The hostel in Saint-Palais had been a Franciscan friary until 2005 when the last friars left. It was taken over by the municipality and comprehensively upgraded (new cloister constructed besides other improvements). Use is now shared between the municipal tourist office, a museum of Basque history and the pilgrims hostel. In the hostel you could choose between being in a dormitory of eight for 12€, or pay 15€ to be in a room with just two. I chose the room and had it to myself. I’m pretty certain that it was an unadapted friar’s cell. Room for one narrow bed, a small desk and a built-in cupboard, hiding a wash handbasin. But it was perfectly clean and comfortable, and I slept well.

After the gentle hills of the Béarn, today you hit the mountains. Not real big stuff, but some very steep climbs and descents.  In fact, it was a perfect morning for walking, and exhilarating. A steep ascent into woods then wound through beech trees just starting to shed their leaves, and then the climb started again. On and on, up we went, until the path suddenly emptied out onto a flat space with two huge standing figures, and stunning views of the mountains behind.

It was a good indication of what else the day was to hold. The morning had started cool, and it was still rather overcast, but the forecast was for some sun later.

From here the path plunged steeply down into the valley, and there I found the Stèle du Gibraltar – the point where three pilgrimage routes meet.

I have no idea why it carries that name, but, by happy chance, today is Gibraltar’s national day!

I think my inner grump expected there to be a sudden burst of pilgrims jumping out at me at this point, but there weren’t. I still was walking alone. The road wound down to the bottom of the valley, and then a wide path started the ascent to the highest point of today’s walk. The hillside was composed of rather friable slate or shale, so I was glad it was dry. Nevertheless, I picked my way with some care. Then, I saw a man, not much younger than me, running down the path. We greeted each other, and, impressed by his agility, I focused on my climb. Ten minutes later, he reappeared, this time walking up the hill again at high speed.

By this time I had named him the Grand Old Duke of York (though without the ten thousand men). Sure enough, he came careering down again, another ten minutes later, this time he stopped to chat for a moment.

He told me he runs up and down the hill several times a week to keep fit, but that he only had time to do it four times today!

This hot summer had produced some surprising effects which late summer reveals. Some fruit trees have produced little, while others are groaning. Today I passed some of the biggest sweet chestnuts I have ever seen, the size of tennis balls.

On the other hand, the hedgerows are full of brambles, but the blackberries are miniscule, most no bigger than my little fingernail, and not very sweet.

At top of the slatey hill was this very charming chapel and shelter.

There were memorial markers in the locked chapel, and trees around with seats. The views were magnificent.

I had a proper break there. One or two other people came and went, mostly local folks for whom this was, entirely understandably, a favourite walk. On the steep path down the other side, I met a group who looked like a local branch of U3A on their way up.

The road took me into the hamlet of Harambelz, and its chapel of St Nicholas of Myra.

This ancient XI C chapel follows a plan where all churches in this region were required to have space for pilgrims to shelter. It is now owned by four families, who have completely restored it and continue to care for it.

The other side of the village, just as the path was about to go into the forest again I encountered two men who had been foraging for mushrooms. They showed me their haul – some of the biggest mushrooms I have ever seen (out of consideration for some people’s mycophobia there is no picture). “Bon pour une petite omelette!”, said one.

Over another hill and I was rolling down to the picture postcard village of Ostabat-Asme, where I am staying.

My lodgings are next to a restaurant in the village, a beautiful old house outside and in.

I’m sharing the room with François, a Norman farmer and cider-maker, who is on his third Camino, and who normally does thirty kms a day without breaking sweat. He is an ex-Para, and remembers being dropped onto these mountains years ago. He is one of those large men, whose hand engulfed mine when we met. I’ve left him to settle in. Then beer will be taken.

There are more pilgrims around in the village, and lots of them use luggage transport. But I like taking it all myself.

This was one of the best days of walking I have had for a while. The ascents and descents went well, and the views were magical. I got to Oastbat at 11.45. A lot of me wanted to skip this stop, and push on for another 10 kms. But I’m glad I didn’t. The heavens opened at about 13:30. Instead, I had my picnic outside the church and talked to Josh, the Dutch ex-social worker, who is doing Holland to Compostela on his very smart electric Batavus bike as a way of marking the end of his working life. Then I checked in and had a siesta. I’m going to stick to my discipline of not over-extending myself distance-wise until I am at Roncesvalles and through the Pyrenees. My feet are doing fine, and if the next three or four days go well, then I might try and extend myself a bit. But only, might!