Hemingway Fought for This

Terra Firma date 23/03/2016

I was beginning to wonder exactly how far “just up there” was

We decided to take breakfast in the square of this town, which is famous for both its bull running festival and as a hold-up for the writer Ernest Hemingway, until he was ousted by Franco. As we walked to the square, we could see how these very narrow streets and steps leading to the square must add chaos to this tradition. It is a beautiful town, and its attraction to Hemingway (and now many others) is clearly apparent.

We circled underneath the shaded terraces of cafes that surround the open square, beautifully ornate in the history of this famous town, and a large blue PVC sign declaring Ernest Hemingway’s bar with a directional arrow beneath. This unfortunately pointed us only to a set of closed shutters so instead we took breakfast in a cafe decorated with elaborate, ornate, cast-iron pillars, a gallery of plants spectating from overhead, ostentatious plaster decorations, and extravagant and energy-consuming lights adorning the ceiling. I could imagine how the sumptuously decorated mirrors on the wall would have reflected morning coffee discussions and political debates in a smoke filled haze, pension cigarettes in the early part of the last century, and I imagined Hemingway’s attraction to staying here. There were few modern adornments: emergency exit lighting obscured by a half torn Jesus sticker with a spray of coke splashed across the high ceiling above, no doubt instigated by a YouTube video about peppermint in a Coke bottle.

At this point, two men entered from the back of the cafe carrying a long wooden ladder between them, stopping at the bar and taking coffee before continuing with whatever work they had to do with that long ladder. I sat contemplating how this wonderful scene might reflect in my book when the ambience was broken by a large crowd of noisy tourists entering with their prepaid guide to order coffee while glued to their phones, informing them of what was happening back home or using them to take pictures and stamp their progress around Europe. I wondered if they had noticed the layers of paintwork on the cast iron pillars and if they wondered how life may have been over those decades of different coloured paintwork. It’s an irony that we are drawn to these wonderful places but simultaneously destroy the atmosphere as we visit in our large numbers.

Cameron left earlier than I did and headed towards Jaca, with its wonderful biking country at the foot of the Pyrenees. He was in search of a campsite, anxious to get back to his preferred style of simple living and community, and away from the town and comfort of the hostelry accommodation that I prefer. It was later than planned when I left, and my attention was commanded by my trip through the winding foothills of the Pyrenees and along a turquoise reservoir, so it had become a little late when I received the text to say Cameron had found a campsite and to turn right on the A132 before Jaca and he’d be just up there.

After about nearly half an hour of riding into the dusk and up into the increasingly underpopulated wooded hills, the wind and cold increased, and as I was beginning to wonder exactly how far “just up there” was, I spotted him by the roadside. A short distance down a track we came across a deserted campsite, and circling around the gravel entrance track we stopped by the toilets. Beckoning me to follow him, he drew me in before explaining that, due to my propensity for frequent trips to the loo at night, this would be the ideal location to pitch our beds. This also turned out to be the recommendation of the campsite owner as the gale force expected that night would be likely to see off our tents. 

So this wasn’t so bad. It was, after all, the beginning of the season, and with the toilet freshly cleaned, we would therefore only have to contend with the permanently lit fluorescent light above the beds, the occasional disturbance from last-minute guests arriving for the Easter weekend, and the gale force wind racing in through the permanently open and plentiful vents before rushing out through the door, which must be left open for the previously mentioned late-night guests.

“Not bad,” I said, and trying to be positive, “it shouldn’t cost a lot.”

“That’s right,” said Cameron, “it is only €10 a night, each.”

I drew my breath: “€10 a night was what we were paying for a room in the middle of Pamplona with soft beds, clean sheets, towels and steaming hot running water in the adjoining bathroom.”

“No dad, that was €15 a night. I got us a 30% discount here.”

I replied with a deep felt sigh.