of mustard flares my nostrils until they hurt. But the pain reawakens my
senses, and I feel my equilibrium ebbing back. The questions of where to begin
and how officially to get started now seem serenely irrelevant. I feel as if I have
been on this road half my life. Madame Debril drifts away. I have other things
on my mind just now—the likely sound of approaching wolves, the final thoughts
of snowbound pilgrims, the symptoms of hypothermia, and the width of Spain. I grip the tube of condensed milk with my fist, put the aluminum teat in my mouth,
and squeeze with all my strength.
O n a bend in the last
mountain of the Pyrenees, a slight dip in the road leads up a hump until a hazy
green valley lowers into view like a card on a stereopticon.
All appears peaceful in Spain today. The chimneys from the scattered farms feed
thin columns of gray smoke into a blanket of drifting white mist. I feel
restored this morning and ready for my descent into Roncesvalles.
A marker tops the ridge,
with a dozen wooden arms pointing chaotically in all directions. I expect to
read outrageous distances—New York, 8,000 kilometers; Buenos Aires 11,000 k; Tokyo, 16,500 k. But I am entering Navarra, the land of the Spanish Basques. They are not
a people famous for irony. This sign is just a sign pointing to nearby hamlets
with long, unpronounceable names. All of them should be within view, but I see
nothing except boulders spilling down a deep gorge into the valley.
Roncesvalles is a famously mysterious
place and has been since the eighth century, just before the pilgrimage began,
when it became the most notorious killing field of the Middle Ages. At the
time, the giant armies of Islam had come to Christian Europe, so the scene was
set for a cataclysmic encounter. The Moors had invaded Spain in 711 and by the end of that century were in control of all but the ribbon of
desolation in the north that would become the road. Meanwhile, in Europe, Charlemagne was uniting the continent. This era would culminate on Christmas Day a.d. 800, when the pope crowned
Charlemagne the first Holy Roman Emperor.
But Charlemagne’s
reunification of the Roman Empire and of Europe would come at a cost, paid at Roncesvalles in 778 and hymned forever in the greatest medieval epic, the Chanson de
Roland. So the story goes, Charlemagne had entered Spain to liberate the local Christians but after some time had decided to make a prudent
peace with the Arabs. As the poem opens, he is trying to settle a dispute
between his nephew Roland and his brother-in-law Ganelon (also Roland’s
stepfather). Both are vying to be the king’s emissary to win peace from the
Arabs.
Ganelon won the argument,
but his jealousy over Charlemagne’s apparent preference for Roland drove him to
treachery. While sitting in the silken tents of the Arabs (known as Saracens in
poetry), Ganelon betrayed Charlemagne’s route back into France as Roncesvalles. He explained to them that the rear guard, led by Roland, would be most
vulnerable when it began to file into the narrow gorge that cuts into the Pyrenees, where I now stand.
High
are the hills, the valleys dark and deep,
Grisly
the rocks, and wondrous grim the steep.
On the late afternoon of
August 15, 778, Roland and the rear guard were ambushed here. As the fighting
spilled into the valley, Roland’s best friend, Oliver, begged him to call
Charlemagne for help by sounding his horn. All manly symbols in the Chanson
de Roland have names; the horn’s is Olifant. But rather than blow Olifant,
Roland cried out for immediate battle. He goaded his men to fight at once and
claim their honor. In the early exchange, no Saracen was safe from Roland and
his mighty sword (Durendal by name). Roland’s dispatch of the Saracen dandy
Chernuble, whose “unshorn hair hangs trailing to his feet,” is horrific even by
our standards of violence:
He
spurs his horse and goes against Chernuble:
he
breaks the helmet on which rubies
senses, and I feel my equilibrium ebbing back. The questions of where to begin
and how officially to get started now seem serenely irrelevant. I feel as if I have
been on this road half my life. Madame Debril drifts away. I have other things
on my mind just now—the likely sound of approaching wolves, the final thoughts
of snowbound pilgrims, the symptoms of hypothermia, and the width of Spain. I grip the tube of condensed milk with my fist, put the aluminum teat in my mouth,
and squeeze with all my strength.
O n a bend in the last
mountain of the Pyrenees, a slight dip in the road leads up a hump until a hazy
green valley lowers into view like a card on a stereopticon.
All appears peaceful in Spain today. The chimneys from the scattered farms feed
thin columns of gray smoke into a blanket of drifting white mist. I feel
restored this morning and ready for my descent into Roncesvalles.
A marker tops the ridge,
with a dozen wooden arms pointing chaotically in all directions. I expect to
read outrageous distances—New York, 8,000 kilometers; Buenos Aires 11,000 k; Tokyo, 16,500 k. But I am entering Navarra, the land of the Spanish Basques. They are not
a people famous for irony. This sign is just a sign pointing to nearby hamlets
with long, unpronounceable names. All of them should be within view, but I see
nothing except boulders spilling down a deep gorge into the valley.
Roncesvalles is a famously mysterious
place and has been since the eighth century, just before the pilgrimage began,
when it became the most notorious killing field of the Middle Ages. At the
time, the giant armies of Islam had come to Christian Europe, so the scene was
set for a cataclysmic encounter. The Moors had invaded Spain in 711 and by the end of that century were in control of all but the ribbon of
desolation in the north that would become the road. Meanwhile, in Europe, Charlemagne was uniting the continent. This era would culminate on Christmas Day a.d. 800, when the pope crowned
Charlemagne the first Holy Roman Emperor.
But Charlemagne’s
reunification of the Roman Empire and of Europe would come at a cost, paid at Roncesvalles in 778 and hymned forever in the greatest medieval epic, the Chanson de
Roland. So the story goes, Charlemagne had entered Spain to liberate the local Christians but after some time had decided to make a prudent
peace with the Arabs. As the poem opens, he is trying to settle a dispute
between his nephew Roland and his brother-in-law Ganelon (also Roland’s
stepfather). Both are vying to be the king’s emissary to win peace from the
Arabs.
Ganelon won the argument,
but his jealousy over Charlemagne’s apparent preference for Roland drove him to
treachery. While sitting in the silken tents of the Arabs (known as Saracens in
poetry), Ganelon betrayed Charlemagne’s route back into France as Roncesvalles. He explained to them that the rear guard, led by Roland, would be most
vulnerable when it began to file into the narrow gorge that cuts into the Pyrenees, where I now stand.
High
are the hills, the valleys dark and deep,
Grisly
the rocks, and wondrous grim the steep.
On the late afternoon of
August 15, 778, Roland and the rear guard were ambushed here. As the fighting
spilled into the valley, Roland’s best friend, Oliver, begged him to call
Charlemagne for help by sounding his horn. All manly symbols in the Chanson
de Roland have names; the horn’s is Olifant. But rather than blow Olifant,
Roland cried out for immediate battle. He goaded his men to fight at once and
claim their honor. In the early exchange, no Saracen was safe from Roland and
his mighty sword (Durendal by name). Roland’s dispatch of the Saracen dandy
Chernuble, whose “unshorn hair hangs trailing to his feet,” is horrific even by
our standards of violence:
He
spurs his horse and goes against Chernuble:
he
breaks the helmet on which rubies
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