As the saying goes, “The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” but let’s not kid ourselves – sometimes the hardest part is just getting to the starting line. In my case, the journey to even begin the Camino Frances has its own lore. Most years, my dad would dutifully drive me to the airport because he knows I'll never make it to the altar, but this year I took pity on him and let him lie at home on the couch.
My epic journey began with a bus ride to Ljubljana, where I squeezed in a visit to a friend (because who can resist?), followed by a FlixBus to Venice, and then a flight to Paris. From there, I hopped on a plane to Paris, where airport security decided it was their turn to cause chaos. My “house” – my lovingly packed backpack – was ripped apart and left looking like it had been ransacked by a wild animal. Clearly, my military-patterned bag was too much for them. A tradition, it seems, as no Camino trip of mine is complete without this little ritual.
Sleep on the plane? Don’t be silly. Between my head flopping like a malfunctioning bobblehead and the charming addition of drool, the experience was less “restful travel” and more “public humiliation at 30,000 feet.”
The plan was simple: catch up on sleep during the FlixBus ride. But fate had other ideas in the form of Stanley, a chatty fellow passenger, who had obviously had a bit too much to drink in Ljubljana sat down next to me. Stanley's pitch? That I should abandon my current life, move to Africa with him, and dedicate myself to cooking and cleaning in his household. I couldn’t tell if he was joking or deadly serious, but his confidence was unmatched. He clearly had a good sense of humour, so I let him sit next to me to entertain me with his statements and ideas. He didn't stop until the airport, and he kept on whistling at my four hours of sleep.
When I finally landed in Biarritz, I was running on fumes, nearly 30 hours into a sleepless slog. Enter Gro, greeting me with hugs and a plan. We’d originally decided to take a taxi from there to Bayonne and the SPDP, where the Path begins. But after a quick look at Uber, we opted for the car ride instead.
Our Uber driver had other ideas. The entire ride was a one-man radio show, with him chatting non-stop on the phone. We heard the whole conversation but understood nothing. Maybe better. That's why we ended up giving it a 4-star rating, even though the ride was wonderful and the car was clean. The French really don't know how to shut up. They're fucking annoying.
When we finally arrived at the start, we first stopped at the accommodation we had booked at home and left our house (read: backpack) there, then headed out for a well-earned food. Over a lousy beer, Gro dropped a bombshell: she needed to be back home by the 23rd, not the 27th as planned. This meant shaving two days off our schedule and upping the daily mileage from 33 km to 35 km. “What’s two extra kilometres a day?” you might ask. Well, after 23 days of relentless sun and aching feet, it’s the difference between “challenging” and “completely insane.” So we quickly went to bed, because by then I had already had 40 sleepless hours and I was already seeing double and blurry.
The next day, we set out bright and early, facing a gruelling 25 km hike straight over the Pyrenees. No warm-up on flat terrain, no gentle easing into the rhythm – just an immediate uphill battle, which is a problem for me, as I need some flat ground to warm up so I don't suffer on the hill.
Gro, my partner in this madness, is a 50-year-old lawyer with a razor-sharp wit and a mane of curly hair. We met last year on the Camino Primitivo, when my lack of planning left me stranded in a creepy, rundown albergue. Since I am more of a free spirit and don't like to be tied down, I didn't book accommodations on the Camino Primitivo and so on the first day I had to walk much further than planned, as all the accommodations were taken. I found this albergue on the Camino app, but it was only a little far from the path. The path took me uphill and didn't let up. When I finally got there, the place seemed deserted and a little scary. I was the first to notice and I admit that my thoughts were not exactly positive. Since I have a very vivid imagination, my thoughts took me to the dark side...what if no hikers come here and I stay here alone...people can be corrupt here in the middle of nowhere and I must fear for myself. The accommodation was in poor condition, like in the fifties, the beds creaked, the bathroom was rusty, there was no hot water. I decided not to take a shower, so I lay on the bed and prayed that another hiker would come along. I was convinced I’d stumbled into the set of a low-budget horror film until Gro arrived with trekking poles, a bright smile, and enough common sense to save the day.
She immediately took charge, booking us accommodations for the next two nights, and just like that, we became Camino besties. United by sarcasm, shared blisters, and a love for ridiculous banter, we vowed to tackle the Camino Frances together the following year.