Yesterday afternoon, I arrived in Saint Jean Pied de Port. The sun was shining bright and my back was sweaty. After nine days of walking, I had picked up a useful trick of wrapping my bandanna around my chin, bonnet-style, and wearing my baseball hat over it to protect my pale, and recently crisped skin, from the wrath of the sun. I envisioned myself as an old French lady (though I’m not sure where that image came from).
Walking through the streets of the small pilgrim packed town, I reflected on my days walking through southwestern France. A few things stuck out. As a PNW mountain snob I had greatly underestimated the legitimacy of the Pyrenees. Their purple brown masses rise from the Basque country to form a picturesque range, capped with white peaks. A daunting but exhilirating sight for a walker. I was excited to take them on the next day.
It’s also the people who live by the foothills of the mountains that have provided my walk with spirit. While walking the Camino in France, a fully prepared pilgrim is expected to call each accommodation in advance to reserve a bed. Without a phone and with a great lack of Wi-Fi, I was able to do without by leaning on the help of fellow pilgrims and their phones, town citizens and their directions and patience with my foreign language, and the owners of the auberges who accepted my friends and I with open doors and even a few jokes. Not to mention the fantastic bakers who make some of the best variety of baguettes, bread and pastries I’ve tasted.
I found a place to stay in Saint Jean and enjoyed the last night in France.