A study group tour can be fun-filled but it is also serious business. There are daily lectures about the sites to be visited and these lectures are given by a knowledgeable study leader. Obviously, knowing about the places one is seeing enhances their value and makes them especially memorable. In my mind's eye I saw northern Spain as a map. Some of the names on it were familiar while others meant nothing to me. Of some I already had mental pictures and others were blank shapes to fit into a jigsaw puzzle. Northeastern Spain is Catalonia. We had been in the province of Aragon and were on our way to Navarre. Those names I remembered from history class in high school. It's trite to say so but history does come to life when a traveler sees places where major events have happened and where average people like ourselves were born, lived, and died a thousand years ago.
When we crossed the river next morning on our way out of Zaragosa, I looked back at its spectacular skyline and wished we had more time there. We were en route to Basque country, to Pamplona, a famous place but we detoured to Estella (Liara) which I had never heard of until Maryann, our study guide, filled us in on its history. This small, very beautiful town is an historical gem. It's on the road to Santiago de Compostela, the famed (but until then, unknown to me) pilgrimage site on Spain's northwestern coast. For more than a thousand years, kings, queens, poets, artists, and ordinary people have made it their goal. To this day, El Camino attracts pilgrims. Ferdinand, Isabella, and the artist Velasquez came on foot from the south and walked through Estella. There are charming hump-back bridges over the river Ega. Romans and Goths have been here and left their marks. Tour director Emma set us free to wander and explore at will. My room-mate Mabel and I climbed a flight of steep steps to an ancient church but found it locked. We discovered medieval buildings and the site of a long-ago market place as we snooped to our hearts' content. Two hours later we drove along El Camino, stopping to see Puente de Reina, "Bridge of Queens" where the pilgrims' path from the south converged with that from the north. French and Italians had come from there.
Arrived in Pamplona, we hastily deposited luggage in our hotel rooms and dashed out to view this famed city. It was less than two blocks to the square which Hemingway wrote of in THE SUN ALSO RISES and I was delighted to recognize it. We walked through winding, cobbled streets of the old quarter and eventually came to Estafeta, the street where the annual running of the bulls begins during the festival of St. Fermin.
Back at the square, we listened while Emma, her eyes sparkling, gave a us a vivid description of the great doings of that holiday season. Spanish dinners weren't served until eight o'clock and the tour group was ravenous by the time we sat down in the small dining room of our hotel. The dinner we ate that night was delectable. I don't remember exactly what was served but it was infinitely satisfying.
The following day we went to Sos del Rey Catolico, a fortress site and the birthplace of Isabella's Ferdinand. Looking up from the bus window, I could see its walls high on a hilltop. This is one of the strangest, most unique villages I've ever seen. Its center, with a palace, churches, and an ancient stock exchange seemed purely medieval and we were told that little has changed there since the Inquisition when unfortunate Jewish citizens were given the choice of converting or being driven out.
The population was nine hundred at the time of our visit. The natives were going placidly about their business as if living in this extraordinary place was no big deal. As we made our way back to the bus, we passed small, comfortable looking stuccoed stone houses. In the sun-filled patio of one, a contented cat blinked lazily at us as we went past.
Xavier Castle where St. Francis was born to a rich and powerful family was on the way back to Pamplona so we stopped there. It was a real castle, complete with drawbridge and its own imposing chapel. We were on our way again when the bus came to a sudden halt. The driver got out and lifted the hood. Emma, ever alert, joined him. After a brief conference, she scrambled up the hillside beside the road and flagged down a passing car. Forty-five minutes later she was back in another bus to which we transferred. Emma was a tour manager who knew how to get things done. Off we went to another fine dinner and the exciting prospect of tomorrow's journey from Spain to France through the Pass of Roncevalles.