Purgatorio

The route was literally called "Purgatorio." That should have been the first warning. And later when the route split again, I optimistically took the path marked "Peregrinos Alpinistas." The arrow pointed up which, not surprizingly, is exactly what the path did. Occasionally, paths will form switchbacks to avoid being too steep, but this particular path went straight up the side of a mountain. Thankfully, right before the split, I caught part of a mass in the tiny mountain top church of Santuario de Guadalupe (or so I thought that was the top!)  I had prayed for my soul, so if the purgatory route were to kill me…

The Basque are hearty people who survived brutal oppression under Franco.  For many decades, he did his best to stomp out the language and culture, but based on the amount of "z"s and "x"s on street signs and way markings, Franco failed miserably. As I climbed, huffing and puffing with screaming thigh muscles, a stocky old man with arms and legs of stone, a man likely well into his 70s, jogged happily by, touched the top of the mountain and turned back to lap me... All while smiling. I loathed him. 


The region is stunning, ocean on nearly every side, Hondorribbia lay to the North, a beautiful fishing village where, years ago, I had shared a feast in a cozy restaurant while a storm raged outside. As I hiked, the clouds hung low over my massive mountain, keeping the air humid and enhancing the fragrance of wildflowers and sheep poop. Wind tangled with hair and kept sweat from rolling down skin. A French family picnicked in the shadow of a crumbling medieval tower, children laughing and speaking excitedly while parents rolled eyes from a blanket on the ground. Cow Bells reverberated across surrounding hills as racing motorcycles droned in the distance. The world dropped off, hundreds of feet below, beckoningly lush and green in contrast to the brambly mountain top. 

As I descended from the heavens, a Basque family sat around a tiny plastic table smiling at me. I don't know what they said, but I was hugged and sent away with wine in my belly.

I am watching a ferry shuttle people across the inlet while fat greedy catfish swim at the waters edge. The air is cool but the sun fights his battle with the clouds, occasionally winning. The town of San Juan is built into surrounding cliffs, trapped by the waters edge. Children scream as they cannon ball off a ledge into the water below. The houses have beautiful wooden balconies and conversations between them, an old woman shouting at children in the square from her balcony above. My backpack is in an albergue above, in a room with 8 bunk beds, the proprietor giving instructions in rapid fire Spanish. My day's clothes are drying on the line, my superwoman underwear drawing attention.. (I also play the Rocky theme in my head while climbing little mountains..) the sun is momentarily winning brightening the color of the abundant cheery flowerpots. And there is wine and delicious food to be had...