Shortly out of San Sebastian, the road started going steeply uphill. It was a beautiful balmy evening. I talked for a while with a man who was walking his dog. It felt like it had been a long time since I’d had real human contact, even though I had talked to the members of the Twelve Tribes commune that same morning. The solitude of walking had produced so many thoughts in these last three days that I felt like I had a lot more to say than would be polite in conversation.
I knew there was a camping place further up. It was mountain terrain again, but this time it was a road instead of a narrow hiking trail.
I wondered whether I should camp at the campsite or beside the road. I didn’t really have a tent – just a pair of large plastic coverings for bicycles. I could get into those if it rained during the night. The campsite would probably charge me money.
As I walked, I kept a lookout. Where would I be able to spend the night?
I was already starting to see the difference between this type of travel and the kinds that I had been used to in the past. I had done a lot of hitch hiking, and that had frequently included sleeping outside. But I now noticed that this pilgrim road was something completely different. There weren’t service stations to crash behind, and no good fields either. Right now the area was semi-residential. None of the patches of grass were very good – I’d be in full view, and besides they usually sloped steeply.
It was getting dark when I arrived at the campsite at Igeldo.
When places like this have made money from me, it was almost always because of That Feel. Probably not the exact same That Feel that Tom Waits named a song after, but very similar. It is when the sun is setting and you still don’t know where you’ll spend the night. It’s a melancholic time. You think of people going into their homes, hanging out on their sofas watching TV or whatever. And for a moment you’re almost tempted to strike up conversation with someone, convince them you’re harmless and you could keep them company for that evening, help them with their dinner, swap some stories, and sleep on their sofa, with a roof over your head.
But of course you don’t do that. Or maybe you’re the type that does that, but I’m not. I once met a guy traveling across Canada in his car, spending his evenings in bars and talking to people, ultimately managing to get himself a place to sleep every time.
That Feel. I had been keeping a lookout for a good place to sack out for the last hour now, and nothing very inviting had presented itself. I could go on, into the darkness, and no doubt I’d find something. No doubt even many of the places I’d seen and rejected would look very feasible if I were tired enough. In this state I usually keep going until I’m too tired to remain standing, and then just crash in some unlikely place.
But I was now talking to the receptionist at the campground. There was hot water there. I’d be able to shower and wash my clothes. She found it somewhat strange that I’d be inquiring about a camping place when I didn’t have a real tent. I asked about the cabins, but they were out of my price range. Oh well, I thought, if it rains, I can always spend the rest of the night under a piece of roof, like the one by this office, or in the laundry area.
12 Euros for that though. And I paid it. I paid 12 friggin’ Euros for a patch of level grass and a chance at some hot water.
Some pilgrim I was turning out to be.
