Startpoint: St Jean Pied de Port, France; Endpoint: Roncesvalles, Spain. Distance walked: about 25km; Steps taken: 37,754; Condition: wet, very frigging wet.

During our walk today, my Dad quite innocently remarked on how quiet the room had been in our hostel in SJPP. Apparently he slept like a log. Little did he know, and naturally I was quite eagre to inform him, that while he may have slept soundly, the other eight inhabitants of the room (myself included) did not sleep too well, due to my Dad snoring. He made a sound not unlike, I imagine, what a very large gorilla might sound like, if it were to accidentally inhale a malfunctioning washing-machine.

The first day of the Camino Frances (the name of the walk from SJPP to Santiago) is, I hope, by far the toughest. We climbed about 1,100 meters (higher than Carraountoohil, the highest mountain in Ireland), descended another 400m, crossed the border into Spain, and covered about 25 kilometers. The weather was such that for most of the way, we walked through what seemed to be a very cold steam room – I guess it didn´t rain as such, it was more like we were walking through the rain. The water just hung in the air in front of us and let us collect the raindrops on our clothes as we passed. Occasionally the mist would rise and we could see some mountainous scenary. If we were lucky, we could see a cow, a horse or a few hundred sheep. The animals just stood there up the mountain, in the wet, in the wind and stared at us darkly. I imagine if they spoke,  they would say “we have no choice, but what the frig are you plonkers doing out here, you nutters!?”. A lot of the animals had cow bells, and the sound reminded me of the Heidi books – I don´t remember it ever raining in the Heidi books.

At some point today, we crossed the border into Spain. We´re not entirely sure when it happened, but at one point, a very kind gent of unknown nationality hailed us and pointed to a large stone pillar. In an unknown language (consisting at least 75% of jumping across an imaginary line and shouting “espan!” and “lefrance”), he made it clear to us that the border had now been crossed.

People on the Camino are all very friendly. Everyone seems very keen to help one another out, make new friends, and share whatever any useful knowledge they have. One lady we met, from Ireland as it happened, was kind enough to place her head in the middle of a conversation between my Dad and another pilgrim, and impart the knowledge, both of her existence and her ability to speak english non-stop to my Dad and the other pilgrim. What a nice gesture.

There is quite a significant number of Irish people travelling with us, at least on this leg of the walk. The cheap Ryanair flight to Biarritz is certainly part of the reason. For some reason my father announcing he is from Longford affords a much warmer reaction than my announcing I am from Dublin, but I try not to let it get me down. We met people from Tipperary, West Cork, Leitrim, Galway, and a few other places. When they hear Dad is from Longford, they´re often curious about who he knows where, how and why, and how many acres they have. Only one person asked about where in Dublin I was from, but he seemed disappointed when I said Rathfarnham.

We´ve also met people from a load of other places: a Cuban man from living in Miami (where it´s apparently “too flat to train for this!”); many Canadians, from various parts of that huge country, some of whom from places where it´s “too flat to train for this!”, plus New Zealanders, Australians, Germans, a Russian, French and Spanish. It´s not too flat to train for it in ireland, but I feel like we didn´t train enough anyway.

During the day, we hadn´t met any Italians, but five Italian gents gently (but firmly) squeezed themselves into the queue to register for beds as we reached our hostel this evening, so now we have the envious pleasure of their company right next to our own beds. One of their group actually has the bunk right below mine. He was nice enough to smear himself in Deep Heat and then eat some Chorizo in his bunk, so now we can all enjoy the delicious aroma of the real Spain while we sleep.

As we walked today, my Dad and I talked a little about his childhood and his (and therefore my antecedents). After we observed and photographed some local cattle (don´t hold your breathe, cattle pics might be while), he informed me, after due examination and consideration, that they were cows, but with very small teat. He then told me about his upbringing near (but not on) a farm in Edgeworthstown, County Longford, where he had regularly helped out on a farm, turning the hay and milking the cows. I asked if he and his brother had been paid for the work, and he told me that they´d basically been a pair of nuisances hanging around the Brady´s farm and  were of more trouble than they were of use.

He also told me about his father´s mother´s father (my great-great-grandfather), one George Ryan, who emigrated to Australia from Ireland, for no clear reason in the late nineteenth century. When asked about the reason, my great-grandfather was known to comment “because the poor man´s wife was a thundering bitch”, which is probably as good a reason as any. It was a good story.

We´re staying tonight in Ronscevalles in a huge hostel converted from a monastery, I´m guessing. The beds cost us €10 each. A three course meal with wine cost us only €9! Yes, with wine! We even got a lovely little Dutch lady to wash andry all our dirty, stinky clothes for only €2.70.

Pilgrims get the best deals.

Start: Dublin; End: St Jean Pied de Port. Total travelled: lots.

It’s just gone 9pm. Officially lights out in the hostel is at 10.30, but the light in the room doesn’t work anyway and the eight beds in the room are already full of resting pilgrims . The sleeping bag I’m in was last used to contain a hangover at Electric Picnic, so being in bed by 9 is new for both of us. As we have to be out by 8am (house rules) and we have an 8 hour climb into the Pyranees ahead of us tomorrow, it’s probably not a bad thing.

We had dinner in a little pizzeria down the road. A local cat played with the diners as they ate, and when I went to use the bathroom, a local dog was playing with the staff in the kitchen.

We started the day with a taxi ride to Dublin airport at 6.30. We entertained the taxi driver with the usual questions of `are you busy?’ and ‘are you starting or finishing?’. He responded by saying how he heard on the radio that someone had died recently on the Camino. It was nice of him to show such interest, I thought.

Once we reached Biarritz airport we were able to get a bus journey to the Bayonne train station for only €1. The bus was full of Irish – some were going for the Camino (boots and backpacks) and the rest were going to Lourdes (fancy roll-cases and pretty silk scarves). One gent was nice enough to open a packet of cheese flavoured popcorn he’d brought from home, so everyone on the busy bus was able to enjoy the aroma.

As we passed a bridge in Bayonne town centre, we all noticed the flags of the Basque country which flew high above it in red and green. ‘Up Mayo!’, shouted popcorn man. Oh, how we laughed.

We got train tickets in Bayonne station and had a bite to eat as we waited for our train. The three waitresses on duty were very busy doing things that had nothing to do with serving food to customers. My father tried his French on one lady as she handed him our beers. ‘Danke’, he said. She didn’t respond. When we saw her deal with other customers, we realised that she could ask for money in English, but she could only smile in French. As we left, my dad tried his luck again. ‘Merci’, but she was as unimpressed with his French as she was with his German. We left her a €0.70 tip, which was pretty generous as that’s nearly enough for a bus ticket to the airport.

We picked up our Camino Credentials when we arrived in SJPP, and were directed towards a refuge with available beds. Within two hours, we were wandering around the town showing new pilgrims where to go.

Tomorrow we start walking.