My left leg and the next leg

Final supper in Irun with Cath (it was too late and too far to go to Hondarribia) at a simple but crowded and surprisingly good Galician restaurant, before being on the road again.

Woke at 5:30 this morning and reorganized my kit before getting as much value out of the breakfast buffet as possible. By 6:30 my taxi had come to take me back across to the Frech side of the border to Hendaye station where I caught the Toulouse train, connecting at Bayonne for St Jean. I'm normally fairly relaxed about catching trains abroad, but my anxiety about my leg and the next leg is leaking into all other activities, and I am jumpy all morning, expecting to find that I am on the wrong train going to some distant destination. Once again I'm travelling along one of France's gorgeous gorges on a beautiful bright and crisp morning with just the right amount of lifting mist to lend atmosphere.

I find that by taking my boot off and putting my left leg up on the seat opposite (I know this is ordinarily terribly bad) I am not completely crippled when I have to get up. I'm quite self conscious about starting this walk with all these others and looked half-maimed from the outset. But what others? One of my concerns is that I am setting out for Santiago very late in the year. Will anyone else be walking the camino with me? Two retired French couples just along from me seem are certainly camino-ers. I think I can spot another younger man but no others.

We arrive at St Jean and I stride confidently from the station wanting to make a good start. I stop only to light a candle and say a prayer for myself and the other pilgrims on my train.

The climb out of St Jean is steep and I am conscious the there are two routes: the traditional one, which is a path, and the road route for bikes and advised in bad weather. Mine I soon realize is the route demarcated by a red and white stripe on the lamposts and fences.

After a few miles I begin to be conscious of other pilgrims. At a stone staircase leading into a field the is camino sign and the two stripes. I climb the stairs, hesitate, as there is no discernible track, return to the narrow road, by which point two guys have caught up with me. One is casually dressed with a jacket over his shoulder and no backpack, the other, walking slightly behind, is more typically your pilgrim trekker. We decide the road is the way forward, and the ice is broken: we introduce ourselves and we have become a group.

I'm sweating so hard that the sweat is running down my face and lauding my glasses as we make our ascent. But through this introductions are made. Matthias has no bag because it was lost by the airline. He's Austrian, and has studied law but professes himself too lazy to work as a lawyer. We can hear hunters's horn and dogs and we pass men with rifles, and Matthias tells me that he is a hunter. He also quickly expressed a dislike of the French, the Swiss and various other European nationals. I think to myself, "I have nothing is common with this guy," but then I also think that Jesus walking companions were chosen almost at random, and that Matthew was a tax collector who left everything, and here is Matthias who is walking on despite having no luggage at all. Malta is very quiet but quite charming. He has just finished his MA and is wondering what to do next. Quite soon we meet Constanz also from Germany, and Alessandro from near Venice. On the train and from the station I was so shy about speaking to people, but on the road, quite quickly a small and friendly group has formed.

The views that open up behind us are phenomenal. For quite a while we are walking along the French/ Spanish border. I have thought for a while that I could look back over three vanquished nations: Holland, Belgium and France. Not that any of them would have realized my victory as I crept hobbit-like through their domains. And now, ahead of me is Spain: the final nemesis which I face without my trusty steed.

The whole walk is beautiful. We finally reach the summit and lie in silence for ten minutes on the soft grass. The only discomfort I feel is when the descent begins and the pain of my left leg migrates round to the front of my thigh.

Before too long we are in Roncevalles and in a superb hostel. We get the pilgrims' meal from the local hostel and I head off to the pilgrims' mass at 8pm. It had been a lovely day, a really lovely day, and I am one of a multitude of happy pilgrims making our cheerful, prayerful way to Santiago.