Pamplona

Departure from our hotel this morning was delayed by a broken bus, but the company managed a replacement bus and driver in record time. The destination was Roncesvalles (or in French, Roncevaux), a mountain pass in the Pyrenees that has been used by travelers and armies to move between the region that is now France and the region that is now Spain.

A stone marker here memorializes the defeat of part of Charlemagne's army by Basques in 778 C.E. In Basque Country, history has a long memory.

This pass is also the part of the "French Route" of the Camino de Santiago and is a location where many pilgrims begin their walk. We began our walk here, as well. But we only did a bit less than three miles -- only 440 miles short of the Compostela!

The path is well-marked and easy to follow, though one has to be careful to avoid lots of animal dropping from both wild fauna and domestic livestock. At least in this area, it is also very scenic.

Those who begin the walk in France are often near the end of the day when they reach here, and are looking for accommodations. A former monastery here remains an active hostel for pilgrims.

There is also a beautiful church attached to the monastery, designated as a "colegiata." This is a special category of churches in the Roman Catholic administration which places it as more important than a parish church, but not at the level of a basilica or cathedral.

Also on site is a much older chapel which is one of the most ancient along the entire Compostela.

Our walk ended at an inn on the main road through the village of Roncesvalles where we were served a large lunch at the ridiculously early time (by Spanish standards) of 12 noon.

We were also met in the village by a local "friend" who spoke to us about life here, managed to sponge free wine at our lunch table, tried to sell us his self-published albums of nature photos, and insisted on singing and playing guitar for us after the meal (CDs also for sale). Neither his music nor his photography were very good.

After the big meal, the bus ride back to Pamplona was good for a siesta, but we still had some time back at the hotel to prepare for the rest of the day.

We walked first to Pamplona's ornate City Hall where those who wish to take part in the annual encierro, or "running of the bulls," need to check in. The only screening is that participants must be at least 18 years of age, not intoxicated, and not pregnant. They must also not carry any bag, camera, or other items that might impede their movement. Traditionally the runners wear white with a red scarf, but this is not a strict requirement.

With a local man who has run the encierro many dozens of times over more than 30 years, we visited the corral behind the city hall where the bulls are penned the night before the run. He explained the origin and the mechanics of the event, and did a good job of helping us picture it as we walked the half-mile route through the city.

The run ends at the bull ring -- one of the largest in Spain, but used only one week each year -- where a bust of Ernest Hemingway watches over the chute where the bulls enter.

Yes, one probably has to be a bit crazy to run with the bulls. But I know people who jump out of airplanes.