Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, Camino Santiago

At last, I've arrived in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, the gateway to the Camino de Santiago. Getting here was a pilgrimage in itself, as there is no direct airport or high-speed train line to the town. But the journey, though slow, was beautifully scenic, especially as I travelled by train through the foothills of the French Pyrenees. Saint-Jean is tucked away in southwest France near the Spanish border, and it is the traditional starting point for the Camino Francés, the most popular route for pilgrims walking the full distance to Santiago de Compostela. 

I entered through the Porte Saint-Jacques, the old stone gate that has welcomed pilgrims since the 10th century. It became part of the UNESCO World Heritage designation in 1998, and as I walked beneath its weathered archway, I felt the weight of all who had passed through before me. Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port has long stood at a crossroads, being strategically important for both pilgrims and armies. In 1177, the town was destroyed by the forces of Richard the Lionheart during his campaign in Aquitaine. By the late 12th century, it became part of the Kingdom of Lower Navarre, one of the many shifting realms of the Basque region. For centuries, this was a frontier town changing hands, languages, and loyalties as France and Spain vied for control. When the kingdom was dissolved in the 18th century, Saint-Jean remained in French territory, but its Basque identity never faded. Even now, street signs are in both French and Basque, and the blend of cultures is woven into daily life. 

The town, perched on the River Nive, feels calm and welcoming, its old and historic buildings lining the cobbled streets like quiet sentinels of the past. My first stop was the Church of Notre-Dame du Bout du Pont, where tradition calls for pilgrims to pause, reflect, and collect their first Camino stamp. From there, I crossed the River Nive via Pont Saint-Jean and followed Rue d'Espagne, weaving past stone houses and shops selling fresh bread, walking sticks, and scallop shells — the symbol of the Camino. Pilgrims have carried these shells for centuries. Some say the grooves represent the many routes that all lead to Santiago, while others believe it was once used as a drinking vessel at streams or a symbol of completion upon reaching the coast. Now, it serves as a waymarker, appearing as yellow shells on a blue background across hundreds of miles, marking the route to Santiago. I stopped at one of the shops, bought one, and tied it to my pack, feeling a quiet shift as I realised I'd truly joined something much bigger than myself.

This was where I faced my first real decision: whether to take the demanding Napoleon Route, climbing up and over the Pyrenees, or follow the lower, more sheltered path through the valley and the village of Valcarlos. Each has its benefits. The high road promises sweeping views and the solitude of mountain heights, but it is steep and exposed. The low road is less dramatic and more forgiving, especially in bad weather.

Although I hadn’t fully decided, deep down I knew I’d take the more challenging option. For now, I'll share a meal with fellow pilgrims, listen to their stories, and take comfort in knowing that although we walk alone, we are never truly alone on the Camino. The journey has only just begun.