Meanwhile Elsewhere...

Zubin-Pamplona

2010-05-10T19:31:00.003+02:00

The next day was a beautiful day.

Roncevaux-Zubiri(?)

2010-05-09T19:24:00.006+02:00

The next morning I was out and about before the break of dawn. Normally it is my preferred mode of walking; walking for an hour or two and then having breakfast while watching the sunrise. When I walked the camino 2 years ago it was the perfect way to have the roads all to myself - and I do love watching that glorious orange ball rise above the horizon.

But being a holy year; as I'd suspected and feared; the roads were full already at five in the morning. I was the first out, but at breakfast I was passed by several groups.

And by the time I reached the first open café for my morning coffee the road was full of pilgrims. It was a rainy day and the café was damp, not to warm and full of people like it was a saturday night at a semisuccessful local pub.

The Dutch guys. I never caught their names, but we met just about every day for weeks. In the end I left them behind as the wife started struggling with tendentious. I advised them to take a few short days - and I guess they did, because I never saw them again.

The married couple had the best trolley-system I've seen on the road. They 'shared' the burdens but if I should trust my observations he was dragging that trolley about 90% of the time. As it should be.

On the camino, as in 'real life', there is a big difference between traveling alone and traveling as a couple or in a group. On your lonesome it seems easy to get new friends - and when you travel with other people it is not that easy. Even if you fight that tendency not to approach others, to be happy in the company you have, others will be more hesitant to approach you, you won't have as much in common and no matter how flexible you & your traveling partner(s) are you'll be less likely to adjust your travelingschedule to spend time with someone you found interesting.

Along the way, in churches and refugios you will find small fliers giving advice of varying quality. Here's a couple I found on my way to Zubiri:

Our Father for Pilgrims

Our Father who is on our way, may your breath come to us

And watch over us pilgrims, your will be done

In the heat as it is in the cold, assist us in our weakness

As we assist those who falter on the way

Lead us not into heartbrake, and deliver us from all evil.

Amen

The Beatitudes of the Pilgrim

1- Blessed are you pilgrim, if you discover that the "camino" opens your eyes to what is not seen.

2- Blessed are you pilgrim, if what concerns you is not to arrive, as to arrive with others.

3- Blessed are you pilgrim, when you contemplate the "camino" and you discover it is full of names and dawns.

4- Blessed are you pilgrim, because you have discovered that the authentic "camino" begins when it is completed.

5- Blessed are you pilgrim, if your knapsack is emptying of things and your heart does not know where to hang up so many feelings and emotions.

6- Blessed are you pilgrim, if you discover that one step back to help another is more valuable than a hundred forward without seeing what is at your side.

7- Blessed are you pilgrim, when you don´t have words to give thanks for everything that surprises you at every twist and turn of the way.

8- Blessed are you pilgrim, if you search for the truth and make of the "camino" a life and of your life a "way", in search of the one who is the Way, the Truth and the Life.

9- Blessed are you pilgrim if on the way you meet yourself and gift yourself with time, without rushing, so as not to disregard the image in your heart.

10- Blessed are you pilgrim, if you discover that the "camino" holds a lot of silence; and the silence of prayer; and the prayer of meeting with the Father who is waiting for you.

The refugio was full; and it was getting increasingly rainy so I took a private room. That was one of two times I did that until I reached Santiago.

It's not just about the money - on the parish and municipal refugios you meet a lot of interesting people. You meet a bit less in the private refugios, and when you have a private room you meet practically nobody. (I think - although I experience admittedly is narrow and lightweight.)

Unless you are a true catholic believer there is no reason to do the Camino Santiago if not to meet people. You can be spiritual anywhere, you can travel a whole year in Norway for 125€. With that said, the infrastructure on the Camino Frances is impressive. You can walk from hotel to hotel and from restaurant to restaurant without ever carrying more than a sandwich in your 4-5 kilo backpack. (Although, if I was doing some luxury version of the camino, I guess I would send my luggage aswell. No reason not to travel with 15 or 20 kilos if you're being a tourist anyway.)

From my room. Another example of the spanish style of sexy kitch art.

St. Jean Pied-de-Port--Roscideuallis

2010-05-08T19:23:00.009+02:00

My first night in a parish refugio was an eyeopener - the communal dinner with prayer, speeches, 3 courses and wine was something I had no idea I'd missed until I found it.

Eva, on the picture below, would become a great friend. She was so proud of her 5 kg backpack - and I guess with good reason. It can be done - cause she had everything she needed except a hairdryer. Later she would get one. 150g; usable for drying both hair and wet clothes and shoes.

I guess she took a liking to me when she realized I was a smoker. After dinner I went out to have a evening 'sigarette', and when I came back everybody was about to go to bed. I brushed my teeth and went to bed. As I passed Evas bed (we were all sleeping in bunkbeds in the same room as is normal in refugios) she said with a note of surprise in her voice you smoke? I answered the only possible and truthful answer in a room full of 50 year+ pilgrims I don't smoke... cigarettes.

32 years of age she'd grown up in Transylvania, and she did seem to have some of that rumored Transylvanian magic. Menfolk flocked to her like bees to honey and it was a fascinating spectacle to watch - seeing the Transylvanian princess surrounded by up to 5 guys ready to do her bidding on the camino I felt almost disgusted with my gender.

Until our trails parted in Burgos the only true friends she seemed to get was me and the French guy who's name I've sadly forgotten. Both us weresomehow more or less immune to her allure.

Crossing the border to Spain.

She had father-issues. He had been a very strict father. Way ahead of his time; doing ecological farming as a hobby in the 70's and 80's. Refusing to have a television. Filling their home with books, music and culture. And when the hard times came; he'd filled their home with refugees until they gave up and moved to Budapest around the time of the fall of the wall.

Like willful intelligent children often do; she rebelled. She became a nurse and just as she was starting to make peace with her father he sadly passed away. I helped her deal a bit with that, I think. Just as she helped me deal with growing up in the opposite environment with my permissive hippie father.

She didn't particularly enjoy being a nurse. She worked one summer and then quit. She opened a fashion-store that was rather successful, took a master in english litt. Did the runaway bride-thing a couple of times. Sold her store and ran away to France with her new boyfriend. And now she'd run away from him aswell.

You might think it sucks to be unpopular with the opposite sex. Eva is living proof that it sucks to be popular aswell. Proving, perhaps, the Buddhas theorem of Suffering.

She'd started writing and somehow someone in publishing had gotten to read some of her stuff; and she was under contract to write a book for them. Being afraid of happiness, being the runaway bride incarnate, she is ofcourse unable to finish her novel. I sort of hope she does though.

Lousy picture: but this scarecrow has seven heads. Its a scarehydra. They should have given it 10 horns. Just to fuck with people. Click on pic to enlarge.

There wasn't much snow; and I was kind of upset that I'd taken the advice not to walk the Route Napoleon. But the next day I met an Austian peakclimber who's a way more experienced mountaineer than me, with better equipment and in a lot better shape - and he'd had to turn back.

Taking this picture I realize I've forgotten my cane on the top of the pass. I turn back ofcourse.

Entrance to Ronchevalles. You just walk out of the forrest and in to the "village" - a monastery, a church and three restaurants. Very bureaucratic place. Julie and Eva was keeping a place for me in the monastery refugio - but as it was full I got a red ticket instead of a green ticket.

I went to the provisoric campingground with huts filled to the brim with weary travelers; accepting my lot. And then Julie found me and told me they'd saved a place for me in the monastery. But when I went there I couldn't have my bed because my ticket was the wrong colour. The hospitalero (who was behaving quite inappropriately towards Eva - something I'd soon stop being amazed and shocked by; and study with amazement instead) said to me Don't be angry. I answered I'm not angry, I'm just very very sad.

And I guess that got me in - because later in the evening he'd thunk better of it and gave me a place afterall.

And for that I am eternally grateful to Jack. (Pictured below). Everybody who's done the camino for more than a week has some amazing story about the sleeping of sometimes hundreds of people in the same room.

From the experiences of the sick fucks who can't stand the snoring and wakes everybody up by snapping their fingers, clicking their tongues and whatnot - to the guy who after stopping the guy in the bunk above him from snoring 10 or 15 times by gently pushing the mattress: simply got up and kissed the guy on the mouth - whence the snoring stopped completely for the rest of the night.

Maybe it was magic, maybe the guy simply was to afraid to sleep anymore that night.

In the ancient monastery in Ronchevalles almost 200 people sleep in the same room. In the middle of the night I'm woken up by some guy talking in his sleep. A Spanish guy; I have no idea what he was talking about; even if it was at all coherent or just random words like the ones sleeptalkers often utter from their sleeping reptile brain who has little language and work with images, notions and feelings.

He wasn't really talking by the sound of it. He was pleading. For his life, his very soul perhaps. It was soulfull, heartfelt, truly like you'd imagine a broken and powerless Al Pachino or Brad Pitt would plead for their love and soul; and there was something very funny about it. I really had to hold myself from lolling.

Now, you might ofcourse think that this just proves what an insensitive jerk I am. And thats your prerogative. But I assure you: I was not the only one.

And to experience the muffled half strangled laugther of atleast a 100 people is a bonding and liberating experience. Really: I do recomend it.

Jack disapproves.

St. Jean-Pied-de-Port day III

2010-05-07T19:22:00.006+02:00

Sitting at the same spot as the previous morning, having my morning cigarette I met Julie of Quebec. Her english was comsi-comsa (or however one would spell the french expression meaning something like so-so) - but we were soon having a nice little conversation.

The Route Napoleon was still closed, and I'd been trying to decide whether to give up and go, or wait another day. Julie convinced me to stay. Not the hardest of tasks admittedly. We chatted for a while, decided to go looking for a refugio, and after checking a few (amongst others the camping) we decided on the Accueil Paroissial Kaserna - the Parish Refugio.

And then we did some shopping. I'd lost my Swiss army-knife, My Bål-pants had proven themselves to be rather useless when it gets (very) wet, I needed new socks, new shoes and provisions. Julie needed a poncho and a walking stick - a pilgrims staff.

It was a beautiful day, so after finishing our shopping (I got everything but socks and shoes) we went for a slow lunch by the river. We shared some wine and did the ingenious little lunch-gimmick of each making every-other sandwich (small loafs of french bread makes for slow eating of appetizersized sandwiches).

Julie turned out to be a fallen angel. Almost literally. A few years ago she'd done her first parachute jump. The chute didn't open, but she hit some tall trees and miraculously survived. Now she'd just finished nurse-school and was going to walk the camino to find out what she wanted to do with her life and to maybe find some healing from the trauma of surviving what should not have been survived.

She wanted to go to Africa or take an extra year to get a specialization. The last time I met her was in Pamplona where she took an extra day. She was a strong willed walker, but her weight and lack of training made her suffer from blisters and whatnot. I hope she finished. I hope she decided to go to Africa.

The Ninja and the Cowboy.

And then came along the first 'proffesional' pilgrim of my camino. Was he a man of God or adventurous free soul who'd found a niche? It's hard to say - a littlebit of bout - but there is no doubt, atleast, that he was not a pious man. A traveling monk; and not a prophet is my conclusion after spending a few hours with him.

Julie seemed a bit distressed by him and his younger friend, and soon she left. (But first we helped her repack her way to heavy bags...) She reassured me time and time again that she completely understood my desire to get to know these fellows. And then she left. I wonder how she felt though. Uncomfortable with the drinking and the smoking? Uncomfortable with the free spirited brotherhood? Uncomfortable, perhaps, with her own discomfort?

We got drunk and stoned together. He told me he'd been walking for 17 years and that he was on his way to India. He told me he was ex-military, but upon closer scrutiny it turned out he had been a military clerk and not the fieldgrunt he seemed to want me to believe that he was.

I don't know what he was searching for. We spoke a bit of things spiritual; and when I sensed that his mind was indeed open I did preach a bit for him. In return he spoke to me on matters of the road. Of God he did not speak.

And here is his young friend. Getting to know the next generation (this young man is almost 15 years younger than me - he could have been my son) has been one of the great privileges of my camino. There is great hope.

But every single one of them seem too touched by the amount of information available. The conspiracies and dark truths of this world are known to them - and just like happened to me when that veil was ripped from my eyes - they either battle windmills thinking they be dragons... or they let themselves succumb to hedonism and indifference.

But he was young, his mind was open and when I spoke to him of choosing battles he did understand and his mind seemed to move with great leaps across traps and obstacles I myself used years to overcome by my lonesome.

I asked him why he had a moslem beard and he explained that he used it to look older and more dangerous walking through the big cities. I've done the same myself on many an occasion - but I did recommend him to grow a mustache. Not only would he look better, but he wouldn't get in trouble for looking like a muselman.

St. Jean Pied-de-Port day II

2010-05-06T09:30:00.015+02:00

In the St.Jean Pied-de-Port church (or cathedral?) you can find this beautiful almost lifesized statue. At first glanse it simply looks like Mary gently stomping out evil (the snake) like you would a cigarette-butt - a gentle echo of the (for me) most striking scene in Mel Gibsons The Passion of the Christ. But then Alan More asks the question, concerning a similar image, in his new masterpiece Promethea: Are she stomping out evil? Or are she growing out of the snakes head? Growing out of the imagination of the coiled one, much like many a female goddess (Aphrodite, Athene et cetera) have grown out of the heads of their creators?

I guess I should have taken a picture of the long street in the old city of St. Jean Pied-de-Port. But, ofcourse, I didn't. In the very center of the city is a river - this crossing used to be one of the most perilous parts of the camino until the bridge was built sometime in the middle ages. The church is to the left - and the next picture is taken from that little landing just before the next bridge.

In the forresthill to the left you can find a small path going up to the fortress. It's a beautiful little climb, and a perfect secluded spot to have a picnic.

The Route Napoleon was closed because of snow in the passes, so I decided to stay another day - I really didn't want to walk by the highway 'cross the Pyrinees when Route Napoleon is rumored to be one of the most beautiful and history-rich (Napoleon, Hannibal ++) crossings in Europe.

Having to be out of the Refugio by 8 or 9 in the morning it was going to be a long day.

I spent a lot of time here; enjoying my morning cigarette and contemplating the pretty flowers dancing in the stream. I'm quite sure they are waterlilies. But man! When I see them I only think lotus. That flower used as the recurring image of the mind, the soul, in buddhist teachings due to its ability to grow unsoiled anywhere. No matter how harsh your conditions, how dirty a life you've led; there you are... unsoiled, white, perfect.

I spend most of my day trawling the shops of St. Jean - I need some equipment, and want to get to know what, where and how much. What I spend most time on - except simply walking around and getting to know the city - is whether to buy a guidebook or not.

At the pilgrimage-office (about 50 meters from the pilgrims-gate) they gave me two printouts: one of just about every Refugio between here and Santiago de Compostella with information on shops, bars, pharmacies & ATM's - and one printout outlining every (recommended) étape with graphic representation of the étapes climbs and descents. (I'll get some scans or photos of this later).

With this, in addition to the secret guidebook I was all set as to the basics. But a 'proper' guidebook would ofcourse provide me with recommendations on where to stay and what to see; information on the history and so on. But a 'real' guidebook would also tend to bind me. When I did the walk with my mother two years earlier I had watched with horror how she would study the guidebook at every break; unable to free herself and just be, just trust, just take it all in.

Without a guidebook I would loose out on a lot of things. I knew I would pass significant places without noticing, I would see this or that without appreciating the history of the thing, I would sit in a bar enjoying my coffee without realizing there was a legendary bar 150 meters down the road (and once you've had your coffee you walk on to the next town). Or I would pass places such as the waterfall of trials, the grotto of the Virgen de Camino and so on and so forth.

First show of turistas. Every day there were busloads of them rushing through the city; looking at the castle, the pilgrims-gate, the refugios, the church, at the pilgrims. Looking at me.

In the end I realized the question was what kind of pilgrim I wanted to be. Cultural or spiritual? I chose to be a spiritual pilgrim. I chose to trust in the Lord our God. I chose keeping my mind and soul open and alert for the little things that would guide me to the right places. I chose accepting that I wasn't meant to see what I didn't find; and I chose to truly appreciate the things I found and the things that found me.

I chose traveling without a guidebook.

Not beeing allowed to stay in a refugio for more than one night I move to the first refugio down the road from the municipal for my second night in St.Jean-Pied-de-Port. Sadly the private refugio sucks - the Hospitalera [photo below] is a real bitch, and while it doesn't really show on the photo [above] there is one - 1 - toilette and one - 1 - shower. ON THE BALCONY!

Local produce. Some spicy port-like fortified Basque wine. It was said to be best served chilled so I asked if I could use the fridge (normally there is a fridge for the pilgrims in these places - I had to use her private fridge). She seemed rather judgemental about the whole thing; a rather protestant attitude - but then again I'm sure they get all sorts in St. Jean Pied-de-Port, and I'm sure most of them (the worst of us) are gone by Pamplona.

The next morning she liked me though. I guess she'd realized I'm a no-fuzz-guy even if my indjan blood and ptss makes me disposed to enjoy half a bottle rather than half a glass. She seemed quite the concervative; the mantleplace shrine (45degrees to the right of the pic below) was filled with Virgens, Christs and Saints. She was having quite the jovial conversation with the gay couple pictured below; telling all sorts of obviously very funny jokes in french, and my guess is she had no idea there where rainbow-people in her house and that she would not have been as jovial had she realized.

It was... moving to see the (assumed) pillowbiter stopping himself time and time again from touching his partner; realizing on his very first day that he was back in the old world: back where he would have to hide his true identity.

Assumed pillowbiter to the left. He's telling me not to publish his picture on the intarweb. I've been debating whether to publish or not for months now and doing it I feel like an asshole. I don't know that he is gay or what he was afraid of. Or why my guts tell me to publish - because this guy is the only one I'm publishing against his will - even including my totally unfounded speculations about his sexuality. I guess the homo-thing is the reason I'm publishing. I'll respect running from the law, living your life in the anarchist underground, proving that interdependency exists and all the reasons in the world. But being in the closet is just so 1990.

My roomie. Spanish guy. Nice guy. No english.

I love southern European kitch-art. It's not afraid of being sexy. Why O'why are the Scandinavians the ones with the reputation of being 'liberated'? Never will you find stuff like this in a Scandinavian home that doesn't display it in a self conscious, slightly ironic way - and even then will it be some kind of 30's negro girl and not something simply sexy like this or the almost CP-like piece I found in Mansilla de las Mulas.

In the evening I went back to the municipal refugio where I spent the evening with two Norwegians - the only Norwegians I would spend an evening with until I was back in Scandinavia. The guy had that happy christian-thing going so typical for Norwegian pentecostals and such; that thing that makes you not want to believe in God.

But, to give him justice, to give them justice: charismatic, nice people. I think he had some sort of menial ordinary job; but I keep thinking of him like he was some sort of tv-preacher, a religious journalist. He had a very direct way of being, asked good questions and seemed to be on the path to wisdom.

When he asked me why I was going, and I answered, as I usually did, that I did the walk two years ago with my mother and that I'd realized I had to do it again and that I had to make it as long as possible; the conversation turned interesting and personal.

We had a nice long talk about parents. How we really love them even though they usually fuck most of us up. They do get blamed for that a lot. But really, I think it's life fucking us up. Your parents are only the first people having a proper chance of doing it.

Looking at him you'd think it was his mother that was his center-of-attention. But no, it was his father.

And sweet sweet... uhm... I forgot her name and never had the courage to ask again. I think it might be Margit or somesuch. We'd meet quite a few times along the road; even, in the end, in Finisterre. She was a slow but steady walker who'd walked all the way from Le Puy. An artist working with tapestries; a true pilgrim; a beautiful person with a beautiful smile.

She was carrying way to much though - but proof that just about anyone can do it if they just take the time and have the will. I hope I can find out who she is because I'd really love to see some of her art and I'd really love to see what the camino inspires her to make.

Ostabat-St.Jean Pied-de-Port

2010-05-05T19:20:00.010+02:00

Having walked the camino back in 2008 I knew that everything would change once I reached Saint Jean Pied-de-Port, and even the most rainy day yet couldn't really somber my mood. Not to much anyway.

In Spain there would be well marked roads. Pilgrims. English-speaking pilgrims. Shops, bars and infrastructure. Really; I am a big fan of infrastructure. Whenever I talk to people dreaming of doing the South-East Asia-thing I tell them to go to Thailand first. Good place to acclimatize; to get used to the culture et cetera. Why? Because of the infrastructure. Good roads, traffick slightly less insane than other countries in the region, 7-11's, ATM's, some of the best doctors and hospitals in the world.

Now that's infrastructure. You don't know how welcome a little shed along the road is before you've walked a few hours in pouring rain. You should make your pilgrimage as long as you can - it takes time to start appreciating the little things. But once you do, everything has already changed.

I've never been able to make up my mind about these little trolleys some people use instead of backpacks. On one level they must be very practical on good and flat/downhill roads - but considering that you have to drag them along in rugged and at times intensely uphill terrain: you cannot really drag that much more than you can carry in a backpack. Also, if you've followed me all the way from Bordeaux I'm sure you've seen pictures of terrain where a trolley would be hard pressed to pass.

And they are, indeed, as you can see, prone to mechanical failure. I'm sure some pilgrim had some very upsetting moments right here. (I'm sure he/she is feeling better by now). So, I wouldn't advice it unless you have backproblems. That pack might seem heavy at first - but you adopt, you get stronger and if you (like most beginners) pack to much you can simply throw some of it off or just send it home by mail.

One of the things I love about walking the camino is to see the changing of the seasons. You might remember the pictures from Bordeaux of the stunted winetrees not-yet-in-bloom... and here they are; whether it be the time that has passed since my start or the miles&miles in a southly heading I've walked: it's a very satisfying feeling. And this is only an example that comes well off on a photographia. The only way to discover the subtle differences; the smells, the colours, the et ceteras; is to do the walk yourself.

Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it.

While French designers can fuck up simplistic tasks like designing an arrow - it's still hard not to enjoy French design. This roadsign does, though, raise some questions. Don't hesitate to give your analysis (or even your narrative) in the commentsfield.

Now that's design. Just put some sticks in the ground. It means: This road is closed/private/do not go to Santiago.

Ohhh!! Angry now! My 2-300€ Missinglink hardcore mountaineering-jacket can't stand the rain! Whatthefuck! Now, in southern France that's annoying. In Norwegian mountains that's dangerous. Really, really, really dangerous.

I will write some posts on equipment later on - I just really need to write my way home while memories are reasonably fresh. I'd love to get some sponsors for my next adventure - but I guess I'm not going to get any. Missinglink, Trangoworld, Mammut, Kuxkul, McKinley, Fuji are all gonna get trashed. And who wants to sponsor someone who trashes "quality" equipment and then proceeds to trash the producers on his well-renowned and widely read blog?

No, that's not sweat. It was a chill day.

Well; nothing like bus-shed for your lunch. If you study the picture you can see that I am still eating cake. Ohh. Pilgrim life - sometimes I miss it.

The view from my lunch-shed.

Somewhere on the camino some hours walk north of St.Jean Pied-de-Port is a church dedicated to Mary Magdalene - said to be the closest disciple to Jesus of Nazareth. Take the time someday to study the Gospel of Mary Magdalene - it is quite different from the gospels authorized by the church of Peter.

This picture of the picture of Michel Garicoits is taken inside the Church of Mary Magdalene. Im sure that if I bothered to google it I'd find that this is just another example of confusing French design.

I prefer the mystery. Who is this man? How did he become 200 years old. Why is his portrait in a church dedicated to Mary Magdalene?

Walking into the Basque country I'd expected to see a lot of these ETA-tags - but this is the only one I saw. I guess they're not to popular with the kids.

St. Jean Pied-de-Port is on the other side of that hill. I wanted to savour the moment and walked up to the castle before walking through that gate.

And through the pilgrims gate. I just might have felt more joy walking in to Santiago - but walking through the pilgrims gate of St. Jean Pied-de-Port after two weeks of hell in what was rumored to take about 7 days was an enormous personal victory.

Really, there were times I thought I would not be able to make it. It's kind of funny; meeting other pilgrims I felt like such a veteran. But two weeks later they too would have walked as long and far as me - and still there would be new arrivals for another two weeks.

There are many who insists we are all the same, we are all pilgrims. I&I; we are all the same, all part of the Allsoul, all gems in the eye of the Allfather Maybe especially the more experienced pilgrims, and the most politically correct mostest authentic individuals of western civilization in the age of post-modern authenticity.

Yes; we have the same basic rights. We are all pilgrims thrust into a life we most likly never asked for. We are all children of the Universe (or whatever you choose to call God). It is all Love: But we are not the same. I am not you -whether you be more hardcore than I or you be softer - and you are not I. Neither on the camino, nor in real life. I will write and have written more on this. But elsewhere.

In the foreground are two French-Canadians. The upper-middle-class girl is presumably rebelling and travelling with her construction prettyboy boyfriend. The guy is... I don't remember. But Quebecan aswell and quite the amateur artist. He even made a aquarell of me outside the pilgrims gate. I'll be sure to post it once I get 'round to it.

And Patrick - he took my advice and spent atleast this one night in a public refugio. For some reason, even though this was the last night I saw him, even though he really didn't make that much of an impression: he kept coming to mind when I was praying for the many people I'd met on my camino. Mayhap he was praying for me?

The hospitalera. Basque, proud, rash, a bit rude (allthough "direct" is a much better word). In many a way she reminds me of my own people; the Northern people. Not bound by convention, strong and free. Quick to anger, even quicker to laughter.

Easy to ridicule for 'well mannered' and 'cultured' individuals.

Ofcourse those of the Northern or Basque people who hasn't had their pride and heritage brainwashed out of them by the constant mediastorms surrounding us all; will tell you that "Southerners" and "French people" know nothing of culture or manners.

In their minds, it seems; the verbal culture of my people is something to ridicule. "Oh, northerners, they swear a lot." The southern culture - theater and art and literature all drawn out of the ass of the continent - now that's culture and if you find it pathetic you are no more than just another hillbilly.

The greatest artist I ever met were northern storytellers seemingly only chatting over a cup of coffee by the kitchen window. It takes a whole life to perfect that art, and it took me about 20 years to realise that the pretentious "artists" of refined culture have nothing on a geriatric chatty northerner with a cup of coffee as his only prop.

She reminds me of my mother and my grandmother. I love women like this. On my pilgrimage I am trying to decide whether to stay married, have children and become a priest: or to become a vagabond. Waybound. Walking Gods good earth; serving those I meet; delivering a message of hope and gratitude because His creation is good and if you ever doubt it take a walk through a trenchtown, a ghetto, barrio, a slum and look at all the happy faces and happy moments. (But do try not to look like a tourist; take your jewelery off, leave your creditcards and valuables at home and keep your eyes down brother...)

Looking at this woman I want to stay at home. I want to be a breeder. I want to be the salt of the earth. Because this is what my wife will become - only in a northern fashion.

The French-Canadian couple is only planning to travel about half-way. Then Ibiza. A compromise between academic and working-class culture. I'd say I hope it works out for them; but I sort of don't. He is a very cool guy - but once he is through liberating her from convention he will only be holding her back.

To the far right is an Italian gentleman I sadly don't remember the name of - but walking the same pace we became quite the friends even though we shared almost no language.

On the castle sharing some of the holy ganja. I preached a bit to them about the spiritual use of ganja and they seemed to take it to heart.

On top of the pilgrims gate. On top of the world.

Timothy's Monster

2010-08-13T13:08:00.011+02:00

Motorpsychos 1994 double album Timothy's Monster is recognized by many as - depending on the level of nationalism of the recognizer - respectively the best Norwegian album ever and as the best album ever.

Now I would never say such a thing. But honestly, while I won't say it's the best album ever, that would go against most of my principles, I truly can't think of a better album.

Tomorrow they will play the album in it's entirety at the Øya-festival in Oslo. It is the first time, and likely the last, that will happen. Sadly I cannot be there; and until I can find some link to that - in the time of writing - coveted and yet to come performance you'll just have to do with this little glimpse of a 1995 backyard-concert. (And if you're wondering: yes, they were already big shining stars at this point - thats just how cool they are.)

It's cool and all; but trust me - it does absolutely no justice to the masterpiece that is Timothy's Monster.

Tommy Olssons mini-essay on Timothy's Monster in Dagbladet.

Saint Palais-Ostabat

2010-05-04T19:19:00.009+02:00

The hospitaleros at Saint Palais. I think they'd started walking in Le Puy, but when they were offered the position as hospitaleros in Saint Palais they took it to get a little break. Truly great people. I mentioned my frustration about not being able to dry my clothes - well it were not these guys fault. They filled the kitchen with heaters and we were all drying our clothes - but when the official came to inspect we all had to hide our stuff in a hurry cause apparently he would go flippio if he saw they were doing us this little service.

I also met my first playgrim in Saint Palais. The picture is unrelated, it's just some more honoured dead French sons. The playgrim hailed from the Estados Unidos - his cute little peregrina was Swiss.

What, exactly, is a playgrim you might ask? Well, the Camino Santiago is also known as the Camino of Love. Just consider it: You walk all day in beautiful nature. In the morning you stop in a bar once or twice for coffee; at lunch you'll have a picnic at some wünderschön scenic spot, then maybe you'll have a glass of wine or another cup of coffee, for the road so to speak, in some other little cozy bar. And then you'll come to some refugio, and there you'll make a nice little dinner, or perhaps you'll go out to a nice restaurant.

Now, if you do all that with some person of the opposite sex (there are no gay people on the camino - but we all hope to see the rainbow people there as soon as possible): this all translates to the perfect date. And while there most certainly are many people who find true love on the camino --- there are those who pray on cute little peregrinas whom are striken by the mood and the openess and perhaps are a little oblivious to the fact that also playas might walk the same road as themselves.

Now, such a playa, such a cock of prey is what we call a Playgrim.

He'd walked the camino a few times before. Was only walking a part of it this time. When I told him I intended to walk all the way to Finisterre he told me I just had to visit Muxia. At first I just thought he was showing of for his girlfriend - but later other people told me the same. So, I don't know anymore.

I guess one thing doesn't exclude the other.

Wow! Is that the Pyrinees in the background?? Yes, yes I think it is!

That little white building down yonder is a chapel. I experienced my first little camino miracle there. I will tell you more of that later - once I start filling inn all my notes.

Inside the private refugio. I don't know whether to love or hate their pilgirmshell-toiletpaperholder. All French roads going to St.Jean Pied-de-Port are now entwined; thus all other refugios were full. I shared rooms with an elderly academic expert on Islam named Patrick. From the US with his roots in Catholic Ireland we had some interesting discussions on Islam.

The great apostle James, Jaques, Jacob, Jack, Tiago is best known in Spain as San Tiago Matamoro (Saint James Moorsbane) [moors is an ancient word for arabs/moslems]. I tried, several different ways, to get his thoughts on the revival on the road of Jack Matamoro in these troubled times. But even though he was so deeply invested in the issue he had to break his camino to speak in a conference in Israel he had nothing good to come with other than that my observations where good, acute, interesting and so on.

Truth be told he seemed a bit paranoid about the whole thing. It's strange to me that a man who has invested his whole career in the issue has nothing to say on it. But then, he probably was just out to save his soul in the holy year and not here to discuss politics. But man! I wasn't out for a discussion - I just wanted the views of a learned man on the issues at hand.

He was very sceptical of the municipal refugios and the dormitories. And, I think, in the end I did him more favours than he did me by convincing him to try them out. It is in the municipals and parroquials you find the authentic pilgrims and the interesting people. The private refugios seldom offer interesting conversation.

Still no shops; meaning no food. And while I love my little cake; dinner was mandatory here. 23€ for a shared room, dinner and breakfast is really not that bad - even in Spain. But mandatory dinner, even as great as it was is sort of taking advantage.

The couple to my right at dinner. He was a farmer, she was a teacher. She was loving it, he was just dragged along. The camino can be extreme to couples. Either it binds them so close they will never part - or it rips them apart as relentlessly and slowly as you rip that compeed-band aid off a blister that started filling with water again.

To early to say with these guys though.

We're at Lucie and Bernards private refugio - and that's Lucie in the background. She's a wonderful cook, a nice, organized and professional hospitalera. I would meet the couple in the foreground many times along the camino, but in the end they had to give up. Nice people. She spoke good English, he almost none. I think they walked to hard. When I left the next morning they stayed another day because of the rain - and if that really was their habit they would have to walk pretty hard to keep up with me enough for us to meet again and time again. And when they in the end gave up it was because of that camino demon tendinitis.

And this is Bernard. I remember praying to meet 'true basques' that day. I don't know if my prayer was answered - but were Lucie where organized and professional; Bernard was the perfect host. Serving drinks, toasting, telling stories I wish I had the language-skills to understand and singing old camino songs to entertain us.

But there was something of the clown about him; some broken pride. Never will I sing the songs of our people for southern tourists looking for authenticity. And I do think Bernard would have been happier making bombs for the ETA than singing for the fine frenchies in the room.

But then again. I'd rather be a broken clown than a killer of innocents. But maaan! Look at those strong hands; he wasn't made to be the entertainment of his peoples conquerors.

Bergouey-Saint Palais

2010-05-03T19:17:00.005+02:00

In my humblest of opinions, churches should be open and free. Especially on the camino. If the holy church cannot see their spiritual duty to mankind; then atleast they should not fail to see it as a business. As I walk through wind and rain and cold and blazing sun these holy places not only become a place of worship and meditation, but places of rest and refuge.

Now, a layman might think that he does not want 'his' church to be a place of rest and refuge. A place where hippie freaks can roll up their joints, a place where cultural and sportif "pilgrims" can rest their sore feet. But truly, you underestimate your God and his place of worship. How many times do you think a man can take refuge without starting to feel it?

And once you've felt it a few times... you know it. And once you know you start giving. Which brings me back to my point about running a business: If you fail to serve your God; you should atleast serve your church - and you serve your church the very best by fishing new souls.

Really, it's amazing to me that you can fill a place of worship with so much silver and gold and precious gems you have to lock it up for the children of God - and yet you cannot afford a simple servant of God to watch over that gold or; to build a small sidechapel for those seeking Him outside your official hours.

Without really noticing it I had started to talk to the cows. Not like, you know, conversations; but little greetings. Bonjour Madame, Bonjour Mesdames, that kind of thing. These young ladies, like most cows that age, were a bit shy and rather curious.

I didn't know yet, ofcourse, but the Tours-trail converges with the more famous and more trafficked Le Puy-trail in Saint Palais - and quite possible one or both of the 2 other main French routes. My camino is about to change radically - the only clue I have so far is higher density of religious markings along the trail.

Behind the threes is a grand mansion. That little pavilion must have been a great place to have your morning coffee back before it became a trafficked road.

The food I stole in Bergouey. Flour, oil, eggs and sugar. If you add vitamin-pills to your diet that's really all you need.

As the rain started to pour I used the crucifix on this tomb as focus for my meditation. In retrospect He seems a feeble shield against the elements and the world. But for the 30 minutes the heavens opened up that figure seemed to grow before my eyes; and that tomb and those within seemed encased in the glow of His selfless love.

As I decided that it was not going to stop raining, and I just had to push on... the rain simply stopped.

Bonjour madame :)

Now that's a pilgrims bench. So high your feet are dangling; giving those sore and blisterridden footsies a little rest while you enjoy the view and whatever you carried with you to enjoy.

I might be mistaken, but I'm quite sure this is taken inside the Saint Palais refugio. It used to be a Franciscan monastery - now it's taken over by the government; but still run by volunteers. I don't know how expensive electrical power is in France these days - but it's strange to me that they can't afford the heating necessary for wet pilgrims to dry their clothes.

Really, I don't mind spending time inside old cold buildings. Its all part of the experience; we should learn to do with little. But to keep a couple of ovens running in a small dryingroom or the kitchen perhaps? Just to dry clothes? Just for that feeling of hospitality? It takes so little. The places I truly remember fondly along the road are not only the parroquial refugios with donativo 3-course meals and group-prayers - but also the places who just had that littlebit extra, that little consideration for roadweary pilgrims: a handicap shower, a glass of lemonade, somewhere to dry your clothes (or atleast your shoes!) on the really wet days.

My first pilgrim friend - Upstream Thomas, the [academic] philosopher, who was going from Santiago to Paris. I provided him with Paulo Cohelos The Pilgrimage and his first camino high - he provided me with a Spanish phrasebook and the much rumored and coveted secret guidebook passed out only to peregrinos authenticos.

I'll write more on him once I've finished writing my way to Finisterre as I have plenty of notes on him. So if you're reading this; just a reminder: This is a work in progress, and not really worth reading unless you enjoy watching works in progress unfold.

Woods outside Bergouey-Bergouey

2010-05-02T19:16:00.007+02:00

Bergouey turned out to be about 45 minutes walk from my campsite. No shop, no bar. I eat my last food for breakfast at some sort of racketballcourt. It's my backupfood, the last of it except for Sojins Korean noodlesoup. It's dry and stale, but atleast I'm fed and good to go - and Saint Palais is not that far; only 20-30K.

I meet some lady sitting in her car and studying a map on a roadside-stop where the camino misses a small village by a short kilometer. I ask her if there are any shops or bars up in that village; she says no and I go on my way.

As I walk past this farm I find water in a hose hanging on the side of a shed. As I fill my waterbottle the farmdog comes up to me; aggressive barking but he keeps 2-3 meters distance. I quickly pack the bottle in my backpack, throw the backpack on my back and start walking. The farmer is driving slowly down the road towards me on a tractor. The dog is following me, still barking, I make a point of greeting the farmer and the farmer grins and greets back. The dog chills a little, but he keeps following.

Behind me the farmer disappears into the barn. The dog is joined by an other dog, and they start barking again, but they still keep their distance. I'm about a hundred meters past the farm and I'm like whatthefuck I should be out of their "zone" by now.

They're joined by a third dog, apparently belonging to the neighbour. This one is very fucking aggressive and not only does he charge me, but he riles up the two other dogs. While a little phobic about dogs (I was bitten as a small child) I'm not really afraid of them. I feel confident I can kick most dogs ass; if there's only one of them, if they aint the big type of attackdogs; like rottweilers, bigass sheperds or... God forbid... huskies.

Even if none of these are larger than bigsized mediums, three dogs could probably take me. I been fearing this moment since I decided to start walking. On my last camino I was scared (almost) shitless by three other farmdogs. First a small one came running up to me barking and looking like he was actually going to bite me and I was overconfident, I didn't assess the situation properly and I just raised my cane and made an aggressive fuck-you-you-little-shit stance that scared that little lapdog into submission and awoke the two unseen, unchained fucking HUGE dogs that had been lying in wait 20 meters away outside the farmhouse. They charged and I did the full submission-thing and walked away and luckily they decided not to kill me.

There's been a lot of dogs on the camino, and I've experimented a bit with different moves and stances as I've passed the most aggressive fenced-in ones. I've learned that outright aggression, lifting my stick, that sort of thing just make them go click - so when that first dog charges me I just point my cane at him like a spear or a sword and he does the sensible thing and keeps a halfmeter away. They charge in turns, circle me, but I manage to keep them away, and when I'm about a 150 meters away from the second farmhouse they seem to give up.

I walk pretty fast down the asphalted hillside road. Not to fast though; I don't want to show fear. Then I hear the *clicking* sound of paws on road. I turn as fast as I can and the silent attacker almost runs into my cane and a good whack. He trails me for another 5 minutes or so - but at a distance.

I find a good spot to break; get my nerves in check. Start walking again. I find a "Gite". I've convinced myself that these are really some sort of pensions or somesuch. It's only a bit past noon, but I only had a few hours sleep last night thanks to that raveparty, sleeping in tents never is that restfull to me - soft cityboy that I am - and the day has been stressfull. So I ask for a bed. No bed. Does she know where I can buy some food? No food. Ok. Thank you. I'll be on my way then.

Now, what exactly is a "Gite"? I have no idea.

An hour or two later I meet the aforementioned lady with the map. She's dropping of two pilgrims - they seem so fresh I'm guessing they're just starting out - but you never know with these "pilgrims" with support-vehicles. It is amazing how fresh they manage to look.

She smiles, half-laughs, says ahh!! Taking the grand tour!? I just smile and go on. Really, I'm in no mood to talk. My feet are starting to hurt aswell, and I'm wet. Soon the two fresh pilgrims overtake me, we walk together and chat a bit for a few minutes. It turns out it's their first day (or so they claim).

Then I see that strange (in French only) warningsign I saw last night by my campsite. I ask them what it means, and they explain me that it means it's a huntingground and that you might just get accidentally shot if you hang around. It's Sunday. I don't ask them whether French hunters usually are professionals working from Monday to Friday - or more if they're more like the Norwegian hobby-hunters who prefer hunting on the weekends, preferably drunk. I'm quite sure I won't like the answer.

I have a nagging suspicion, I say goodbye and go to investigate that little huntingground. That really looks remarkably like that sign last night. Really, the whole little hill looks remarkably like my very campsite.

It is. I've walked in a circle. I've not been lost once. I've been following yellow arrows all day and Im back at my startingpoint. I do not collect 200€. It's only 2 or 3 o'clock when I arrive in Bergouey again. But really, really, I don't feel motivated to walk on. Not to be overly repetitive, but my feet hurt. I am hungry. And while winning over three dogs is really empowering I reeeeaaally did not want to see those damn dogs again. Not today.

So I let myself in to the unmanned (?) refugio. It's such a nice refugio I'm even half-doubtful it even is a refugio. But you know, if you have a public-looking building with pilgrimsymbols on the outer walls, an unlocked door and beds, kitchen, toilets and showers, and just leave it unmanned on the pilgrim-trail you are bound to have some pilgrims taking advantage.

I raid their kitchen and loot a chocolate, some beers, and the next morning I even steal a kilo of Magdalena-cake from the freezer. Really, how many days was it now since I saw a shop? And tomorrow is monday. France don't work on mondays half the time. I wash my clothes, I eat well, I get a slight buzz and I sleep perfectly and the next day I just fuck that pilgrimroute and take the road for the first 10K or so.

No dogs :)

I even write a warning for other pilgrims in the guestbook.

Yep, nothing like a shave and a shower. Maybe now I'll get rooms in the Gites?

Lindt - Lindor

2010-05-03T10:28:00.004+02:00

This chocolate is perfect; it tastes like chocolate cake without all the damn cake.

Someone left it at Bergouy. A pilgrim? An angel? I tried to be a good pilgrim and just have a couple of bites; to leave the rest for someone else. Impossible.

Cagnotte-woods outside Bergouey

2010-05-01T19:15:00.007+02:00

It rained that night and off and on through the day. But it would turn out to be a beautiful day. Walking through wet grass is not beautiful though. It makes you wet.

Saving my shoes and feet by walking in my farmersandals. It takes time, is wearysome; but one of the lessons I learned early on as mountaineer and trekker is that a little extra effort to keep your feet dry always pays of. I'd rather use 30 minutes on a 10 minute stretch than walk the rest of the day with wet feet. Not only is it unpleasant, but there is no surer way to get blisters than walking with wet feet.

Wow! What is that? Art? A secret message?

One of several little beecubefarms. No bees though. Maybe they don't like the rain? That's ok with me. I love all living bee-ings; but I prefer loving bees from a distance.

I like basque food. This is some kind of spicy liverpaste. Perfect roadfood.

I hope this doesn't sound to gay; but i really love this little flying cock.

There is something about rain that tends to kill animals. I have no idea what or why.

It is about 4:30 in the afternoon. But with my muddled decisionmakingprocess I feel it's a bit early to call it a night even if I found a very nice little chapel that's being restored. Neither did I manage to take a picture of the chapel. Cause, you know, my face is just so much more interesting.

And then, suddenly, light was fading, I was wet and starting to hurt and even though I was pretty sure Bergouey could not be far I just had to put up camp. I don't like walking in the dark with all the rabid French dogs, and anyways refugios do tend to be almost impossible to enter after 6ish in the afternoon.

It's saturday. We're all having a party that night. Down the valley the french kids(?) are having what sounds like an outdoor rave lasting well into the night and early hours. I'm enjoing some of the holy ganja and the last of my Dax-cognac in my tent. I'm sure we all agree'd it was a pity the DJ sucked.

St.Paul lés Dax-Cagnotte(?)

2010-04-30T19:13:00.009+02:00

The Dax hospitalero. Really a very nice man. I was still sleeping when he came to clean - as I was starting to hurry he just told me to chill and take my time (or whatever the equivalent in French is - he didn't speak a word of English ofcourse).

Later on it would be pretty hard to notice I was a hippie-stoner walking the camino, but those first couple of days in Dax I guess it was pretty obvious I was stoned. I hadn't smoked the holy ganja for months, and when you're smoking there is always a day or two of adjusting before you get that desired level of feeling God and nature and spirituality (and not to forget: loosing most of my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder-symptoms) without actually being so stoned you're having trouble keeping your eyes open, or falling to deep into whatever you're contemplating.

But this guy showed absolutely no judgement; and if there was any at all it was a judgement so positive it's impossible for me to tell if he was happy that a stoner was doing the camino (presumably to change his life) or just happy to see a fellow hippie on the road.

I'd seen these memorial statues in every village and town since Bordeaux; but only now did my mind draw the connection between these and my studies of the "two great wars". As you might know the war-reparations Germany had to pay after WWI broke the country's economical spine and paved the way for Adolph Hitler and the National-Socialist Party, NASDAP, them natzis.

Now, ofcourse, one or two of these little statues are nice. That means that family and friends, the local community perhaps are pulling together to honour their dead sons. When there is one in every little French village; that means the government put them up.

Now, where do you think they got the funds to do that in post war France?

Having studied philosophy and religion extensively I am, ofcourse, quite aware that everything is connected to everything - and that not all those connection are beautiful and filled with the light of God. But really! Those little statues honouring the dead sons of France sort of disgusts me. Was it for this we had to suffer the atrocities of WWII? To honour dead sons who died for a cause they did not understand, a cause they would not have committed to if they did?

Taking my lunch I was watching a son, father and grandfather fishing together in this lake. A happy feeling filled me then; watching the happy people.

I am finally and truly out of that blight of a "national park".

And I'm smoking! My blisters are under control. Roads are no longer completely flat - they go up and down and my acing achilles and beginning tendentious simply disappears now that the terrain is a littlebit more varied. Life is good. It really is.

More dead French sons. I've decided to take pictures of these whenever I see them.

A cross as humble as the Christ himself. It feels like I am finally entering the true camino.

And a little bamboo forest! How cool is that?

Yet even more dead French sons. Note Jesus looking away from the shame of their fathers.

I think I am in Cagnotte - but the refugio was full, and the Mairie was closed so I have no stamp in my pilgrim-passport to refresh my memory. Some random person I asked for directions arranged for me to sleep in this community-hall. Jack bless his soul!

There were cold beers in the frigde, that bed is not nearly as uncomfortable as it seems. It doesn't take much to feel blessed.

I had my dinner in this park. In the background you can see the community-hall where I spent the night.

Yes. Happy, happy, happy deep inside.

Saint Paul les Dax day II

2010-04-29T10:28:00.008+02:00

My shoes are starting to fall apart. I'd thought they'd last all the way to Santiago and beyond. But the wear and tear is simply amazing. More on that elsewhere. Just keep in mind that whatever punishment my equipment is taking, my body is taking as well.

Now, since I actually didn't sleep in the Dax refugio the previous night and thus can sleep there tonight; since I'm getting a late start no matter what since I have to see an optician; since I really do need a little rest... I pack up my equipment and leave before any hospitalero shows up in the morning so that I can arrive again in the afternoon, like, you know, I was never even there.

In some peoples book that's cheating. Not in mine. My vows includes not taking motorised transport and to never send my luggage with one of the many luggage-services along the camino. Ideally I'll try to move closer to Santiago every day, even if that only means to walk 50 meters or 3 kilometers down the road to another refugio. Which is practically possible on most of the Spanish Camino Frances. Not in Dax though unless I want to sleep in a 50€ hotel.

A lot of pilgrims, or touregrinos as the derogatory term goes, will send their luggage or even take the bus or a taxi when they are struggling. I object to such practises. If you had do that you didn't make it to Santiago as a pilgrim. Sorry (but someone had to say it).

If you stop somewhere, even for ten years, without leaving the creeds of the pilgrim, you did make it. There is a spiritual part to that - I'll write more on that later. And then there is what you might call a sportif part to that: how will you know what your body and mind can do if you take a taxi when it starts to hurt, when you realize you cant walk as many K's a day as you thought? It's more honour in not reaching Santiago, coming home and saying I couldn't do it in 30 days than cheating yourself of the true victory and cheating authentic pilgrims of their deserved honour.

You walk a pilgrimage to get merit, yes? By cheating you de-merit yourself; you dishonour yourself in the eyes of other pilgrims, in the eyes of Jack, Jesus and God.

You make it seem like anybody can do it. That's not the reality of the thing. The reality is that everybody can't do it. So, taking an extra day in Dax, extra days in St. Jean Pied-de-Port and then again in Burgos... did I do it? Or did I dishonour myself in the very eyes of humanity?

This is where I had my coffee. I love the fact that there is a topless lady on the wall.

In Finisterre, relating my experiences to Andrea I would say that I don't care a dolt about animals, but that the mistreatment of trees aches my heart. Sometimes I'll say or write pointed things just to hear what it sounds like and/or to help your mind see a completely different and quite possibly mildly relevant point of view; to wake you up.

I do care about animal wellfare. But trees have a special place in my heart. I'm not even ashamed to say that. I prayed and cried for this one as I watched them kill it. I guess for the view of the tenants in that white building or some other stupid heartless reason.

I don't feel much pride for my country. We're fat from the toil of other nations and from the exploitation of nature. (You would be shocked to know the details of fishfarming or the realities of industrial fishing.) At the same time, when I am far far far away from home... I do feel a strange sort of pride when our harsh and cold nature(s) is used as an argument for selling tried and tested technology like below or even for branding luxury items, design and clothes.

Back in the refugio I note that there are no toilets inside, thus the pilgrims last night must have known there was another pilgrim there. Plenty of space aswell.

Plantain-leaves [groblad] - perfect stuff to heal blisters, sores and superficial wounds.

Taller-St.Paul les Dax

2010-04-28T10:22:00.011+02:00

Really, if Norwegian Health Authorities visited France they would close the whole country immediately. Really, I don't mean to be ungrateful. I love to have a bed to sleep in, a microwave to heat my canned food in, and a toilet to do number twos in - and all for the price of 5€. I'll even sleep in my tent, squat in abandoned buildings and do hygienic stuff in rivers, oceans, brothels&sailor-bars. But maaan!

Another example of my inability to take pictures of the interesting things. A couple of kilometers down the road from the chickencoops you suddenly have to depart from the camino and traverse some difficult terrain and then walk along the edge of a large plowfield. Why? I couldn't tell you - but I imagine the pack of rabid dogs running loose on the farm 'cross the field would be it. How many pilgrims were eaten, how many times were the cops called, how many times did the Pilgrims Association call the farmer begging him to stop killing the holy men and women before they gave up and simply changed the camino?

For sure some French person will know.

I imagine these chickenhouses get kind of hot during the day. Are they happy inside there? There seems to be plenty of room outside - but maybe they are Finnish chikens who only want to be in the sauna?

Remember that demon dog a couple of nights ago? I'm pretty sure this must have been the guy. My uncle, who's like some sort of dogwhisperer tells me that huskies really are about the nicest dogs you can come across.

In the fifties they had sort of a bad reputation. Killing people and cats and livestock. So unlike other dogs who've been bred mostly for looks, huskies have been bred for good demeanor and nice temper for 50 years. But then again... that damn dogwhisperer whom dogs don't have to know for 2 minutes before they lie at his feet instead of their owners have absolutely no clue as to how the reality of the thing is for the rest of us. Especially when we meet hungry, lonely and mad huskies at 4:30 in the morning somewhere in the woods with only a swiss armyknife and a cane to defend ourselves.

My dogwhispering uncle and that husky probably would have gone hunting French senior citizens or something together. But for sure that thing would have gone into some sort of bloodrage and eaten me hadn't he fed on some fat French pilgrims only days before.

And behind this house was a little kennel with three mediumsized bitches in it. I was thinking maybe I should practice becoming friends with dogs - I mean, they where behind a two meter tall fence and all. But as I approached them the alphabitch started jumping like nothing I've ever seen and for a moment I though she was really going to make it over and I gave up trying to become her friend and just, you know, kept walking.

And as I was sitting in this most welcome rickety shack I saw a man taking his dogs for a walk in his car. You'd think he was lazy, but as I'm getting to know French dogs I'm sort of wondering if he just was afraid of them.

Ahh! Saint Paul les Dax! The entry to the city is a long stretch - probably even if you haven't walked all day in the blazing sun with blisters and all that without finding neither shops nor bars.

But then, finally, I found a shop with some plastic chairs, a table and a sun umbrella. Could it be any better? They even had cold beers in the fridge. One of the best bars in all of France I would say. Self service, no annoying radio or television playing in the corner. Really, it's a mystery to me that it wasn't a more popular bar.

After one beer I went back in and got one more, and I asked the guy who actually spoke a little English how far it was to the refugio. 50 meters! Maaaan! And then, what do you know, a Rastafarian enters the shop. A few minutes later he comes out with a 12pack of beers and I make contact... Sure he can help me. He disappears round the corner; I finish my beer in one big gulp, get my pack and run after him.

He's waiting. We walk down the street together. He helps me out - and I'll complete this part of the post once I find my notes.

This guy was very cool, but kind of opinionated. Nevertheless we had a nice long chat. He told me he usually don't like guys like me - but since I was a pilgrim he'd decided to like me anyway. I gave him my email - but he never sent me that link he promised to send me. Typical, is it not?

I dropped by the refugio before going to that restaurant; the door was locked and noone seemed to be there. I left my backpack in the toilet with my pilgrim-passport lying on top of it so everybody would understand that that backpack had legitimate business there and that any pilgrims residing at the refugio would understand there was another pilgrim around.

And at that resturant there was a pilgrim couple. No doubt - they had the clothes, the shells and even the pilgrim-walk. (That distinct walk some of us get, especially in the beginning, with stiff muscles, a hint of tendinitis and blisters. If anybody has a good video of the pilgrim-walk don't hesitate to email me @ mats [at] apeskalikkedrepeape.org) We acknowledged eachother; and I was happy to know I would have a bed to sleep in tonight.

Back at the refugio the door was locked. I knocked a couple of times on the door, then gave up. Maybe I should have spoken to them at the restaurant. Maybe I should have banged on that door. But I didn't. I just put up my tent, had a couple of drinks and a joint and went to bed.

They looked kind of shamefull when they walked past me next morning; having my breakfast outside the toilet. I just smiled and wished them bon chemin. I do think I am one of the good guys - but I'm not so good I don't hope that shame lingered like some hardly identifiable unease in their soul all the way to Santiago de Compostella. There, ofcourse, Jack would forgive them and tell them it's OK - he's one of my guys - just don't be such selfish assholes another time.

Lesperon-Taller

2010-04-27T19:11:00.005+02:00

Interior from the Lesperon church. I can only assume that what appears to be a black painted satanic cross over the entry from the church's antechamber is supposed to represent St. Peter - the founder of The Holy Church of Rome - who infamously demanded to be crucified upside down; not being worthy to die the same way as the Nazarene.

I find it strange that an organization so preoccupied with symbolism would put Peters cross higher than the Lord's. I mean... they're infallible right? (And thus this little arrangement is full of meditated symbolism.)

For an introduction on how things came to be the way they are; how the Church of Peter became the one church I recommend reading Elaine Pagels The Gnostic Gospels. (But be warned: Pagel is no fan of Peter.)

I prayed to the Virgin Mother. For wayfarers&pilgrims, for my loved ones, to wake stronger tomorrow than I did today. That kind of thing.

The first xxx kilometres to Santiago de Compostella-sign. Seems a bit short though. As the crow flies perhaps? Walking up the hill you really can't discern in the background a nice lady stopped her car and asked if she could do anything for me. I had food&water in my pack, I was rested and had an ice cold coca-cola in my hand; so no. But her thoughtful gesture filled my heart with joy for hours. It still does.

Their mansion was walled in, but the huge wellkept garden was in the public domain. Their dog was a bit upset that I was lounging on 'his' lawn - but after about 15 minutes of barking and me ignoring him and enjoying my lunch he gave up. I had a very nice nap, and when I awoke my sweatsoaked clothes were sundried.

This guy had biked all the way from Belgium. We had a nice little chat; he took my picture and asked me to take his. Then he returned the favour and went on his way.

The landscape still wasn't encouraging - but it was definitely changing as I was moving into the Basque country.

On my first camino in 08 my photocamera died after less than a week. For my birthday a couple of months before heading out my love gave me a shock and waterproof camera. On a little rickety bridge of planks and stone over a beautiful little creek in the shade of some old and seemingly very happy threes I was watching the newly hatched frogs playing in the stream while changing the compeeds on my blisters; when I decided to try out that waterproofness of my camera.

Success, but by the time I reached the ocean a couple of months later the "shockproof" camera was to battered to risk testing in the inviting Atlantic.

I don't know much French, but I'm pretty sure that sign in the top right of the picture means "In case of forestfire: Run really fast, maan!" It might also mean that you shouldn't make a campfire or throw your sigarettebutts around - although that's improbable: For sure they would just have put a sign with flames and an X over it like in the rest of the world.

Looks like a nice little forest-road right? A lot better than walking along highways, right? But really, it was like walking on a beach. Without the cooling ocean winds.

Outside the Taller church.

Now, being a cityboy and all, I'm not to sure about, you know, animals. But surely the boys have antlers and the girls not? And even if that's completely incorrect and they all have antlers and that is indeed not a post-op transsexual deerbuck exposing his beautiful pussy... and even though I'm very openminded and don't really mind bestiality at all (hey, whatever makes you happy baby!) ... that is a strange picture to paint on the wall of your house.

Click on pic to enlarge.

I don't know what they're advertising; but I love the design.

You can find these little "Reunions"-buildings in most French villages. I never asked anyone what they were; preferring my imagination to run wild. I pretty sure it's a very very happy place.

Foolmoon outside the 5€ refugio. I had, I must say, a nice but lonely evening. There were groups of pilgrims right ahead of me and right behind me - but I was blessed&cursed with having the road more or less to myself.

Onesse-Laharie (Somewhere in the woods)-Lesperon

2010-04-26T10:17:00.010+02:00

I awoke pretty early the next morning. I climbed out of my tent to relive myself; and as I was doing so I heard a terrible howl from somewhere inside the dark cold woods in front of me. I was like damn, that was fucking scary! And then, as I was shaking my normally huge but now minuscule thing, I heard that terrible howl again, this time to my left - it was a lot nearer than I'd thought at first and sad to say I sort of panicked.

I grabbed my cane and hid inside my tent. Flipping open my swiss armyknife I realized it was a utterly pathetic weapon and for some time I was just lying there in my tent in a fetal position grabbing my cane with one hand and the knife with the other. As my mind slowly woke up I started to realize that whatever hungry ghost or monster out there in the woods would be as hindered in it's pilgrimslaying by the sturdy walls of my tent as my fist would be hindered from dropping some nasty motherfucker by the armor of his t-shirt.

I gathered myself, climbed out again, and relocated to the watertower. I slammed the steel door shut and took a few minutes to gather myself. No more sounds. Damn you Paulo Cohelo and your pilgrimstory about personal nemesis demon dogs following you on the camino!!! (Which I incidentally was reading at the time).

I finally got enough of a grip to put my tent down and pack my shit; and I started what would be my worst day on the whole of the camino.

If you met me on the camino, or even after, you might have heard me mumble something offensive about the French style of camino-marking. This is not the worst. Not at all. There is, atleast, two very clear alternatives here. I could not possibly go wrong - one might be a 20K scenic route, the other a 3K short route; but atleast I'd be sure to be on my way to Santiago whichever way I chose. None of the habitual am I going back to Paris-now-or-what-insecurities associated with the more normal French no-markings-at-all style.

I guess I chose the scenic route.

Yep, I'm pretty sure I did.

Onesse-Lahaire: The shop is closed. The nice lady on the picture informs me that the shop in Lesperon is closed as well. It's Monday, and you know... Mondays in France. I have a coffe. I have a beer. It's and "auberge" but they don't sell food. But when I explain them I have no food left the nice proprietors of the Auberge Caule in 40110 Onesse-Lahaire manages to dig up some dry bread and goose-liver-paté. It's expensive, but atleast it's food. I buy a couple of half-bottles of wine for the evening aswell.

Dead trees. That always improves my mood. My feet hurts.

Happy sight! Civilian trees; not in rank and file.

I took a wrong turn somewhere. I know I am on the right way, but I'm missing the industrially exploited trees. My feet hurts. I want to rest; but it's still a couple of hours walk till I find somewhere half-decent to rest. That day was incredibly hot. When I find somewhere a bit off the highway I put up my outer tent for the siesta.

I want to go home. I really really really don't want to be here. If I call a taxi I can be on some airport by evening. But then, the humiliation, the shame. Coming home after two weeks... So... Mats, how was your camino? You're a reeeaaally fast walker are you not?

I contemplate suicide. Seriously. I just want to die. But the tent is just to fucking hot. I pack up and walk on.

Shame is really underestimated as a motivational tool.

Haha. Funny. In Norwegian "fitte" means "pussy". Lesperon sounds a bit like "lesbian". My brain is getting retarded. It has regressed to the point where I have the humor of a 13 year old. Like any 13 year old I'm not even worried about that. I want a hotel! If it costs me a 100€'s I want a hotel. I have emergency money and this is an emergency.

In Norway Vival is a generic Valium-brand. The store is open and I could probably have used some of Vival or Valium at this point. Its open for a few hours more - I decide to come back for food later and just get myself a cold beer. Heineken never tasted so good. The guy tells me there are no refugios in Lesperon. There is a hotel 3K's back on the highway. I trust my instincts (and sore feet) and disregard his misdirection and walk into town where I find an hotel.

FUCK YOU nice lady!

The room is only 49€. When I ask if they have 'pilgrim prices' she informs me that there indeed is a refugio. Picture below of the secretary of the Mairie who shows me to the refugio, stamps my pilgrimpassport and tells me to just drop the key in the postbox outside the next morning.

Handicap-shower!!! Pure bliss!!! Whoever thought of putting up a handicap-shower in a refugio is getting special mentions to Jack and gold stars in the Book of Doom. Never have I felt such gratitude. If you've never done it you simply can't know how much it hurts to put your messed up feet on the hard tile floor of a bathroom, getting those blisters all wet and soft...

Just putting my ass on that seat, letting that hot water soak me...Getting cleaned and relaxed and mhioww!

And then an entrecoté; a nice bottle of wine. A long talk on the phone with my wife. Yeah, yeah, I know I am a weakling; a pampered baby and all that... but sometimes you just need to treat yourself and in a hundred days of walking this was the only time. Jesus has forgiven greater transgressions. I'm convinced he would have forgiven me even if I'd just ended it all on that field a few hours earlier.

(Although I'm quite sure he would have shown me the handicap-shower, the steak, the bottle of wine and the nice talk with my love just to impress on me how stupid suicide really is.)

And then ofcourse some drunken ramblings in the guestbook.

Labouheyre-somewhere in the woods

2010-04-25T10:16:00.011+02:00

Jaques and Jaquelines refugio was a disappointment. It really was. But I do want to give them the honour due to them - even though there probably would have been a municipal Refugio in the Mairie (like in almost every other French village along the road) had they not taken it upon themselves to open their home to pilgrims.

I spoke to a couple of other people who had tried to open their home to pilgrims and such; and given up. People are really rude and ungrateful. They, we, don't really appreciate the fact that we are in somebodies home - and many apparently act as if they are in some sort of hotel. And everybody I talked to who'd done this sort of thing had given up within the space of 1-3 years. And while I do love French people; I can easily imagine them to be the worst kind of people to give hospitality to.

The picture below features my first genuine meeting with the South-European custom of serving coffee in a bowl. It's very cool and all that, but, I don't know, it seems sort of poor, inhospitable even, to a northwesterner. A coffeemug is like 1€ in the cheap shops - but I guess that's just the way they serve it. Never in restaurants or café's though.

Another interior - basically shot 180 degrees from the breakfast Jaques served me at 7:30 on a Sunday morning - his family day, the most important day in the week for him and his family.

My feet was really hurting; and as I mentioned my spectacles and extra contactlenses was stolen by the Icelandic volcano, and the intense sun and polluted "national park" air had taken it's toll on my contacts. Looking through the window of the Labouheyre-optician I'd noted that they indeed did sell contacts and I was seriously considering staying another day in Labouheyre, to just take in to a hotel and relax, heal a bit and get up to date on my notes.

I discussed it with Jaques; he really wanted me to go on - cause that's what a pilgrim does. (Not Jaques words though). The winning argument was, which I sort of knew already had I only thought about it, that the optician was closed on Monday as well and Dax was only 2-3 days away.

The Labouheyre church was open; and I stopped by. I meditated a bit on the depiction of the Passion of the Christ in 13 stations around the church; and as I was praying to the Virgin Mother Jaques walked into the church with my toothbrush, toothpaste and a terrible (but expensive) French sausage I'd left in the refugio fridge.

I thanked him for the toothbrush and toothpaste and for his effort on his family day; explained that I'd left the sausage for some other pilgrim and walked on my way into the beautiful smell of pines. Dead pines.

I remember getting pretty drunk pretty early on. There'd been a sale on "minibottles" (like 35cl I guess..) of some really nice white wine in the local supermarket and I bought a sixpack of them on impulse. Then, after a short while of walking I realized that not only were they heavy, but they would soon get hot and undrinkable and it was a bad bad fucking day and I was suffering from motivational problems and I thought getting drunk just might be motivational.

Soon I was raving drunk and I was singing some version of the Beatles song Let it Be. ('In my times of trouble, Mother Mary spoke to me' et cetera.)

I seem to remember I was crying a lot; even feeling slightly suicidal.

These are the only pictures of my feet I managed to take. While it's not the best of days blisterwise; sad to say it is definitely not the worst either. The picture is taken with my mobile phone; inside my tent a bit after noon. The sun was incredibly hot; the traffic from the closeby highway intense; it was siestatime.

I cannot imagine the reasoning behind taking the pictures with the mobile phone. Not that it matters.

Note the sunburns on my hands.

Not long after the sun went down a car with a couple in their forties passed me. First car since I'd entered the offroads around soon after my siesta. They offered to drive me to town. When I thanked them for their compassion but explained that sadly that would make me an oathbreaker they got that weird look, that mix of deep respect and dude yer fucking crazy-look.

I asked how far to town - they said about 6 clicks. When they drove on their way I checked the time, and realizing it was less than an hour to dark I started to pitch my tent.

Being completely n00b I pitched it right next to this watertower. Why would I pitch my tent next to a watertower with an open door and a perfect little room? I don't know. I learned from the experience and later I would always look for structures like this where I could squat for the night. But this was the only such building the road provided for me.

Saugnac et Muret-Labouheyre

2010-04-24T12:57:00.010+02:00

It was Marie-France I think who said that the Landes could be 'a bit tiring' due to all the pines. I smiled and told her that it would be no problem because I love pines. The picture to the left is the most famous pine in Norway used for decades and decades upon decades as the basis of the logo of the leading Norwegian brand of matches.

The 'real' tree hails a few hours sailing down south along the coast from my hometown on a island called Grønøy - Green Isle - in Meløy Commune. Pines in the mountains southeast of my home are beautiful beyond belief - forcing those who see it to realize it's not the beauty of the pine; but the midnight sun in the background that makes the image. The harsh arctic climate bends and stunts their growth making the trees into glorious mega-bonzais shaped by the hand of The Great Gardener.

Marie-France smiled and said well then or somesuch. Whether she actually thought it all would be good, or simply gave up warning me due to our communicationdifficulties is hard to say. But no doubt my love for these beautiful trees made the beginning of my pilgrimage hard and harder still.

Walking through the Landes my love for pines became like a sore in my mind and soul. Their beautiful smell, strong and poignant when I was passing the many pickup-points (like above), was like a taunt to my sensibilities. How can death smell so sweet? The oldest pine [Old Tjikko] found is close to 10 000 years old. The oldest pine I found killed in the Landes was about 60. Murdered in infancy.

Tears would well in my eyes. I would talk to them. Touch them. Hug them. Write little poems like

What an honour it would be;

to be the friend of a tree.

And while it's pretty with the illusion of a gate in the end; the endless industrial fields of pines could enrage me. It reminds me of our world today, of what we do to the people. Streamlining them, fooling them into believing they are the pinnacles of individuality in the age of authenticity; when even punks and hippies and philosophers are just copies out of the same 10 or 15 molds ("archetypes").

The sociologist in me do realize we're easier to manage like this; that it's probably better for everybody. But it's an affront to the soul and I promise you! Jesus is fucking crying.

It might be some sort of double standard: But this does not upset me in the least. I even find it somewhat beautiful. I know it's not an ideal way to nurture the fruits of the soil, that the method demands huge quantities of unnecessary fertilisers and poisons and blablabla.

But hey, nobodys perfect. Especially not I.

Not I in the least.

Jaques and Jaquelines refugio was about the only place I was looking forward to visiting before reaching St.Jean Pied-de-Port. Trying to research a bit before the trip (a task I was pretty unsuccessful at) this place kept coming up as one of the truly great places along the road.

Jaques and Jaqueline walked the camino a few years ago and it changed their lives - and afterwards they opened up their home to pilgrims. Presbyterians (I might be wrong), religious people... I was disappointed to find what in essence was just another private 15€ Albergue.

When I finally found the place and rang their bell Jaques first question was why I hadn't called. I guess I should have spoken truth and said that I like to trust in God and I find the French custom of reserving your bed in the Refugio to be an affront to The Way and Saint Jaques (San Tiago, Sankt Jacob, St. James) - but didn't want to start a discussion, I wanted a bed. I really wanted a bed, and just said I don't have a phone.

Belin Beliet-Saugnac et Muret

2010-04-23T12:53:00.005+02:00

While days can be pretty hot for a northerner; nights - it turns out - can be quite cold. I awoke that night freezing and with pain in my back, being unused to sleeping on the ground. A hundred sit-ups later I wasn't freezing anymore - but very very awake. A bottle of wine and many many words in my notebook later I got a few hours sleep extra.

Belin-Beliet turns out to be quite big. The printout from Gradingnan indicating there would be a refugio there didn't mention that it (Belin-Beliet) actually was a commune and not, as I assumed, the village I'd found the last night.

An hours walk, perhaps a bit less, perhaps a bit more, from my campsite I find part two of the city. No refugio here either - not that I would have taken in this early in the morning. I locate the Tourist Information - the only one I'll find before Dax; but it's only open like a couple of months a year and definitely not in the end of April. I have more luck with the local café - new owners serve me with the enthusiasm typical of new owners and I get both an excellent cup of café latte and the opportunity to take my morning dump in a real toilet.

It's one o'clock by the time I reach this nice little church. It starts raining while I'm having my lunch; and when I start walking I realise that the poncho I took from the lost&found in Gradingnan on the insistence of Lilian is made for dwarfs or something (no, no, you don't have to buy a poncho - we have one at the refugio! :) Oh, well.

I'm pretty sure there was supposed to be a refugio somewhere here; I hadn't really planned to walk much further. There is a privatelooking home with a sign saying "Gite" just across the road. I do wonder for a second what exactly a "Gite" is; perhaps its French for pension or somesuch - but I'm sure somebody would have mentioned that Gites are some sort of Refugio in my week in Bordeaux if it was possible to sleep and rest in them.

So I walk on.

It turns out to be a very long day indeed - these French "towns" and "villages" are really quite huge. About half an hour/hour before the place I'd planned to stop the next day I took 15 minutes in a ditch. I was completely finished. My feet were incredibly painfull, I had no energy left, and I was seriously regretting not taking in to that 47€ 4 star hotel next to the campingplace that was closed that I had hoped to sleep that night. A nice lady stopped her car and asked if I needed help. Somewhere to sleep, perhaps? But sent her on her way with my thanks and my blessings. I'm one stubborn motherfucker and I kept my vows. All of them.

A bit outside Saugnac I found my 12,5euro place to sleep. It was called Atelier - Gite Saugnac. Didn't look much like a private home at all, rather it looked a bit like a summer camp/summerschool. And while I'm still - to this day - not sure that "Gite" means somewhere papa can put his head down and call home - I was starting to suspect that a Gite is somewhere you indeed can sleep. (Translate.Google.com claims it means "cottage").

Really not that bad. Private rooms; bath shared with one other (unoccupied) room. No shops or bars around so I buy both dinner and breakfast. Generous servings and healthy food. The guy, who don't speak English at all, like all French, do see how much I'm suffering and gets me an extra bread, a map for tomorrow and a Guidebook published by the Landes Friends of the Camino! (In French, but still.)

Ville du Barp-Belin Beliet

2010-04-22T12:43:00.007+02:00

He was from Normandy; and I happily declared that we were cousins. He'd walked all the way from home with his donkey, and he had some terrible burns on his hands and nose - so terrible I wasn't really sure if it was sunburns or some strange skindecease. I had two bottles of 50+ and offered him one of them. But he declined. Ton-Ton ("uncle" who camino-rumors tells gave up somewhere round the Spanish border) wryly said "he's already a goner".

I was a bit hesitant to ask him if I could have his picture. Having walked already for a couple of months I was pretty sure he was sick of getting his picture taken. But no, no problem at all.

He wanted to learn the Norwegian word for donkey ("esel") - and he knew about 20 or 30 different words for the lovely animal. We didn't share much in the way of language - but pilgrims manage, they always do. When I indicated I'd heard donkeys are about the smartest animals around and much, much, much smarter than horses he readily agreed and seemed to conclude I was an OK sort of fellow.

He was incredibly chatty and whenever I saw him he was always talking with someone.

I made a slow start that day. I needed contactlenses; my old pair was wearing out, the rest of my lenses was sent back home by that Icelandic volcano. The only lenses I found in Bordeaux was expensive and of the wrong brand and for some reason I was sure I would find something better on the camino - proving I need neither be drunk nor stoned to make bad decisions.

I'd seen a optician in town; but she didn't open until 10 o'clock. No matter, yesterday had been a hard day. I got me some food, a pair of lightweight farmersandals and possibly a new bottle of wine. The optician does not sell contacts - but has a quite good selection of unfashionable spectacles.

Mackerel in tomato is a Norwegian breakfast classic. One of my favourites as a child and a sureshot to this day. But this one here proves we know nothing, absolutely nothing of the art of making canned mackerel in tomato - and the French' reputation as gourmands is in no way exaggerated.

The typical French camino-arrow. They love to put this shit up at straight roads and to leave no indication of where you're supposed to go at crossroads. (Hey, man! There are roadsigns here - no need for yellow arrows. What do you mean nobody told you you were supposed to have guidebooks, maps, working knowledge of French and a GPS? Stoopid Norwegian.)

Note how the arrow is really bendy and ambiguous like a sarcastic doublejointed chinese trapese artist.

For some reason I was under the impression that deVille was some sorth of fireplace-brand. A internetsearch gives me only cars, porn and watches. Doesn't matter. I found it a funny word, a funny brand. De Ville with my very very bad French translates to something like 'the village' - but at the same time it's quite close to devil.

Is the village the devil? Uhm, I really need to talk to someone soon. Almost two weeks without proper comunication is starting to take it's toll. I don't need to speak Norwegian - someone with a vocabulary of more than 500 English words and a personality even remotly close to someone I could be friends with in the "real" world would be quite pleasant.

A nice example of the typical arcitechture of the area.

I couldn't find the refugio rumored to be in Belin-Beliet so I slept somewhere in the woods that night. Had I only had the precense of mind to take a picture of my camp. Ja, ja like my people say.

Gradignan-Ville du Barp

2010-04-21T12:42:00.008+02:00

My first day as a walking pilgrim I'm up at approximately 5 in the AM - but since I neglected to go to the store the previous night I have to wait til almost 8 o'clock to head out so I can stop by the store. One last picture of the Gradignan pilgrim and then I'm off.

I love walking in the mornings. The temperature is very pleasant. I only have a vague notion of what the day will be like - although I'm not completely unprepared as I've already stocked up on 50+ sunblock. The sign in the background (yes, I was trying to get that, but as with about 90% of my pictures I failed to get what I wanted) is an ad for the same mall my butt-ugly donativo t-shirt is trying to promote.

First proper camino roadsign. Happy feeling. Being an ardent opposer of proper preparations I wasn't really sure until this moment that I actually was walking the Tours route to St.Jean Pied-de-Port.

The t-shirt (or the colour of it atleast) - and my face smeared with 50+.

I don't know it yet, but I already lost my way. It's 9:45 in the morning and I've been walking for less than two hours. French roadmarkings are illogical and slightly insane. One road going north into the woods, one asphalt road going straight west. One yellow arrow meticiously placed so it points exactly betwixt the two alternatives.

Having to guess I choose what seems to be the scenic route; my compass seems to agree. And while I'm guessing that compass sent me the wrong way more often than the right - I'm pretty sure I'd still be in France somewhere had I traveled without it.

I don't know it yet: But you are supposed to have a map and a guidebook and a mobile telephone and atleast a rudimentary understanding of the french language and preferably a handheld GPS.

I use the same GPS as my great grandfather used when he was a fisherman - back when GPS still meant God Please Save me/us.

The first part of my straying atleast was very pretty. Later on it mostly looks like this. As usual I'm unable to take pictures of the interesting things - the huge fucking loggingtrucks raping the "national park". Why would I want a picture of something so ugly? I'm just outside of Bordeaux - I'm sure it will pass. I mean, damn it! I'm going into what seems to be Europe's biggest national park! This is going to be SO great!

Hmmm... This road seems to be turning more and more to the east. I haven't seen a yellow arrow in several hours. Hmmm... I might have taken a wrong turn somewhere. Should I go back? ... Nah, I'm sure I'll get back on the camino somewhere soon.

So, anyways, I've walked for about six hours - which would be about 24 kilometres, about 1-2 clicks more than I was supposed to. The day turned out to be quite hot and I've drunk all my water. But its all good! I found a gas-station and bought me another litre of water and I found the road to Ville du Barp! Only 18 clicks to go!

I guess I should have taken a picture of the Ville du Barp roadsign. But hey! If I was good at decisionmaking I wouldn't even be here in the first place, right? And anyways I do love so that they have voluntary gymnastics in France. In Norway you have to pay some hefty fines for not participating - and if you just, you know, do the civil disobedience thing, the deathsquads come and give you a neckshot if the first two beatings doesn't help your "maladjusted attitude".

That's what I love about the internet: it really shows people that a different life is possible! A life without mandatory gymnastics!

Walking by the road I'm soon realizing that French drivers are all insane. I walk on the left side on the road as I am supposed to - but the road is rather narrow (but you know, I'd rather take a picture of this suffering forrest) and when cars coming from behind on the right side are overtaking/passing eachoter their not really afraid of hitting the guy with the backpack. 20 centimeters is apparently considered good clearance here.

The only solution is to look back whenever you hear a car from behind and just get the fuck out of their way if their passing eachother.

Out of the woods. Less dangerous. More hot. Running out of water. I'm sure there will be a bar or a gas station or maybe even a graveyard soon. One of Marie-France's last words to me was that I always could be sure to find water at graveyards.

I didn't think about it at the time, just smiled and thanked her for the advice. But why would one even need to know that??? I'm starting to learn. No graveyard though; so I drink this amazing bottle of Saint-Emilion 2007. It's a bit to hot... but really - a great wine; and if your thirsty enough even hot coca-cola will taste great.

About 4-5 clicks from Ville du Barp I'm entering suburbia. A man of African decent is mowing his lawn; as I am passing he runs up to me and offers me some water. I have two glasses of ice cold bottled water with him, his and his whitetrash-looking wife and stepdaugther. It's almost always the downtrodden who will help you. My brain is pretty much cooked, I'm exhausted and a littlebit drunk (as mentioned I had to dig into my winesupply to stay hydrated and to get some weight off my back) and I've simply not realized yet how fast the camino is.

I should have asked him if I could put my tent up in his yard. I'm sure his hospitality would have included just about all my hearts desires. But I didn't.

And if I had; I wouldn't have met this great man (more about him tomorrow). The refugio only had 4 beds and there were 7 pilgrims in Ville du Barp that night. I'd never put up my tent before and after struggling with it for a few minutes he (I'm sad to say I don't remember your name my friend) and Quebecan-guy helped me. Under normal conditions I'm confident my mensa-lvl IQ would have sorted the mystery out (its really quite simple it turns out) but really - at this point I was soooo mindfucked by my first caminoday my mind was reeling.

Quebecan-guy. He was really angry about something. I'm quite sure it wasn't me - just, youknow, society, the injustice of the world and such. He refused to speak English. I never met him again. I do hope he had a great camino and resolved some of those bitter angerissues of his.

And he did help me to put up the tent. I'm sure he really is a great guy.

Once I get around to it I'll put up one of those great googlemaps stating that the whole of the Landes is a national park. They should be sued by every national park in the world; but I guess it's not a copyrighted term. Suffice to say: my mind was so destroyed by the day I took an evening stroll through town. When that backpacks off you hardly feel your blisters you know.

Albergue of Love

2010-06-22T14:48:00.019+02:00

Where are the hippies at hippe beach?

2010-06-21T14:05:00.044+02:00

1:45

Meditating. Obviously I'm normaly capable of the full lotus position - but about a hundred days on the camino hath made my legs quite stiff; and my half lotus thus is not as pathetic as it seems.

Age takes it's toll. A few days in the tent and I really need a night in a proper bed. Albergue la Paz is just that - peacefull.

Finisterre

2010-06-17T20:18:00.002+02:00

Sunsneeze.

Attemting to keep my eyes open in the strong Fisterre sun.