Bayonne;The river and town

After an hour and a half I land at Bierritz. Transfer bus to Bayonne. A public service bus really which takes for ever or so it seemed at the time. Get off on the wrong side of the river from the railway station; walk across the bridge to the square in front of the railway. Pause and look at the timetable. Last train at 6pm, I am not ready for that and I've been expecting to stray in Bayonne. I stick to the plan noting that there is a train 8mm tomorrow. As I am looking and planning a man who has been on the bus rushes up, tries to buy a ticket, is told that it is too late, although the train is standing in the station. I watch as I can see that he is boiling with frustration. Alongside is another man. I can see that there is no connection between them. They both have sticks and rucksacks so they are linked, they just don't know it yet. They are pilgrims. Neither is able to get to St Jean tonight. All three of us will stay in Bayonne tonight. I go to the Hotel Ibis which is as disappointingly standard as very other chain hotel I have ever been in. It is cheap, but not cheap as in hostals in Spain. This I do not know yet. If the Hotel was very bland the restaurant is not. After a walk up and down the town, during which I discover a good butcher who sells great sausage.I find a small bar by the river in the upper part of the town that looks as though it will be cheap. Outside they display a plate de jour. It is an interesting menu. I order and get a simple meal beautifully cooked that was delightful. I am somewhat surprised. I am also happy and grateful. I feel that God is in control of this adventure. Back to the Hotel and so to bed. Next morning I get up early or as it will be for the foreseeable future the normal time of 5:45am. To me this is a strain. The strain is devalued by the excitement that I feel. Today I start walking. I am at the station by 7:30am. Ticket in hand I go onto the platform. After a few short minutes, first one pilgrim, then the other arrives, from wherever they have stayed all night. I have seen nothing of them all night, or this morning, except I did see the Italian, who I knew to be Italian at that moment because I saw a small flag on his bag, as I walked around the town last night. The Italian stands well down the platform. He is out of conversation range. The other is next to me. I asked if he is going to Santiago.It seems a strange question to be asking on a railway station that is not on a direct line or even the same size tracks as Santiago, to a person who is not going to use the train to get there. He tells that he is and that he is German. This is his second pilgrimage. Bingo! Someone to show me the ropes. He is meeting a friend in three weeks time and wonders if he will get to the agreed meeting point in time. The train comes and we get on it. Now railways are one on my 'things'. I have always been interested in them. This journey then is the icing on the cake for me as we wind our way up the valley towards the start of the walk. It is a bright and clear morning. The French Pyrenees are beautiful. And what is that in the distance. High peaks.That's where we are going. Now! Today!. The heart swells again. After one hour we are there! St Jean station is the end of the line. The platform is full of people pushing and shoving to get on the train back to Bayonne. I am somewhat amused and puzzled. I had thought that this would be a one way trip. Pilgrims to the mountain, thence to Santiago. So why are there so many coming back. Have they started a pilgrimage only to give it up in the light of the first days experience? I never find an answer to this question. So I guess that they were ramblers. Returning home after a few days walking the mountains around St Jean. My thoughts are broken by Hans, the German pilgrim,to me guide, telling me we must get off and hurry. We have to get to the pilgrim office before the crowd or we will be in the office for ever. We need to start walking as soon as possible. I have my pilgrim passport already. It was issued by the British Confraternity. I go along for the ride anyway. He knows what he is doing. I do not.

Just like everyone. Ryan air gets you there. That is if you are happy to hang on to the wing.

The Pilgrimage begins.

After a few weeks I am getting fitter. Then from a clear sky a massive problem develops. This involves others, so it would not be right to outline the difficulties here. It is enough to say that it was a cataclysmic earthquake of a difficulty that disrupted everything.For here on in I will call it the great big problem ~gbp for short. The gbp was spiralling out of control and I had no idea of how to deal with it or how to mend it. It did seem obvious that if I ducked out for a month+ to go to Spain there might not be much of my life to which I could return. So I stayed home. The gbp grew and grew. Every way I turned I could not turn this problem. Getting into May now, very near the start or should have been the start of the pilgrimage. A small window opens. In discussion it is put to me that if I was not around then things could settle. It might bring about a resolution that opened the way into a future of some sort. Perhaps if I was away somewhere then it would give space to all concerned. Spain seemed as good a place as any. I must admit that I did not have much of an appetite for pilgrimage anymore. Should I go or stay? I went. A few days to go. No walking or training since to emergence of the gbp weeks ago. I was worried that I would not be able to walk all that way. Too late now. There is no stopping this. I have to go. I am sitting in a plane at the end of the runway at Stansted. My heart is full. I am going on pilgrimage. I begin to weep silently, in a way to no one will notice. My head is turned towards the window. No on can see my face. Tears of joy begin to stream down my cheeks. I cannot believe that with all the problems I am on the way. There is a surge of power, a leap of the plane and a great jump down the runway. We are off. As the plane climbs so does my heart. This is some buzz.

Here is a photograph of me, in the blue shirt, my wife Liz, and a friend called Peter, taken on pilgrimage last year. I thought that this would be a good place to start.As you can see I am not young and I am fat. I wish as was like my friend Peter, who eats like a horse and never puts on a pound.

So here we go!

My story so far.

I was ordained as priest in the Church of England in 1981. So by the time I got to 2006 I was feeling in need of some sort of change or refreshment. I heard about the diocesan scheme for sabbaticals and this seemed the answer to my needs. I had heard of other priests taking this time to go to Monasteries in the Sinai or other places to study some obscure piece of patristics. This was not for me, so I wondered what I could do that would qualify for the Sabbatical and more importantly for the grant that goes with it.

It's funny how things come together. Earlier that year, as a family, we had decided to go on a holiday to northern Spain. We like to get about, so a took a day of to go up to that great map shop in London, Stanfords to buy some maps of the area. Above the rack of maps was a copy of a guide to the Camino Frances and a book by Nancy Frey on the Santiago pilgrimage. So as I had

made a mental note that one day I would like to see the giant incense burner in Santiago, but knew very little about, I browsed these books. The books were purchased. I went home, reading about pilgrimage on the train as I went.

Pontius Pilate asked at the trail of Jesus 'What is truth'. I begin to realise that I am already beginning to drift a little from reality. I cannot remember which came first. The possibility of

a Sabbatical or me finding the above books. I am not sure if the Sabbatical was the peg to hang the trip to Santiago on, or if pilgrimage was a great way to use a sabbatical. The outcome is the same. I decided that it was a cool idea to walk 550 miles from the French border to the bones of St James in his Cathedral in Galicia Northwest Spain. The only problem was I am not a walker.

It was January. Like most priests I know I was running a car that any self respecting man would laugh at and call an old banger. Getting up one morning to do the same as yesterday, I got into the car to drive my children to School. The old banger did what old bangers do and refused to start. No option, a walk to school for me with the children. It takes about 30 minutes to get there. On the way back I thought that if a diverted a little and increased the distance then this would be the beginning of the training needed to be fit enough to do the walk. That was the start of a good period of preparation. Each day the distance was increased and the weight came down.

And this reminds me that it is now early February and the next pilgrimage is in May so I had better begin all over again.