- Time of past OR future Camino
- September 2023 Norte - Del Mar , Invierno
I arrive in St Jean Pied de Port to begin the Frances. SJPP is one of my favourite places. It’s my third time here. But I’m the odd man out having done 4 other Caminos but never the Frances. It’s late August and a beautiful day as I go searching for my hostel.
The place is newer, a manageable size and run by an amenable ex-pat Australian. I rearrange my gear, head out for dinner and pass my first night. The next day, having time on my hands, I help out around the hostel. Some dishes and cleaning. Those that help out are invited to dinner. My host says see you around 7 and then as an afterthought says a late arriving volunteer will join us at dinner. There is an odd twinkle in his eye as he says this. He wants to say more but clams up. So at 7 I’m sitting at the table reaching for the wine jug when she blows in the door.
She’s Dutch. A tall striking blond woman in her forties. Trail tanned, trail tough, cheekbones that cut like a knife. She sits down and launches into her story. She had biked down from the Netherlands the previous month. Had a heart attack on the way but shook it off. Left her bike with our host and started walking the Frances. If the weather was hot she walked under the stars at night. If there was a beach she slept on it because she liked the feel of sand in her hair. She was now going to bike back to Amsterdam.
I kept her glass full and she became more animated. She would occasionally shoot to her feet and demand that we admire her hips, “I’ve lost 5 kilos!”. We admired her hips. In between glasses of wine she freshened her lips with a MAC lipstick. Coral I think. She may have said she used to be a super model. If my attention wavered she punched me in the shoulder….hard.
Dinner wound down and she shot to her feet a final time. She was in charge! We were to go to bed immediately! She would clean up and bake bread for breakfast.
The men retreated to our dorm. By silent assent we locked our door. Down below we could hear her singing manically as she banged away. I thought for a moment and decided to jam a chair under the door handle. If she decided to grind our bones for bread we wouldn't stand a chance.
The place is newer, a manageable size and run by an amenable ex-pat Australian. I rearrange my gear, head out for dinner and pass my first night. The next day, having time on my hands, I help out around the hostel. Some dishes and cleaning. Those that help out are invited to dinner. My host says see you around 7 and then as an afterthought says a late arriving volunteer will join us at dinner. There is an odd twinkle in his eye as he says this. He wants to say more but clams up. So at 7 I’m sitting at the table reaching for the wine jug when she blows in the door.
She’s Dutch. A tall striking blond woman in her forties. Trail tanned, trail tough, cheekbones that cut like a knife. She sits down and launches into her story. She had biked down from the Netherlands the previous month. Had a heart attack on the way but shook it off. Left her bike with our host and started walking the Frances. If the weather was hot she walked under the stars at night. If there was a beach she slept on it because she liked the feel of sand in her hair. She was now going to bike back to Amsterdam.
I kept her glass full and she became more animated. She would occasionally shoot to her feet and demand that we admire her hips, “I’ve lost 5 kilos!”. We admired her hips. In between glasses of wine she freshened her lips with a MAC lipstick. Coral I think. She may have said she used to be a super model. If my attention wavered she punched me in the shoulder….hard.
Dinner wound down and she shot to her feet a final time. She was in charge! We were to go to bed immediately! She would clean up and bake bread for breakfast.
The men retreated to our dorm. By silent assent we locked our door. Down below we could hear her singing manically as she banged away. I thought for a moment and decided to jam a chair under the door handle. If she decided to grind our bones for bread we wouldn't stand a chance.
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