Part 2: Jaca - Arrés (26 kilometres); or how I survived a Rottweiler attack...

The town of Jaca evokes a real feel-good sensation for me. I had some great times here alongside some great mates. It was those little getaways that planted the seed of what would later become an incessant spell of travelling. Going up into the Pyrenees and crossing the border into France to go out on the town without our parents finding out was our usual sort of mischief. We were good boys really, as you can tell. The only problem with these little trips was that it was Huantse’s car and we had to put up with his unique taste in music. There was one song that I managed to salvage from all the American punk rubbish that he made us listen to, and I always asked him to repeat it, mainly because I liked it but also because it would delay the next song, sure to be unbearable, for as long as possible…

I’m not sure if the neighbours of my friend Borja remember our visits to his apartment in town as fondly as we do though. There was a time when our "modus operandi" was to arrive in his neighbourhood at 6 in the morning with the windows down, even if it was snowing outside, with Thunderstruck by AC/DC on full blast. Then we would go up to the kitchen to carry out our sacred ritual of having a second dinner, letting our Michelin-starred creativity flourish. I remember that once Luiso ate a whole tin of Litoral bean stew without heating it up and went to bed without even saying goodnight…

Despite the rainy weather forecast, I left Jaca around 10 in the morning with the sun splitting the skies and a spring in my step. A few kilometres later I came across a group of soldiers with camouflage paint on their faces who must have been doing some training.  Further on, to my left I spotted Batiellas military camp where it seems, as I was able to confirm a few minutes later, there is also a shooting range for the military to practise. To my right there was a picnic area and about 100 metres away sitting reading the newspaper on one of the wooden tables was a short, plump woman with a small ‘hand-bag’ dog and a Rottweiler of a considerable size playing by her side. When she saw me, the woman took hold of the dogs, quite discreetly, and moved to a table a little further away. A prefect day in the countryside for everyone, or so I thought…

As usually happens on these occasions, everything runs smoothly until something unexpected happens to change the course of events. In other words, until someone comes along and screws it up. In this case, the screw-up came from the military camp where suddenly shots from a machine gun were fired at will.  I continued to walk with my gaze fixed on the shooting range, scared that the officer in charge hadn’t instructed the new recruits on the use of artillery. The truth is I don’t know why I was looking over there, as if I was the main character in The Matrix  and I could dodge the bullets, but that’s exactly what I was doing until I heard a terrifying yell from behind: “Kaiko, for God’s sake, come here!!!”…

I can’t really say that I’m afraid of dogs but when you turn around and see a Rottweiler coming towards you with its jaw ready for action, it kind of puts the wind up you. And what puts the wind up you even more is when more than 50 metres behind him you see his owner starting to run in slow motion, only to fall and get up again as if she was Sergeant Elias fleeing from the “charlies” in Platoon, all whilst hysterically begging the dog to come back.

Thankfully the dog must have been short-sighted because when he had me close enough, he braked so suddenly that his hind legs almost went flying up. I imagine that the sight of an idler of my size wearing a txapela (a typical hat from the Basque country) that looked like a flying saucer and carrying a stick ready to smash his ribs would have been as worrying to him as his presence was to me. What’s for sure is that he stayed there staring at me for a few moments and then turned around and went back the way he came. He should have added, “it’s because my owner’s calling me but if she wasn’t, I’d rip you to shreds”. The lady, rather than apologising for the fright the animal had given me, started talking to him as if he was St. Francis of Assisi.  

Leaving this little incident behind, I started to climb a hillside where I was able to enjoy a spectacular view of the Pyrenees, with some of the peaks still covered with quite a blanket of snow. I didn’t cross paths with anyone on this route either. That’s the good thing about the Aragonese Way, which, unlike the French Way starting from Roncesvalles, is less travelled and so you can enjoy the landscape and walk undisturbed without any sounds other than those from the place itself.

At ten kilometres from the finish line the tiredness started to hit me, as did the weight of my rucksack. They say that the first few days are the hardest but that once your feet get used to walking and your back to carrying the weight, everything rolls along nicely. Rolls along in the figurative sense, obviously. As had happened the day before, when my meeting with the great Manolo gave me the strength I needed to reach the finish line, today it was this picture that helped me continue walking.  Hundreds of mounds of stones, piled up by the many other pilgrims who had walked these paths before me, all with their own reasons and at their own free will.

The final ascent to Arrés was quite tough. Three kilometres of an upward hill climb on a very impractical path. I ended up with mud up to my ears. I slipped as I was splashing about in the bog and was unlucky enough to rest the hand that I had free on a bramble patch. It looked as if I had made peace with a hedgehog. The village lies on top of the hill. 38 people live in the stone houses permanently and some outsiders come at the weekend. What bad luck that out of the four houses in the village, there were workmen working on the one that was beside my bedroom and I couldn’t have a siesta. The good news is that I went down to the bar and ran into the volunteers of the hostel who were having a little tonic. I immediately realised that they were country folk because when they saw me arrive with the txapela, Rafael, from Calatayud, said, "that’s a pretty big cap you’ve got there, maño”, which in Aragón is the delicate way we have of telling someone that they have a big head…

While the photo was being taken, Alfredo, the one on my right, mumbled, “smile, smile; show off your money’s worth from the orthodontist”, a comment which would explain why he kept his lips tightly closed in the snapshot…