As luck would have it, we met up again with my friends who had already accompanied me in New Zealand. We meet up in Saint Jean. Many others, with lighter backpacks that seem to be much lighter than ours. They head west, we head east, along the Pyrenees.

The sun sweetens our first days, it burns, it kisses our sunscreen-smeared skin. I have white spots on my face. We quench our thirst with fresh water from streams and rivers. As always, it tastes delicious. Maybe it’s my favorite water.

The hilly landscape spoils us with a few meters of difference in altitude. It doesn’t feel like much, but it makes us tired. Bit by bit, until we fall into the beds we brought with us.

We also have the kitchen at our backs. We have pasta with sauce. During the day we eat wraps or a few bars. We have oats for breakfast. The horses we meet in the meadow also like it.

Some of the less experienced ones have aching hips and feet in the first few days. I can’t complain. Despite poor sleep, I manage a good few kilometers. Only towards the evening do I reach my limits. My stride becomes unsteady. My thoughts only revolve around one thing: getting off, getting on, eating and lying down.

As always, the joy and simplicity of the day do me good. My thoughts of something like everyday life quickly vanish. On the second evening, we end up at a bend in the path where a small path leads along the river into the forest. I follow it to fetch water, relieve myself and wash up.

Later, I discover a small waterfall. I follow the stream further to explore it. A deer has not made it across the ditch. It lies motionless in the stream. We try to pull it out, further downstream, where it can’t contaminate the drinking water. We succeed with a few pushes. Seba and I use sticks. We don’t want to touch it.

A storm on the third day. My tent can’t withstand it. Poles break, we sleep in a hut, share the floor and escape the storm. My tent is dead. My beloved tent. it has been on my back for 5000 kilometers. I set off early in the morning. I can’t go any further. I have to escape the mountains for a day.

They give me a lift. I drive back to Bayonne, where we were a few days ago. Hours later, two nice people and two buses. They can’t help me at the Decathlon. I buy a new tent and send the old one home. Two beers and Armenian food in the sun. I enjoy every sun ray, every sip, every bite. In the morning I make my way back again, in reverse order. The French are nice, give me a lift, help me.

I realize that everyone here at the border speaks Spanish. How that makes my life easier. My French barely goes beyond pastries and thank you. I can still say hello, but that’s all. Back with my friend, even more hospitality awaits me and a dry place to stay.

The food is fantastic. Specialties from the region. I forget for a moment that I’m a vegetarian, oh the ham, oh the cheese, what black pudding. The new tent is great. What more could you want?

The first high pass, almost 2000 meters. The weather is good enough, we are motivated, Fabian more motivated than ever. He grins from ear to ear when he sees the pass. Running inspires and gives you space. We talk, it gets a little deeper. The rain subsides and soon returns.

My glasses are wet, I can’t see much of the trail. The pass is passable, but steep. You almost have to climb. A lush valley with rocks awaits us on the other side. We roll down and enjoy the lush forests shrouded in mist.

A day comes to an end. I let Argentinian poetry motivate me to write. It works, it’s there, I’m satisfied. 100 kilometers and several thousand meters of altitude are behind us. I’m curious to see what the next few hundred will bring. Surely even more altitude meters. We’re only just scratching the real mountains.