Day 31: Aroue to Larcevaux

The Basque-ish welcome offered by the tractor man is harsh

His angry fists and angry stick do stop a pilgrim’s march

Ostabat historical, the junction of the Way

In modern times a quietude has come upon this place

27 May 2024, Monday

Distance hiked 27.7km (17.2m)

Ascent 1,135m

There was flooding on the road blocking the Chemin a kilometre or two from the gîte we left this morning. A farmer, frustrated with something or other (flooding? tax? the EU? foreigners? Take your pick, I don’t care), has barraged a water course in his field and now it makes the road a covered causeway. We were told about this and offered a diversion that cut a km or two, at the expense of some extra road walking, from today’s hike. Almost everyone, myself included, took the diversion, but Vincent and Marie went the true and faithful pilgrimage route. Marie is the most prepared person I’ve ever met: they have wet water shoes and towels to dry off with, so wading through what was described as a few dozen meters up to 30cm deep held little fear for them.

This is a well-kept example of a very typical Basque property, whitewashed with russet-red woodwork

We agreed to meet up for lunch, as we now had some combined provisions shared among us, and would stay in touch by WhatsApp for that purpose, and off I set, returning 2 minutes later to collect my forgotten walking poles. And off I set, again, at 8am.

At 8.05 I was walking on the left of the road, as one should, into Aroue, when I could see up the straight hill in front of me a tractor start to trundle down it. Behind the tractor were four cars lining up to overtake. You’d better anticipate this matey, thought I to the farmer driving the tractor, and signal to pull out, for otherwise they’ll trap you and you’ll have to slow or stop. I had nowhere to go as a walker other than to dive into the ditch. I kept a steady metre into the road to avoid the farmer trying to achieve a Simon-Tractor-Car triple decker lateral squeeze on this quite narrow road. That didn’t work. First one car, then the others, overtook the tractor and he went past me, neither slowing nor stopping, with a foot to spare. He had a bloody great trailer, too. Unbelievably this selfish amoeba-brain shook his fist at me in anger as he went past, having nearly squashed me, presumably to say I should have jumped off the road to have avoided this. I returned the favour with my middle finger and thought no more of it. Until a further 5 minutes later a shabby old Audi screamed past me, screeching to a halt just in front of me and amoeba-brain leapt out with a big stick, shouting at me. What an angry man. He was scrawny (badly dressed and ugly too, I might add, but that would be pettily emphasising the different economic outcomes that our life-starts have afforded us) so I reckon I’d have had him in a fight, I honestly do, for I am quite strong and, when needed, not afraid to use aggression. But I didn’t want one. Thirty days into this wonderful walk, and having been through so much and made friends and spoken to so many people with mind-opening thoughts and experiences, I was feeling quite Zen. I didn’t want aggression. Besides, this was his ’hood, and as he explicitly said to me “don’t think that I’m alone”. He was seething with anger, and I just walked on. He didn’t attack me, perhaps because this was by a bus stop and there were people milling. But he shouted he’d see me later and pulled off again. I sped up to try to close the distance between me and a couple of pilgrims I could see ahead.

And after I turned left onto a quieter road, sure enough there was the scrawny, irate lump of stranger-hating bile, who I now saw walked with a slight limp. I hoped this explained his large wooden stick. He again threatened me and aggressed me verbally and I called ahead to the pilgrims who were now in earshot – they turned and I continued towards them and kept my body tense for an attack. But happily it didn’t come, perhaps again because there were witnesses, or perhaps because this sack of horse manure shouting at me either didn’t want a fight himself or could see I was neither scared of him nor scared of a confrontation. But god forbid I had been a petite single female. The man needed driving lessons, anger management lessons, and a cautionary month in a police cell to reflect on his way in life.

On a very dank day, the best photo I could take was looking down on a steep climb. Just before this, I could see Josse passing the white wall in the far distance at the top left, splintering off to St Palais

Other than that, this is a day of walking that, from my recollection of five years ago, is one of the most stunning before the Pyrenees. But we were deeply unlucky this day, for there was thick cloud cover and rain almost the whole day. Nothing could be seen, even after a climb that felt like 500 meters of elevation (but got us to a point saying 291m high!) with a “table d’orientation” – one of those plateau signs that draw the images of peaks and valleys in front of you so you can identify and name the landscape you see – ironically looming lonely out of the fog. A good part of this walk is also off the road too, which was nice, but it was a real shame that after an unfortunate start it couldn’t deliver the aesthetic compensation that would have evened it all out.

At one point I caught up with Josse – the great lumbering 6-foot-5 hulk of gallic charm – and we walked together for several miles. He is fast on the flat, with legs that probably go up to my chest, but I’m far faster than him on the hills. Never mind, we walked very amiably together till we got to a point where he splintered off to the right, to St Palais off the Chemin and breaking what for me was two days into three to reach St Jean.

I didn’t get the opportunity to have lunch with Vincent and Marie-Pierre: we accordioned to a brief meet at a bench in a town where I’d taken a break but was just leaving as they caught up (it was before noon, in any event) so we agreed we would meet up at their destination, the boulangerie/grocery/gîte in Ostabat-Asme, for our picnic.

I arrived before them and it was just deeply, deeply wet. As I arrived I saw a much older French couple leaving and in exchanging brief words with them learned they were going on another 4km from Ostabat to the Hotel Espelletenia in Larcevaux, same as me. They were provisioning and I explained the hotel, while the kitchen closed early on a Monday, would prepare a meal for them if they booked in advance (as I had arranged for myself). But that evening I didn’t see them there, though their presence became felt a little later.

But I enjoyed my picnic and shared pichet of wine with Vincent and Marie-Pierre. Another couple joined us, and it turned out to be the pilgrims I’d called out to that morning. They’d seen the encounter but the angry sack of shit (they’d just thought “the farmer”) had told them he was waiting for someone so when they heard me call out they’d thought it was in joyous friendship with a mate! Of course, if I’d continued calling out in distress they would have come to my aid, and they did so confirm.

I left Ostabat and reflected on how bleak a place it seemed to be. There are a pair of pigs in a back garden on the way out of town that I remember from 5 years ago (given what they’re for, I regrettably doubt it’s the same pigs). They seemed to be munching away just awaiting slaughter, so sad was the atmosphere. How lonely. How Basque.

On to Hotel Espelletenia in Larcevaux, yet another Logis hotel. As I’ve mentioned I wouldn’t be able to eat here but food would be prepared and left in a fridge in a small dining room with a microwave for heating up. It turned out to be very tasty, and wine was provided too.

I ate the meal with a pair of Germans, Anja and Josef, whom I liked a great deal. They spoke better English than my German (though we dabbled a little in German, so I could practise it). They were very well educated and very well informed about the local history – I think it was they who told me that Ostabat at its height in the middle ages had up to 5,000 pilgrims a day passing through it. Five thousand a day! This was just incredible to hear, when I think back to a single shop, a couple of gîtes and the only thing moving being the sad little pigs. I mentioned this later to Vincent and he said he’d read that in the mid-fourteenth century there were 21 gîtes, 3 hotels and the supporting infrastructure (presumably inns, restaurants and brothels, though given the devoutness of the clientele maybe not this last). This is because Ostabat is the confluence village of three of the four traditional French “Ways” (from Paris, from Vézelay, and from Le Puy) that join up to the Camino at Roncevaux / Roncesvalles. The fourth option, from Arles, crosses the Pyrenees at a different point and doesn’t go through St Jean or Ostabat.

Anja and Josef had walked from Germany, over several trips, to join the Vézelay route. They walked 35km a day on average which is huge, though they said it’s far flatter than the Le Puy route. And because it’s less pilgrimy the accommodation options are fewer and further between, necessitating longer days. They reckoned in 2 or 3 weeks on the trail they’d only met 8 or 9 other pilgrims. At the height of my trip I think I was meeting that many per hour.

I got on with them, at one point asking what they did in “real life”. “Guess”, said Josef. I made a first, honest guess at teachers, for they were serious, educated, polite and well informed. “No: people are scared of us”; “Tax inspectors?” I said immediately; no, that wasn’t it either. “Police?”. Nope: “It’s something medical”.

Ah, they were dentists and had a combined practice near Dortmund (that one of their sons, keeping it in the family, was looking after in their abscess, sorry absence). We discussed Roncevaux and they hadn’t yet decided whether to go there the day after tomorrow.

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