t worry too much about that bible, we've got all that sorted.
All you have to do is what we tell you and you can’t go wrong.”
I laughingly think to keep a weather eye out for bolts of lightning. I mean if it was going to happen anywhere this was a likely spot right?
A toot from the rear makes me jump, brings me back to the present. Approaching is a shepherd in a little yellow car with his dogs hanging out the windows excitedly sniffing the air. The dogs give me a welcoming woof as they approach. I move further to the side. “Bon Camino,” the shepherd calls as he passes, then tootles away, up and over the next hill.
As forecast it was a nice fine day with a chilly wind. I stopped for 2nd breakfast and to admire the view at the Virgin’s statue. I left my pack and wandered about the hillsides for a while.
Onwards and upwards, stopping next at the coffee van for a strong sweet black, a boiled egg, and a chance to chat with fellow pilgrims, while sheltering from the now stiff wind behind the van. Lots of pilgrims arriving now, and in between customers the van man is tallying up the day’s numbers of each nationality on the side of his van with a felt pen.
Roland’s fountain is further on, the wind has dissipated now. Perhaps we are over the top.
On arrival, it’s time for a sit down and more food. I drink a toast from the fountain to Roland and check the kindle to see how the battle is going.
Then came the Saracen Valdabrun,
Of whom King Marsil was foster-son.
Four hundred galleys he owned at sea,
And of all the mariners lord was he.
Jerusalem erst he had falsely won,
Profaned the temple of Solomon,
Slaying the patriach at the fount.
Gramimond named he the steed he rode,
Swifter than ever was falcon’s flight;
Well did he prick with the sharp spurs bright,
To strike Duke Samson, the fearless knight.
Buckler and cuirass at once he rent,
And his pennon’s flaps through his body sent;
Dead he cast him, with levelled spear.
“Strike, ye heathens; their doom is near.”
The Franks cry woe for their cavalier.
Roland and his mates are not doing so good. The battle is turning.
I’m checking the cattle-stop adjacent to Roland’s fountain which apparently is the France/Spain border when up comes a bloke with an enormous pack. Must have been 15+ kilos and he wasn’t using his waist belt. Every 10 or so steps he pauses, bends forward and shuffles the pack up his back.
“G’day mate,” he said, ”the names Roger.” He’d be fifty-ish I guess.
“Hi Roger, Gerard.” We shake. “Bit of a tough pull up the hill?”
“Yes,” he said, “don’t know much about this hiking business. Was on the couch at home in Sydney two weeks ago when I read about this Camino thing. Phoned and bought my airline tickets on the spot, got my son’s old army pack out of the shed and here I am.”
I was well impressed.
“Well done!” I said, “but you do look somewhat oversupplied.”
Aussies usually don’t mind you getting straight to the point.
“Probably right,” he said, “People have been looking at me rather strangely.”
We discussed then repositioned his gear, and talked over the options of either dumping unnecessary stuff or posting it forward. I showed him how to set the pack weight on his hips, lock it in place with the waist belt, and then cinch it in to his shoulders.
A little further on and it’s not far apparently to where a chapel stood. A solitary monk tolled a bell at night to guide pilgrims thru the dark and the snow and the storms to safety.
As I walked along I scanned the slopes. I thought of the wolf packs that once roamed these hills, and of the lost pilgrim in the snow, as the pack closed in, and blood on the snow.
Just a short distance now to where the Way splits. The main path goes left, down thru a forest to Roncesvalles. An alternative route goes off to the right. It’s the way to go if it’s wet as the steepish forest path can be slippery and dangerous.
You don’t want to even chance an injury this early on your Camino.
But it’s a fine day so I’m heading down thru the forest into the ‘Valley of Thorns’ when the muscles controlling my two tin hips seize up.
I've plonked myself down to rest awhile when down the steepish forest path come two middle aged pilgrim ladies who stop to see if I’m ok. I explain my problem but tell them that after a short break I should be fine. However they absolutely insist on taking an arm each and frogmarching me the rest of the way down into Roncesvalles. I suspected, from both their manner and speech, that they were nuns, and confirmed this after they happily informed me that in payment I must accompany them to the pilgrim Mass that night. Of course I had to agree, but by the time we got accommodation sorted in the big new albergue, then showered and got the laundry done it was 6pm. Mass was at seven so dinner would have to wait.
“I don’t know about you gals,” I said, “but I have an hour to spare and a divil of a thirst. I’m off for a G&T and a beer chaser”.
“We’re coming too!” was the cheerful reply. We found a nice little bar where we consumed two beers each. My G&T came in a glass swimming pool and must have had 8 or 10 good measures of gin in it. Like the Guinness worker who fell into the vat, you could happily drown in it, although, I am reliably informed, he did climb out three times for a jimmy riddle.
The G&T was too big for me so I had to share it with the gals.
Mass was great, full house. Again I got frogmarched, up for the pilgrims blessing this time.
But, I’ve gotta tell you, I have never heard nuns sing so loudly or enthusiastically as I did that night.
May their God bless them.
Never saw them again.
On reviewing the day I recalled that I’d walked 17ish ks over the mountain from Orisson and sure I was tired. But that must equate to 20+ ks of a normal days walking.
So that’s just fine. Appears I'm fit enough to walk this Camino.
I was glad I had split the crossing of the Pyrenees into two stages. It enabled me to enjoy it more. And after all, isn't that what I’d come for?
As I lay in my bunk that 2nd night I realised that what lay ahead on the Camino Frances no longer held any fears for me. I was now pretty certain that I could handle whatever lay in store for me on the way to Santiago.
For the first time I could regard myself as a proper pilgrim.
Regards
Gerard
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the spreading
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
(Under the vine of the dark verandah)?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
Who hadn't got a penny,
And who weren't paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the Din?
And the Hip! Hop! Hap!
Of the clap
Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl
Of the girl gone chancing,
Glancing,
Dancing,
Backing and advancing,
Snapping of a clapper to the spin
Out and in --
And the Ting, Tong, Tang, of the Guitar.
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
Never more;
Miranda,
Never more.
Only the high peaks hoar:
And Aragon a torrent at the door.
No sound
In the walls of the Halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground
No sound:
But the boom
Of the far Waterfall like Doom.
TARANTELLA ~ Hilaire Belloc
The inn in the High Pyrenees referred to in the poem is the inn at Canfranc, a small mountain village in the valley of the River Aragon, before Jacca on the Camino Aragones. This is where Belloc met Miranda Mackintosh in 1909.
20 years later, in 1929, he completed the poem and gave it to her as a present.
And to you and me.
Many thanks to our forum member annakappa who reminded me of the poem.
Back to Part 1 of "Tenderly Over the Mountain".......St Jean to Orisson.
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for my own camino. and fear i wont get the whole story before go.
