Day 2: Meander to St Jean Pied de Port

Of course, OF COURSE, Spain is having a heatwave. Last night was absolute torture! As I slid seductively onto my mattress (there was a woman on the bed opposite me) I became aware of my bedding being covered in a sort of thin cellophane. Obviously, this is to keep the dreaded bed bugs at bay but bloody hell did it ramp up the heat! I felt like a k*** of Utterly Butterly skidding around in a hot frying pan all night!

Waking at an unfathomable 5:30, I tottered around outside my dorm and diligently investigated every cupboard that the kitchen had to offer (no secret snickers draw I'm afraid, although there was a plethora of exciting Spanish cereals).

Having milled around and eaten a leisurely breakfast for several hours I headed out in search for my coach to St Jean Pied de Port - the start of my camino amble.

I was firmly stood on French soil at 1 o'clock and keen to get going. Having also given a stranded Englishman €5 towards his coach fair as he and his two sons were stranded at some remote bus stop, I was fairly sure that my burial site was currently being arranged in Santiago next St James the Apostle's for my stupendous charity.

However, after a fleeting stop in the Pilgrim's Office, I was told a very stern 'non' by a particularly smiley French camino official. He said that the start of the pilgrimage - a steep assent over the coccyx of the Pyrenees - is probably the most challenging of the entire trek. After explaining that it would take me 8 hours instead of my ambitious 6, he said that it was simply too hot to tackle the steep 26km in the midday sun.

On very few occasions have I heeded such warnings, but something about John's beard spoke of true wisdom. Instead of condoning my enthusiasm he directed me to an albergue (the pilgrim word for hostel) which was probably a relatives the conniving sod and I left feeling slightly deflated but sensible.

This gave me the chance to explore the quaint, albeit titchy, town of St Jean Pied de Port, right on the southern border of France. The town basically consisted of cafes next to a shallow, crystal clear river called the Nive. On the way to the town's citadel I bought a traditional big scallop shell to accompany me on my month long hike for a delightful €2.50 and picked up my prized Pilgrim's Passport (Credencial del Peregrino). This gets stamped at every albergue I frequent in order to prove the distance I have travelled to gain entrance to the Compostela in Santiago and grant me the fabled Lebaniega (Special certificate) at the end - I have no doubt that it will become a treasured possession!

Now tucked up in a room full of maternal French women, I feel safe, content and ready to tackle the challenge tomorrow!