Day 23 — Saturday 21 May 2011

Olite – Lumbier

I went up to the campsite bar and had coffee and a large slice of tortilla. The cyclist I had seen the previous evening was also there and we chatted for half an hour while I ate my breakfast. He was German and goes on a lone cycling tour for a few weeks most years all over Europe. I felt quite jealous.

We went our separate ways and I cycled back to Olite and crossed the Rio Cidacos and climbed steadily up a tributary valley to St Martin de Unx and then ground up to Alto Lerga, surrounded by vineyards and the view of the road ahead winding its round one gentle curve after another, on and on… I had to get off and walk for part of the climb, eventually reaching the top and gratefully dropping down to a 17 kilometre stretch round the end of several spurs and crossing tributaries of the Rio Aragon.

At Aibar I came to the only bar on the route and had a bocodillo caliente (hot bacon sandwich). From Aibar the road climbs to Puerto Olaz through another interminable succession of gentle curves, each one giving every indication of being the top until you round the corner and see the road stretching out again for another quarter mile. As I neared Lumbier I came to a welcome camp site sign and followed it round the back of the town to Camping Iturbero, quite one of the most delightful sites on the whole journey. I had supper in the bar and went to bed happy.

I decided to spend Sunday at Lumbier. The church services was at one o'clock so I walked a couple of kilometres to the Foz de Lumbier. It is a spectacular gorge that the Rio Irati sweeps through on its way to join the Rio Aragon. The now disused line of the first electric train in Spain is cut into and through the side of the gorge that now forms a recreational walking and cycling track. There are a couple of curved tunnels that are as black as pitch in the middle, light does not penetrate all the way through. The floor is quite flat and it's easy to feel one's way round until the tunnel end comes into a view, and families have great fun with echoes and faining fright. I am not sure it would allowed in the UK, which is a pity because it is great fun. There are griffon vultures soaring in the thermals above the gorge.

I walked back to Lumbier, went to the packed church service and returned to the camp site for lunch. Another cyclist had arrived, Dries from Amsterdam, who had decided to walk to Santiago de Compostela when he retired to find out why so many people do it. He had to negotiate with his wife who wanted him home for their twenty fifth wedding anniversary, so he changed his plans and bought a bicycle to get him home sooner. The Dutch pilgrimage route starts from Haarlem so he travelled there from Amsterdam by train, only to find all his friends and relations had gone ahead to see him off. That morning in Lumbier he had received a text message from his granddaughter wishing him well and he had burst into tears. We chatted about the emotional impact of being alone for weeks on end with a challenging journey stretching out in front. I knew the feeling.

Later in the evening we met up again for supper along with a retired couple from Australia who had flown to Frankfurt, bought a large campervan and were touring Europe for several months before returning to Frankfurt, selling the van and flying home. They were revelling in the thought that no-one knew precisely where they were.