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'Tis a grim morning and yon grey mist
Lies upon hill and dale and meadow
Like the weeds of a new-made widow
And clings fast like her grief-stiffened fist.
These my musings before we broke camp
On foot westwards from St Jean Pied,
Seeing little of the path that led
To Roncevaux, through the fog and damp.
Nearby, the Pyrenean pass lay,
Where Roland* waged war for Charlemagne.
Long and hard did my eyes flex and strain
In vain, for what still remains hearsay.
Cheer was found in the shape of role play,
With the parts of two of the horsemen
Of the apocalypse, when now and then
Our boots fed dust to our pilgrim prey.
Like pins they fell till hard on our heels,
A host we spied in the near distance.
We scoffed humble pie till their advance
Betrayed steel horses shod with two wheels!
In relief, we tossed the pies aside;
Lengthened our strides up the steep incline
At the peak of which we paused to dine
On bread and cheese and our restored pride.
Full refreshed, we steered our charge downward
Paying little heed to the laments
Of our bones, tendons and ligaments;
Sins which the gods hastened to reward.
For when into Roncevaux we strode,
We found a fortress from which escape
Proved a futile feat; thus was the shape
Of our thrall to the gods' penal code.
The fort was an inn; the only one
To be found in that tiny Basque town.
We'd no choice but to set our gold down
In the palms of men who served Mammon.
We burst from the trap onto the plain
When in the morn, our penance was spent.
But we soon had reason to repent
When the hoary mist turned to hostile rain!
For once more, we provoked divine woe;
With fury, we made them froth and foam,
And our mishap lives on in the poem
I've baptized 'The Rains of Roncevaux'**
Lies upon hill and dale and meadow
Like the weeds of a new-made widow
And clings fast like her grief-stiffened fist.
These my musings before we broke camp
On foot westwards from St Jean Pied,
Seeing little of the path that led
To Roncevaux, through the fog and damp.
Nearby, the Pyrenean pass lay,
Where Roland* waged war for Charlemagne.
Long and hard did my eyes flex and strain
In vain, for what still remains hearsay.
Cheer was found in the shape of role play,
With the parts of two of the horsemen
Of the apocalypse, when now and then
Our boots fed dust to our pilgrim prey.
Like pins they fell till hard on our heels,
A host we spied in the near distance.
We scoffed humble pie till their advance
Betrayed steel horses shod with two wheels!
In relief, we tossed the pies aside;
Lengthened our strides up the steep incline
At the peak of which we paused to dine
On bread and cheese and our restored pride.
Full refreshed, we steered our charge downward
Paying little heed to the laments
Of our bones, tendons and ligaments;
Sins which the gods hastened to reward.
For when into Roncevaux we strode,
We found a fortress from which escape
Proved a futile feat; thus was the shape
Of our thrall to the gods' penal code.
The fort was an inn; the only one
To be found in that tiny Basque town.
We'd no choice but to set our gold down
In the palms of men who served Mammon.
We burst from the trap onto the plain
When in the morn, our penance was spent.
But we soon had reason to repent
When the hoary mist turned to hostile rain!
For once more, we provoked divine woe;
With fury, we made them froth and foam,
And our mishap lives on in the poem
I've baptized 'The Rains of Roncevaux'**
This poem tells of an adventure I had with my best friend whilst walking the Camino de Santiago last year - a route that traverses the north of Spain from the French border in the east to Santiago di Compostela (a shrine to St James) in the west.
*This refers to the epic French Romantic poem 'The Song of Roland' which describes the Battle of Roncevaux Pass during which Roland fought valiantly but eventually lost his life in service to his uncle, King Charlemagne.
** 'The Rains of Ronceveaux' is a poem I've posted right after this.
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