Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port

I woke at 7 a.m., about twenty minutes before the night train pulled into Bayonne. At the station, a crowd of pilgrims were clustered around the departures board. The morning train to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, the start of the Camino Francés, had been canceled due to an impromptu French train strike. I checked Google Maps for alternatives and found a bus route—lines 41 and 61—that would get me to Saint-Jean by 11:30 a.m. for just €3.80. Taxi drivers outside were charging €120–€300 for the 45-minute ride, so the bus was a no-brainer. I shared my plan with a small group of pilgrims I’d met since Paris, and a few minutes later, I was leading a dozen or so pilgrims across the river to the bus stop.

The 41 bus to Arrabotü Handia arrived on time, and within fifteen minutes, the 61 bus to Saint-Jean pulled up. The drive through the Pyrenees was striking—lush green peaks towering over quaint Basque villages.

Three guys I’d chatted with—Vince and Graham from Perth, Australia, and Alex from Austin, Texas—joined me for the walk from the bus stop into town. We stopped at a bakery for chocolate croissants and coffee, then headed to the pilgrims’ office for our Camino credentials and first stamp.

We found the office closed for lunch, so we split up for an hour to sort out lodging. The front-desk clerk at my hostel let me store my bag in a locker despite check-in not being until 4 p.m., saving me the hassle of lugging it around. Alex, who hadn’t pre-booked, reserved a bed online and stored his bag there too.

At 1 p.m., we met for lunch at Comme a la Maison, joined by a fifth pilgrim, Tony from Japan. Interestingly, Tony had lived in both Austin and Perth, connecting him to Alex, Vince, and Graham. The gnocchi was solid, nothing fancy.

By 2 p.m., we returned to the pilgrims’ office, where a line of about 20 waited. The five or so volunteers inside were thorough, giving each pilgrim ample time and attention, so it took nearly an hour to get our credentials and first stamp. A Canadian volunteer spent an inordinate amount of time with Graham, Vince, and fellow Australian, Lara. When Lara mentioned to the volunteer she’d hired a tourism company to handle her lodging and transport, the man—apparently joking—said she was avoiding the Camino’s suffering and taking a “posh” route. Lara, already upset after being ripped off by a Bayonne taxi driver, was brought to tears.

Once we had our credentials—and after lifting Lara’s spirits by calling her tormentor a douchebag—Alex and I hiked uphill to the Citadel of Mendiguren—a 17th-century fortress.

The grounds were in surprisingly good shape for its age, offering sweeping views of the valley below. It seemed to have served as a school recently but now appeared abandoned. We walked the grounds for about thirty minutes.

At 4 p.m., Alex and I walked back through town’s main corridor to our hostel across the river and checked in. After making our beds, we met Graham, Vince, and Tony for dinner at Café de la Paix. They each ordered different pizzas to share; I opted for a double cheeseburger and fries. With beers, the bill for five came to €100—surprisingly reasonable.

Alex, Tony and I returned to our eight-person hostel room. I showered and climbed into my top bunk, ready for some much-needed sleep.

Tomorrow, I’ll take a short five-mile day to Orisson via the Napoleon Route, while the others plan to push on 10-miles further to Roncesvalles.