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Authors: Bettina Selby
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rain-sodden depressing place I too might be tempted to lure in passing travellers in order to relieve the monotony.
AimeryPicaud called the Basques ‘A barbarous people’, citing examples of their murderous customs, their perverted sexual practices and their gross eating habits. Their language came in for just as much condemnation: ‘when you hear them speaking it is like the barking of dogs,’ he wrote.
The origin of the Basques and their unique language remain a mystery, though Picaud thought they had descended from the Scots, citing the similarity of their customs and appearance as proof — clearly he also harboured a low opinion of the Caledonian race. If Frenchmen in general had shared Picaud’s views of the Basques, then it seemed to me no wonder that I sensed an underlying hostility in my host. In fact his conversation was blatantly confrontational.'
’You know Brighton?’ he began innocently enough, as soon as I was seated. ‘I been there with my punk group.’ He had since abandoned punk, he told me, except for the ring in his ear, which he said he kept as a reminder, as well as helping in his work with Basque youth groups. In answer to my query, he said he had not liked England. ‘Nasty country with a bad record.’ The British Empire was the worst of all empires, apparently, especially in India. It had committed outrages more horrible than the genocide of the American Indians. Having dealt succinctly with the improbity of the British Empire, he ran through a comprehensive list of other empires, none of which had been other than bloody and repressive. Only the Roman Empire was spared; for that he had an unqualified admiration — though I couldn’t discover why. While I was still reeling from this sweeping panorama of the sins of history, he launched into a political lecture on the perfidy of both the French and the Spanish in their dealings with his people. Their greatest iniquity, I learnt, was in attempting to deny the Basques their linguistic rights. By this time my head was spinning, and I was more than keen to escape, but in the best Ancient Mariner tradition, he barred my passage. I had to listen to yet another lengthy discourse, this time on the Basques’ incomprehensible language (not constructed like any other human tongue, he told me proudly). Finally I seized my moment, and ducked smartly beneath the arm he had firmly braced across the door frame.
The weather at least had improved during my unrefreshed stop. As I rode away from Ostabat and the one-sided airing of opinions, I saw with a sudden glad lifting of the spirits that the clouds were peeling off the high wooded slopes of the Pyrenees. It was only the briefest of glimpses, but enough to set the heart beating faster; further cloud fronts raced into the vacuum, sealing off the high peaks once again. By the time I reached the small town of St Jean-Pied-de-Port, nestling at the foot of the Pyrenees, the rain had penetrated my defences and was trickling coldly down my neck. There might have been no mountains at all, except for the swollen river, dangerously high and rushing and leaping over the boulders of its deep uneven bed. Remembering the exciting close-up view of the towering barrier ahead, however, I felt a shiver of excitement. Tonight I would sleep in this tiny walled and gated town that guarded the pass and tomorrow, God willing, I would be in Spain.
5
Beginning the Camino Francés
C ROSSING the Pyrenees from St Jean-Pied-de-Port, the traveller has a choice of two routes, both of which are steeped in history and legend. The Val Carlos Pass carries the main road, while the Pass Napoleon, once part of an old Roman road, is a rough track over the Col de Cize. Both will eventually bring the traveller to the door of the monastery of Roncesvalles, but on the way there the Pass Napoleon climbs higher, enjoys more dramatic views and is the traditional route for pilgrims who shun the easier way — all compelling reasons
AimeryPicaud called the Basques ‘A barbarous people’, citing examples of their murderous customs, their perverted sexual practices and their gross eating habits. Their language came in for just as much condemnation: ‘when you hear them speaking it is like the barking of dogs,’ he wrote.
The origin of the Basques and their unique language remain a mystery, though Picaud thought they had descended from the Scots, citing the similarity of their customs and appearance as proof — clearly he also harboured a low opinion of the Caledonian race. If Frenchmen in general had shared Picaud’s views of the Basques, then it seemed to me no wonder that I sensed an underlying hostility in my host. In fact his conversation was blatantly confrontational.'
’You know Brighton?’ he began innocently enough, as soon as I was seated. ‘I been there with my punk group.’ He had since abandoned punk, he told me, except for the ring in his ear, which he said he kept as a reminder, as well as helping in his work with Basque youth groups. In answer to my query, he said he had not liked England. ‘Nasty country with a bad record.’ The British Empire was the worst of all empires, apparently, especially in India. It had committed outrages more horrible than the genocide of the American Indians. Having dealt succinctly with the improbity of the British Empire, he ran through a comprehensive list of other empires, none of which had been other than bloody and repressive. Only the Roman Empire was spared; for that he had an unqualified admiration — though I couldn’t discover why. While I was still reeling from this sweeping panorama of the sins of history, he launched into a political lecture on the perfidy of both the French and the Spanish in their dealings with his people. Their greatest iniquity, I learnt, was in attempting to deny the Basques their linguistic rights. By this time my head was spinning, and I was more than keen to escape, but in the best Ancient Mariner tradition, he barred my passage. I had to listen to yet another lengthy discourse, this time on the Basques’ incomprehensible language (not constructed like any other human tongue, he told me proudly). Finally I seized my moment, and ducked smartly beneath the arm he had firmly braced across the door frame.
The weather at least had improved during my unrefreshed stop. As I rode away from Ostabat and the one-sided airing of opinions, I saw with a sudden glad lifting of the spirits that the clouds were peeling off the high wooded slopes of the Pyrenees. It was only the briefest of glimpses, but enough to set the heart beating faster; further cloud fronts raced into the vacuum, sealing off the high peaks once again. By the time I reached the small town of St Jean-Pied-de-Port, nestling at the foot of the Pyrenees, the rain had penetrated my defences and was trickling coldly down my neck. There might have been no mountains at all, except for the swollen river, dangerously high and rushing and leaping over the boulders of its deep uneven bed. Remembering the exciting close-up view of the towering barrier ahead, however, I felt a shiver of excitement. Tonight I would sleep in this tiny walled and gated town that guarded the pass and tomorrow, God willing, I would be in Spain.
5
Beginning the Camino Francés
C ROSSING the Pyrenees from St Jean-Pied-de-Port, the traveller has a choice of two routes, both of which are steeped in history and legend. The Val Carlos Pass carries the main road, while the Pass Napoleon, once part of an old Roman road, is a rough track over the Col de Cize. Both will eventually bring the traveller to the door of the monastery of Roncesvalles, but on the way there the Pass Napoleon climbs higher, enjoys more dramatic views and is the traditional route for pilgrims who shun the easier way — all compelling reasons
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