Camino de Santiago Day 2: Roncesvalles to Zubiri
A totally different day to yesterday: leave in the dark, mostly flat, rocky trails through woods, raining. But we're pilgrims now, and we're all starting to find our own rhythm.
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I was even more excited for Day 2 than I was for Day 1, because the first day is not the real start
Although when planning a trip you’re aware that there will be many days ahead, whether three or thirty or three hundred, it’s impossible to think past day 1.
You might think you’re anticipating the trip as a whole, or you might even be planning out your itinerary meticulously day-by-day, but you cannot envisage what lies beyond the first day – all of your mental energy and attention goes into that first experience; even if consciously you’re aware that there are other days deep down you know there is only one,
Because that first day changes everything.
And everything on that day is a confirmation or rejection of all your preconceptions and expectations for the trip as a whole.
It is only when you’ve completed the first day and had a chance to examine who you are in this new world of Elsewhere that you can then pause to reassess the rest going forward.
So it is on the Camino.
The first day is the one everyone’s talking about. It’s a big one to be fair, a jaw-dropper. Over the mountains, nothing else like it on the Camino. Two countries one day, tough stuff, fair play, and so on, and so forth.
Anyone can show up and do the first day
No-one’s talking about Day Two.
All your mental energy goes into Day 1. Getting there and getting it done. You feel a sense of achievement for getting through it comparable to the feeling of finishing the whole trip.
And then you’ve to reconsider everything you were expecting.
The map is not the territory.
Your mind has to adjust to the new world you’ve entered, navigating from your old self at Home through the deceptive trickery of your expectations before finding itself in its new world
It is only on the second day I would really get a taste for the Camino, without the naive expectations that precede the trip – more fantasy than anything, based on internet rumours and the incommunicable ‘wisdom’ of others – as Thoreau boldly declared at the start of Walden (something along the lines of): I have never learned anything worth knowing from another person.
But now with a full day’s experience under my belt and in my boots, including any tiredness or aches and pains that had accrued on my body,
I’m a real pilgrim now
With my own scars to show and stories to tell.
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In Roncesvalles I check into my accommodation, a vast refurbished monastery which now houses an alburgue – a pilgrim hostel but usually with a far greater capacity, some of them have hundreds of beds in large dormitories spread over multiple floors, like this one – a church and a hotel. Pilgrims roam the grounds of the monastery like college students on campus.
On the way to a nearby cafe I hear some dramatic gothic-sounding organ playing coming from the church, so I pop in out of the sun for a few minutes to sit and enjoy it. I consider the offer of mass later, but my pilgrim’s dinner I’ve booked for later is clashing with it.
I think at this early stage some physical nutrition is more important to me than spiritual nourishment.
I get chatting to Florian from Germany who I’d already met inside – he’s sleeping in the bed opposite me. He’s done the Camino before, and despite waking up every morning for the first week genuinely questioning if he could continue walking, completed the whole route to Santiago, losing 20kg along the way, and by which time he felt like if you’d told him he’d have to walk the whole way home to Germany, he’d do it with a relish.
He suggested that you get stronger as you walk, not more tired, and there seemed to be something about achieving your goal day after day for several weeks that invigorated the body, mind and spirit. I wasn’t dreading walking tomorrow – yet – though his enthusiasm for the journey as a whole rubbed off on me. Already I was intrigued to see how the journey would affect me along the way.
Dinner later is an enjoyable introduction to the Camino: I’m seated at a table with 8 strangers from 7 different countries. Such dinners are commonly found along the way, and serve as a good way to meet new people, or get to know better ones you’ve met along the road that day.
Bed-time is early by my usual standards, though we’ve more walking to do tomorrow.
My other bunk-mate asks me what time I’m thinking of getting up in the morning
“Ah, early enough I’d say – about 6?”
“6 is not early” comes the rather stern reply.
Oh sorry, my bad – mid-morning so, I guess?
At 6am we’re woken up by the staff: lights on, the sound of monks chanting and hospitaleros going around shouting:
“Wake up, the sun is shining, the birds are singing”
I get dressed, go outside and it’s pitch black and pissing rain. There are no birds.
It’s time to leave anyway. I’m on the road a bit earlier today: ten to seven.
I put my headlamp on and make my way through a nice forest trail; I can deal with the rain but I don’t see the point of walking in the dark.
It’s a totally different experience today: fairly flat, farms and forest trails, and instead of the glorious sunshine that invited us over the mountains yesterday it’s overcast and raining. There’ll be more rain to come so might as well get used to it
I stop at the first next village of Burguete for what would become a regular Camino breakfast: a croissant (usually a chocolatey one) and a coffee. Large groups of local workers sit around chatting, drinking coffee and enjoying breakfast. They seem in no rush to head to work, though it is Saturday. Even more impressive so – up before the crack of dawn to head into town to meet the fellas.
As I leave I see Florian catching up to me, so decide to walk with him for a bit, even though he’s going a bit slower than me. He plans to take six or seven weeks to do the Camino, if he must. I enjoy the company and I also have some stiff bits after yesterday.
Florian tells me that in the first few days people are still settling in, they haven’t found their rhythm yet and are testing the waters in everything they do; it’s only after Pamplona that the true spirit of openness on the Camino begins to reveal itself as people begin to relax into the trip, becoming more comfortable in their new home. Although friendly and open-minded now, the magic of the Camino would only reveal itself when people have accepted their new state of being and fully embraced the trip.
I read that in 1923 Ernest Hemingway signed his name on a piano in the Hostal Burguete, where he used to be a regular guest. Coming up the street I keep an eye out for it but have forgotten it by the time we pass it. Instead I take a photo of a plaque over a doorway that reads ‘1798’ – I tell Florian it means something in Ireland, but was probably unrelated.
Florian asks me about the Gaelic language and I explain a bit until I get bored of listening to myself.
Eventually we part ways and I go back to my own walking pace.
I stop at a country café with other pilgrims, starting to recognise faces, all of us wishing each other hello and buen camino though not much else. Local men enjoy omelettes for breakfast with glasses of red wine.
In every village I pass the buildings are immaculately preserved and white-washed clean, though I see few people. A police officer steers me the right direction from his car. Funny to think now I was still getting used to spotting the yellow arrows and Camino pillars which guide the way, spotting them becomes a sixth sense after a while, though on the Camino Frances it’s rarely difficult.
It's hard to make conversation today when everyone is buried under a poncho or has the hood up. It’s wet anyway – I’d rather just get there. If yesterday I walked quickly for myself then today I’m walking quickly to get out of the rain.
Cowbell calypso bands play in fields. A horde of dogs barking as I approach a village, then the sound of gunfire, followed quickly by the scattering of birds. Hunting season, I presume.
I get to Zubiri about half past 12, consider going further but I see a queue of people going into an alburgue, and next thing I know I’ve joined it and checked in. I notice that alburgues are not just for the youth – pilgrims of all ages are not above sleeping in rooms with ten or twenty other people.
I wake from a lengthy nap to sunshine and a local roller-blading event, glad that I stopped as I can see now I needed the rest. In any case, my destination tomorrow is going to be Pamplona no matter how far I walked today. Better to rest up early and often.
Over the afternoon I do some writing outside a cafe, enjoy some pintxos and make some friends.
Tomorrow I reach Pamplona, which some call the real gateway to the Camino Frances.
We’re pilgrims now, but we’re still finding our feet.
If you’ve done the Camino, are thinking of doing it, or are just interested in discussing the Camino or travel in general - then please leave a comment! I’d love to hear from you.