Camino v3 - Day 14: Sorde l'Abbaye to Onesse (73km)

Interestingly, I am the first up this morning and all the cyclists are up and about before either of the walkers has made an appearance. From my experience with dormitories on the Spanish Camino, it's always the walkers who are up early, often setting off before daylight to ensure they arrive early enough to get a bed for the night. I guess these two walkers have yet to experience this and adjust their schedules accordingly.

Despite a lengthy discussion over dinner of the merits of various types of foods and the need for a balanced diet to sustain you for the walk or ride, the French (and the Belgian) just have their usual toasted yesterday's baguette with coffee (black). The Belgian has chocolate rather than coffee. Since there are eggs, I make some scrambled eggs to have a little protein to go with my carbs and despite everyone agreeing that this was a good thing, nobody is convinced enough to change their usual routine.

Early morning messaging

I'm on the road by 8 o'clock for a very pleasant morning ride in the cool air; even the long climb out of Peyrehorade seems relatively painless. In fact it is a very pleasant morning ride until it starts raining. It continues to rain for almost all the rest of the ride although luckily the rain is light enough to simply ride through without having to resort to wet weather gear. As long as I generate enough body heat by riding, I manage to stay reasonably dry (or at least, I don't get too wet).

Pine plantation with skies

I stop and talk with two pairs of walkers heading south; both are pleased to interact with someone else on this quiet Sunday on these long stretches of walking along the bitumen road, which really can't be that much fun after the first few kilometres. The second pair is a couple of French guys, who've stayed at the gîte in Onesse where I am thinking of stopping. "Ah, Rosy" the guys says, "she's the owner. She's about this tall" indicating somewhere around his chest "and she's just as wide. In fact she's big in every direction." Interesting. The older guy towing a trolley I had met earlier on in my journey had mentioned he'd stayed in Onesse with 'my' two Dutch cyclists, and that they'd eaten in the restaurant next door. So I ask these two whether they'd eaten there. "That place is also run by Rosy. You might want to buy some provisions and cook for yourself. It's not very, uh, clean." Clearly they had been put off by both Rosy and her restaurant.

Pig trotters and veal heads - tempting, but perhaps not

In Lesperon, which is the other place I'd considered stopping at, but where I really arrived too early to stop for the day, there is an annual vide grenier (bric-à-brac market) on today, with the whole centre of the village closed and full of people and stalls. As I approach I spot two cyclists, almost certainly Dutch (the enormous bikes and their tall stature are a bit of a giveaway). I stop and sure enough they are Dutch and we compare notes; they've stayed at many of the same places I have and are of course interested to know what's coming. By the time I find the local épicerie with the idea of getting some supplies for tonight (heeding the French guys' warning) the shop is, of course, closed. It's Sunday afternoon after all. So much for making my own dinner tonight.

I ride around amongst the stalls and people. There's a brass band playing that nobody is paying the least attention to. Then I smell a BBQ and find that there's a sausage sizzle. This is, of course, a French sausage sizzle so it involves red wine (€1 a glass) and beer (€2 a glass) and the sausages come with chips (being freshly made on the spot), bread, without which no meal is complete, and the regional viperade, which is a sort of finely chopped ratatouille. A plate with the lot, including the wine, is €6 and I figure that since this could be my dinner, why not? I sit at a bench table opposite an older German couple who look like they'd rather be somewhere else. 'We're on vacation" they volunteer, and that's about the extent of our conversation. If this couple and the young guy at the refuge last night are anything to go by, Germans are not great conversationalists.

French sausage sizzle

I arrive in Onesse and find the pilgrim gite, which is empty. Next door is a bar / restaurant where I find several people sitting a table outside, having a few drinking. Remembering my conversation with the French guys, it's not hard to figure out which one of the drinkers is Rosy. Rosy is indeed short and wide. She is dressed in the 'I no longer care what I look like' style and she has a bit of a beard which sort of completes the picture. Still, although she gives an initial impression that I am seriously interrupting her Sunday afternoon - which I probably am - I'm given the usual disposable mattress cover and she explains: "There's some water and some leftover juice in the fridge and there's probably some coffee left in the coffee maker, so help yourself." There is indeed a cm or so of coffee left in the coffee pot, obviously left there by the people who left this morning. Or maybe it's from the people who stayed last week - I decide that perhaps I'll make my own coffee, and I pour the leftovers down the sink.

Rosy's gite

Salt for the feet (and not for cooking)

The gîte looks like it has been nicely created in a restored little cottage several years ago (2008 as I later discover from an explanatory note on the wall) and it contains an impressive collection of useful and also random things. But it's in need of some (rather a lot, really) TLC and a thorough clean. There's a sort of chandelier with five globes, of which only one is working. An impressive sculpture of a man carrying a basket stands on a sideboard; it's a lamp which, of course, doesn't work. There's two fridges which both do work, and there are some interesting things inside, which I decide are probably best left alone. There's a handwritten sign, in three languages, on the door of the freezer which says: "The peas in the freezer are not for eating; they are meant for your feet and knees." Naturally I have to confirm this and indeed there is a large packet of frozen peas in the freezer, unopened. The cook-top has two ancient hotplates, of which only one has a knob on the on off control: a little handwritten note above explains that the host without the knob is 'hors service' (not working). There are a lot of random bottles of cleaning products scattered throughout the place, but it looks like they are not used that often. Perhaps they are left out on purpose in the hope that one of the guests might take it upon themselves to do some cleaning. Several of the beds look like they have just been left by the previous occupant. Of course they have, but they also look that way, which is a bit disconcerting. Rosy's casual approach to her appearance is also reflected in the cleaning and maintenance. Nevertheless, when she offers to make me something for dinner - she is running a café restaurant after all  - I throw caution to the wind and accept. If nothing else, it will be interesting.

When I arrive at the appointed time, there's a fairly, how to put it, motley-looking group sitting outside. Everyone knows everyone else. I have an assigned place at a table inside; I am the only diner. The table next to mine has an iron, a can of ironing spray (irons 3 times faster!), some notebooks, the pilgrim credential stamp, and a few old newspapers on it. Another table is groaning under the weight of a whole assortment of random things including pot plants, cleaning products, books, and a straw hat. The only other table has been pushed into the corner, underneath a gorgeous old grandfather clock which confirms that time has indeed stood still at Rosy's.

Rosy appears with a glass of water and a glass of red wine. Neither of which I have asked for and both of which are welcome. The red wine is a good sign.

There's a guy leaning on - not standing at - the bar. He looks like he's been in better shape. As Rosy serves my entree, the melon falling off the plate onto the table as she puts the plate down, he asks her "At what time do we leave tomorrow?" Standing in front of my table, she looks at him and says "Do you really think we're going anywhere tomorrow? Look at you, you've been drinking, you've been smoking" (we shall have to leave it up to our imagination as to what he's been smoking). She walks into the next room (perhaps the kitchen is out there) and he follows her. At his first attempt he misses the doorway and walks into the wall next to the door, but to his credit he realises his mistake and on the second try makes it into the next room. There's an argument, or rather, the guy is getting an earbashing; he doesn't seem to be contributing to the discussion.

Rosy's restaurant

Rosy reappears a bit later carrying what is probably the main course. I have only just started with my entree and she realises that her timing is a bit off (probably she is a little out out by her recent discussion with the guy), so takes it away again, probably into the oven.

I've finished my entree and Rosy reappears carrying the main course. "It looks good" I say, hoping to myself that it will taste that way too. It looks a little like bœuf bourguignon, which is indeed a good sign. "I'll tell to what it is after you've eaten it" Rosy says, somewhat ominously.

It looks and tastes like beef. It's a bit peppery  and doesn't appear to have anything in it that I'd rather not know the origin of. As I eat, I admire the collection of things on the bar: a half bottle of water, a half-used packet of light globes, various (used) glasses and cups, old paperwork (bills?), one of those perpetual calendars where you have to change the numbers each day, which now shows the correct date (earlier, when I arrived, Rosy had to fill in the date on my pilgrim passport and noticed that her calendar was four days out of date), an enormous dispenser for cans of various nuts and nibbles (€1 each), two ceramic chickens, a (used?) ceramic gravy boat, a (used) ashtray, two upside down flower pots (their purpose will remain a bit of a mystery, as will the role of the chickens). Behind the bar are various plaques with sayings such as: 'Those who drink to forget are requested to pay in advance' and 'The future belongs to those who get up early, and then go back to bed straight away'.

Rosy comes in from outside, where she's been chatting with her friends,  and announces that the dish is a Daube de Toro ( from Cordoba, she adds by way of explanation). I'm not sure I've understood all this correctly, and perhaps we're talking about rabo de toro (Oxtail). Whatever the case, it's a beef stew essentially. And it is good. I've eaten all of it and Rosy is happy. There's even dessert, a gateau Basque with crème anglaise. Given that I'm the only diner, and she would have had no idea whether I would be having dinner or not, Rosy had done a fine job of dealing with the situation.

Later, Rosy comes and sits at the table next to mine (the one with the iron, which looks like it also serves as her office) and prepares the bill. We then start to talk and I discover a whole different side of her; she's actually, despite the initial impression she gave that I was interrupting her Sunday evening, quite interested in the pilgrims who pass through. I have already noticed that there is a pin board in the gîte with postcards sent from Santiago and other places by various pilgrims who had, presumably, stayed here and had a good contact with Rosy. We talk about the various motivations that people had to make the journey, what was the best memory, and so on. Reading through some of the comments in the visitor's book also shows that Rosy has made a positive impression on many pilgrims who have passed through. Her own notes in the beginning of the book perhaps capture it well: 'For me simplicity and authenticity are my guiding values'. She's also written that she's honouring a promise to her mother before she died to always welcome pilgrims, presumably carrying on a family tradition. 'Authentic' probably captures her well; she's definitely not pretentious.

A busy stretch of road near Peyrehorade (just before the hill-climb)

Before I leave the bar, Rosy comes in with a plastic bag with a croissant and a piece of baguette in it: "For your breakfast" she explains. "There's a toaster in the gîte, coffee and juice in the fridge." I had already discovered the toaster and decide not to tell her that I have already thrown out the two almost empty bottles of (dubious) juice and the virtually empty packet of coffee. The baguette will be rock hard in the morning, but still edible after toasting. I will have my coffee black - there is no milk (of course).