PRE-SEASON PYRENEES
had felt as if the trip hadn’t really begun until I set off for Jaca. I’d slogged over the border from France at Arneguy, bounded on both sides by a narrow tunnel of trees, from above by sleet and snow and by the slippery, winding road beneath. On my way into Spain I’d been overtaken by an old van that went like the clappers through the twists and turns despite the conditions. I’d also been avoiding pilgrims on foot, on their way to Santiago de Compostela, and the overcast sky and fading light didn’t help. By now I could no longer feel my fingers and toes and I couldn’t decide whether to stop and warm up, or push on to Pamplona. I pushed on. On the final stretch though, coasting down the hill towards the city,
