I started my pilgrimage with a visit to Madame Debril

in the picturesque little French town of

St. Jean Pied-de-Port.

From my readings, it seemed this was a common place to begin,

having the dual qualities of crossing a national boundary

and walking over the Pyrenees mountains

with spectacular views.

I felt I was as ready as I was ever going to be for my

journey--my pilgrimage. For the previous month

I had regularly practiced walking in the L.L. Bean

hiking boots my daughter gave me for the trip.

Two weeks before departure, I finally broke down

and bought a backpack, sleeping bag, and other assorted

hiking gear, most of which I didn't need, and practiced

hiking around town fully equipped, or, as it turned

out, over equipped.

I didn't really believe in over preparation.

My theory was that short of actually doing the pilgrimage

twice, once in my home town north of Boston,

and then for real in Spain, there was no point

in overdoing the practice sessions. For one thing,

I didn't want to walk 800 kilometers around town. I'm

much too lazy for that and in addition it's boring to have

to walk back to your starting point every time, essentially

going in circles. So I reasoned that the real thing would

have to do for my training ground and the blisters would

just have to come and go as they pleased. If I wasn't fit

enough, I would become fit as I proceeded. This wouldn't

be a prudent strategy for scaling the Himalayas but it

proved reasonable for the Camino de Santiago de Compostela.

What I wasn't ready for was that the day before

I departed for Spain, I began to find all sorts of odds

and ends that I had neglected to include in my pack, and as

a consequence, its weight soared. By the time I was checking

in at the airport it tipped the scales at almost 40

pounds-insanely heavy for the ordeal in front of

me. But I was a tenderfoot (literally) and would soon

realize my mistake and take corrective action.

Madame Debril is an elderly woman well known, it seems, for

stamping pilgrims credentials when they pass through town.

Madame Debril.

She is very cordial, working out of an office of total

clutter. She sits at a large desk by a window and uncovers

an oversized journal from the debris to record my visit. I

found her by asking several people in town where she lived,

all of whom except the woman running a shop five or six

doors away knew exactly where to send me.

"Where are you starting from?" Madame Debril asks. "Here" I

answer, "from St. Jean Pied-de-Port." This answer doesn't

seem to do the trick. "But where did you come from?" "Madrid"

She writes in her huge journal. "I flew from Madrid to Pamplona,

"I offered in a misguided attempt to clarify the situation.

She writes in her journal again, obviously confused even more.

I assume that as a native of the area, it made no sense

whatsoever to her for me to travel to St. Jean Pied-de-Port

from Pamplona only to walk back through Pamplona.

Why not just start in Pamplona like a reasonable person,

I'm sure she was thinking. Although not fully settled we

mutually decide to let the issue slide and I

ask her for a passport, or pilgrims credential with her

official stamp, which all the towns and cities have, to prove

that I had in fact passed through. She tells me that she has

run out of forms but stamps a piece of paper for me, dates it,

and hands it over. After telling me that I don't need a guide

book, but would do just fine without one. "Follow the yellow

arrows," she instructs. "Not the red or white arrows, only the

yellow." I put the scrap of paper in my pack, thank her and

head out. She comes outside with me and points the way before

Yellow arrows leaving St.Jean Pied-de-Port.

striking up a conversation with a passing native. The road led

down the cobbled street, through the arch of the church of Notre-Dame

and cross the perfect little bridge over the river Nive. Then

the trouble begins as the road out of town climbs steeply and

passes through a pair of ancient pillars. The trouble being

that I am out of shape, carrying an overweight pack, and

facing possibly the most difficult portion of the journey.

After passing through the pillars, the road continues to climb

at steep incline. I check my watch which tells me I have

started much too late to hope to reach Roscesvalles on the

Spanish side of the Pyrenees before dark, which in Spain means

after 10:30 p.m. I continue anyway thinking about the bed and

breakfast Madame Debril promised me 5 kilometers out of town.

It's a cruel irony of the Camino that the pilgrim faces the

Pyrenees on the first day with an overloaded backpack and (in

my case) a body accustomed to sitting at a computer.

As promised, after 5 kilometers of steady uphill climbing I

come to a group of buildings with a sign in French out front

which I take to mean, "sleep here Carl, you've gone far

enough." There is a man working in the garden who directs me

inside where a gracious woman who thankfully speaks English

tells me that there is no room. The B&B isn't quite what

I had expected. As it turns out, it's a posh resort with gourmet

cooking where people stay for a week or two enjoying the magnificent

scenery. As I get ready to leave the woman's better judgement

must have kicked in (it would be hard to explain a pilgrim found

dead of exhaustion on her front step), and she tells me I can sleep

in the barn with the sheep and take dinner and breakfast with the

guests for a 100 francs. Fortunately I have the money which is a pure

fluke, since my daughter was recently in France and had a few

hundred Francs left over which she gave me. So I am chaperoned

up to the barn where there are only four sheep too young to be

left outside with the rest of the flock. Paradise in my tired

state. I am told I can wait for dinner back at the compound

where I go to rearrange my pack, change into comfortable

Reeboks from my hiking boots and sit and watch the sunset. I

haven't come far but I feel a lot more confident than I did

sitting in the Madrid airport waiting for the plane to

Pamplona. I have made a start. It's down to me and the road,

finally, and everything else can wait.

Bed & breakfast near St.Jean Pied-de-Port.

After a wonderful four course meal with a dozen other guests,

I say good night and head for my barn. Very tired but a little

concerned about the other critters I might encounter, not

including the sheep, I unroll my pad and place my sleeping bag

on what seems like a good spot in the middle of the barn. It

turns out that the sheep are goats and of the four there is

one trouble-maker. While three will respond to my suggestion

that they sleep in their designated spot, which I promise to

respect if they return the favor, the trouble-maker needs to

inspect the entire new operation that has invaded his space.

Only after finding some wood scraps and building a makeshift

fence to keep him in his area, coupled with a few very

determined pats with my wooden staff does Rambo goat get the idea.

Lights out and a well deserved rest begins when I hear and

feel a gentle splat on my sleeping bag. My flashlight reveals

a collection of barn swallows perched on the center beam,

directly over my spot. Goats decide to investigate now that

something interesting is happening and I move my sleeping bag

over to the side of the barn and check the overhead structure

carefully. Cleaned up and ready to try again after few more

pats with my stick to convince the curious to retire to their

end of the barn. Sleep at last, my first day on the Camino over.

I awake feeling rested and greet my four legged friends who

are getting their noses into everything, including my pack. I

pack up, say my farewells to my new buddies, and head to the

compound for coffee and rolls. As I'm having breakfast alone,

since the other guests are just beginning to stir, I ask my

host if she would be kind enough to mail my tent home for me.

I am really desperate to lose some weight and the tent was a

terrible idea. After a little persuading and promising to make

up for any postage shortage, she graciously, though

reluctantly agrees. Thank heavens I can travel about four

pounds lighter. After thanking my host for her hospitality, I

get myself together and and head out, or rather, up. Most of

the morning is spent climbing steeply on the narrow country

road. After a few kilometers I come to a shepherdess and her

dog minding her flock of sheep. As I approach she stands and

murmurs to her dog who has sunk his head down into his

haunches and makes growling noises. He is a large German

Shepherd who is very anxious to prove he can protect the sheep

in his care, and his growling has a curious pleading quality,

which I interpret as: "please let my eat this pilgrim. He

looks like a menace to the world." The shepherdess murmurs to

him: "leave this one alone and I promise you can eat the next

one that passes." We exchange bonjours, and I trudge passed

them and around a bend. A little way further I come to a very

curious statue of the Virgin Mary holding a headless Christ

child. It seems a little odd that someone would steal the head

of Christ, but I suppose that reliquary thieves are atheists

and have no fear of divine retribution.

Mary with headless child.