A particularly beautiful day for Padstow’s Obby Oss. The town alive with the sound drums and accordions, crowded with locals dressed in their May Day whites and their blue and red neckerchiefs. Warmed by the summer sun, this celebration lifts the heart as well as the pint jar!

Walked the 26 mile Saint’s Way path from Fowey to Padstow for another year. To welcome the summer, have a few pints of Doom Bar and to play a part in the pagan festivities. The youngest member of our team preferred to wear his Vans rather than walking boots and ended up blistered and barefoot for some of the journey. Until we ‘borrowed’ a pair of over-sized trainers from a farmhouse in Blable. By strange coincidence the very kind man who donated his shoes turned out to be our chef in the Quarryman’s Arms and cooked our evening meal. Howzat?!

May Day

Woken by divine caress
Of sun, felt warm upon my skin,
His love entering, free to pass
Through open window.

Woken by Spring’s dawn choir,
Of Blackbird, Thrush and Lark.
Of Tit’s stern ‘teacher’, of Magpie’s bark,
Of prattling Swallow.

Woken by love’s desire,
The early breath of Summer,
The unfurling of impassioned flower,
The light to follow.

This morning, up early. Problematic retrieval of tickets from an unhelpful machine resulted in resorting to the methode traditionelle of talking to a real person in the ticket office, followed by a panicked jog (another common traditional when catching a train), past early morning smokers enjoying their final pre-commute drag, to embark on our journey south, to Bayonne. Thoughts on the train:

1. phew.
2. BLIMEY, this is FAST.
3. DISAPPOINTMENT – French people don’t smell of Chanel and Gucci, but instead they are hounded by an odour of stale Gauloises – that pervades the carriage with every disheveled influx of new cargo.
4. Equally DISAPPOINTED by the tedious landscape flitting past the window at great speed. Eight hours of Flat, Flat, Flat. Punctuated by pylons, warehouses, deserted towns and snow covered farms, all seemingly devoid of life and interest.
5. APPALLED by my lack of French. DAMN my school for not engaging me at an early age. That the opportunity to use the line ‘Sylviane la guepe stings the postman on the nose’ did not arise, reinforced the reservations I had at 13 to continue with the subject. Plus, I didn’t like the teacher. Still, ultimately my fault – I claim the shame.

Bayonne. A centre of Basque nationalism. Good bridge spanning the Adour. Frightening Bishop brandishing a cross. Great pastries. Pigeons that turn their discerning Gallic beaks skywards at the offer of Quiche Lorraine, bundling instead for a crumb of an imported ‘Eat Natural’ bar. Superb opportunity at the railway station to passively smoke a further twenty cigs prior to boarding the diddy St-Jean branch-line train, the ‘pilgrim express’. Which we did joyously with 4 other peregrinos and their mighty rucksacks (it is at this point that the ugly visage of ‘kit-envy’ has to be slapped down with a firm hand). Suddenly the scenery picked up as we trundled our way, slowly this time, towards the foothills of the Pyrenees. A portal view reminiscent of Cornwall (home) then, as we ascended, to the Borders of Scotland (comparing it to our previous home at Garvald, West Linton) .. gentle hills, brambles, bracken, ash and hazel; into beech woodland, MOUNTAINS, snow .. Ahhh, this is more like it! Stunningly beautiful landscape after what had gone before.

Out at St. Jean. We found ourselves at once chasing yellow shell motifs, guiding us on towards the Camino office where we were issued our pilgrim passport, a list of albergues open out-of-season, our very own scallop shell, and from where we were swiftly taken to our first albergue, to be allocated bunk-beds with alacrity. Emphatically told (with wagging finger) several times (with increasing severity) – DO NOT follow mountain paths to Roncesvalles, TAKE THE ROAD. Two people were rescued from the snow last week. And last year a couple, not heeding the words of the office dudes, died on the first leg of their way.

Okay, St-Jean-Pied-de-Port: once a part of the Spanish province of Navarre, the Basque influence is shared across the border in language, food and local crafts/traditions. Noticeably a town of ubiquitous shells – they feature in architecture, door knockers, metal work .. everywhere .. a sure sign of the longevity of the importance of the Camino Frances in these parts. As I write Simon and I are back at the hostel, having walked around the cobbled streets of the old quarter, within St Jean’s sandstone walls, for about an hour, taking in the history, the architecture, the panoramic view from the citadelle, the bridges .. and the small supermarket, where we bravely purchased a toxic looking jar of bisque that made a surprisingly hearty supper. Haha! We’ve arrived! Having read about the road to Santiago, and, like so many Americans, having been further hooked by the film ‘The Way’, we have made it. My mum’s currently despairing that we haven’t grasped the opportunity sans-kids to take a restful break in the sun .. why we want to go on a ‘route march’ is beyond her comprehension. Now, looking towards the mountains, with the snow falling heavily, I think it’s fair to talk for the two of us when I say that we are a little daunted by the 500 miles that lay ahead. Still, we like a challenge.

Lying on the top bunk, in a room that sleeps twenty, I’m simultaneously writing and and ear-wigging on the conversation between two recent dormitory arrivals: New York ‘John’ and New Jersey ‘John’. They’re loudly explaining why they find themselves here – both, it transpires, have recently suffered close family deaths. This trip’s target market .. USP: thinking space and time to heal.

This morning – sent son # 2 to Cotswolds Outdoor in Plymouth to buy a few essentials for the journey – leaving me to book train tickets from Par to Bristol, the flight from Bristol to Paris, overnight room in a cheap hotel in Montparnasse, train ticket from Paris to St Jean, car hire from Santiago to Santander, and reserve a cabin on the ferry for the evening of Wednesday 20th March, to arrive back into Plymouth docks Thursday 21st. Bought euros and travel insurance from the Post Office. Phoned round farm sitters, organised a few weeks ago (just in case), and found them ready to slip into action. Phew. Sorted.

This afternoon – packed my Osprey 33 liter sack (taking on board a few handy tips from Jane Christmas in ‘What The Psychic Told The Pilgrim’):

(Clothes to wear: walking trousers, long sleeved T shirt, fleece, two pairs socks and well worn walking boots).
Clothes packed: Merino long johns and long sleeved vest, shorts and vest top, pair of leggings, one set of spare underwear (traumatising my 19 year old daughter), two pairs spare walking socks, thin gloves, ski mitts, Buff, wool hat, sandals – packed in dry sack number one.
Waterproof jacket/trousers – with full side zips, important ventilation for walking.
Sleeping bag: thin down – packed in second small dry sack.
Toiletries: shampoo, conditioner (luxury? NO!), small pack of face wipes, toothpaste and brush, v.small pot of Nivea (used every day), Olay face cream (ditto), calendula ointment for feet (VERY necessary), pant liners, nail clippers and file, thin shammy towel plus basic first aid kit plus good scissors, tweezers, plasters, ibuprofen tablets, Ibuleve gel, tiny container of Sudocrem and several packs of Compeed blister pads – packed in third small dry sack.
Source hydration sack (‘water bag’ to you and me) with insulated tube.
Small zipped bag with leads and recharging plugs for iPod, camera and phone (all packed), and two pin plug converter.
Sealed sandwich bag of washing powder. Rather thick Camino guide book by Sergio Ramis and ‘Travels with My Donkey’ by Tim Moore for night time reading. Journal and small pencil case.
Head torch (essential!)
Thin money belt to wear under clothes.

Three to four layers of clothing including waterproofs, two layers for hands, plus a separate hat and buff should we be battling blizzards. From experience of cross country skiing I reckon this will definitely cover all bases. Walking trousers and long sleeved top for evening wear; vest and leggings can double as PJs. There’ll be washing machines on route. Final weigh-in of rucksack = 6k without water or food.
Ready to fly tomorrow pm. Ready to walk!