September 19, 2025 — Begin Again, Day 58. Bayonne, France to Pamplona, Spain
My time in Bayonne turned out to be disappointing.
My host was difficult,
unwelcoming from the start,
and barely improving with time.
All for sixty dollars a night.
In the evening, mosquitoes came through the open window —
there were no screens installed,
which is normal in much of Europe —
so I finally set up my tent on the bed
just to find a little peace.
But still, there were moments
exploring the old streets
when I found what I was searching for —
the texture of history,
the presence of character,
the quiet rhythm that only certain cities seem to hold.
But inevitably,
I returned to the bicycle —
a space I know well,
where I can shape my own rhythm,
where control, though never complete,
feels within reach.
Leaving Bayonne,
I found my way to the River Nive.
It became my companion —
my soothing, nurturing guide —
leading me toward the base of the Pyrenees.
Its voice stayed beside me
until the climb began,
until the sound of water gave way to my breathing.
I climbed to nearly a thousand meters,
slowly,
steadily,
each turn of the pedals pulling me higher
into the light and the silence of the mountains.
The Pyrenees don’t allow you to pass for free.
But on a day as beautiful as this one,
the effort itself felt like a gift —
the kind that stays with you.
Beyond the summit,
the road fell away into the Basque Country —
green, rugged,
spectacular.
By evening I was in Pamplona,
camped at an established campground,
grateful again for rest,
even if imperfect.
Now, I am in Spain,
looking south —
toward the final challenge of the European chapter,
toward Tarifa,
and the narrow strait of Gibraltar,
where a ferry will carry me across
to the beginning of the next chapter —
the Africa portion
of this long journey
called Begin Again.
[Music] My time in Bion turned out to be disappointing. My host was difficult, unwelcoming from the start, and barely improving with time. All for $60 a night. In the evening, mosquitoes came through the open window. There were no screens installed, which is normal in much of Europe. So, I finally set up my tent on the bed just to find a little piece. But still, there were moments exploring the old streets when I found what I was searching for. The texture of history, the presence of character, the quiet rhythm that only certain cities seem to hold. But inevitably, I return to the bicycle, a space I know well, where I can shape my own rhythm. Where control, though never complete, feels within reach. Leaving by own, I found my way to the river Neve. It became my companion, my soothing, nurturing guide, leading me toward the base of the Pyrenees. Its voice stayed beside me until the climb began, until the sound of water gave way to my breathing. I climbed to nearly a thousand meters slowly, steadily, each turn of the pedals pulling me higher into the light and the silence of the mountains. The Pyrenees don’t allow you to pass for free. But on a day as beautiful as this one, the effort itself felt like a gift. The kind that stays with you. Beyond the summit, the road fell away into the bass country. Green, rugged, spectacular. By evening, I was in Pamplona, camped at an established campground, grateful again for rest, even if imperfect. Now I am in Spain looking south toward the final challenge of the European chapter toward Tarifa and the narrow straight of Gibralta where a ferry will carry me across to the beginning of the next chapter the Africa portion of this long journey called Begin Again. [Music] [Music] [Music] [Music]