I still remember the first time I walked the GR-10. I had just finished walking the GR-65 from Le Puy-en-Velay, so I turned right in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port brimming with confidence that I’d make short work of these ~100km. How hard could it be? Three days, max.
Well, I got my butt well and truly kicked. Just to show how well I learned my lesson, I decided to give myself… three days to walk it this time. BUT! I had an ace up my sleeve, or rather an empty pack on my back for the first and most demanding stretch, and some itinerary manipulation would further give me a break from the GR-10 before the remaining two days. Ultimately, this managed to qualify as closer to confidence than hubris, and I made it through unscathed.
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Just to complicate matters further, I walked my first chunk of the GR-10 this time in reverse. Not walking backwards—that would be really impressive and dangerous—but west to east. It seemed wiser to take the sure thing, the first train departing Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, so that I’d have control of my destiny walking back. So, around 6:50am, I stumbled off the train at Pont Noblia station, running on two sleeves of instant coffee mix. The only downside of pulling this maneuver with Bidarray is that you’re looking at a steep 1km climb uphill to pass through the town proper and then ascend to the GR-10. It ensures you’ll be nicely lathered before you “officially” start.
Most people will walk the GR-10 in 4-5 stages. Regardless of how you slice it. The second stage is likely to be Saint-Etienne-de-Baigorry to Bidarray and this, to me, is the most physically demanding of them all. As a consequence, I faced an almost interrupted ascent throughout the early morning, scrambling ever higher through the rocky terrain.
It’s worth pausing to note why this walking is so much more demanding than pilgrimage walking. I mean, some of that is self-evident—it’s in the freaking mountains and there’s a ton of elevation gain. But I’d include SJPDP to Roncesvalles as “pilgrimage walking” as opposed to mountain trekking. When you’re walking towards Roncesvalles, it’s strenuous, no question—especially that first 8km to Orisson. I am in no way calling it easy. However, it’s paved. So, so much of it is paved. And much of it that isn’t paved is still on a dirt road. What that means is you can achieve a very consistent stride and your footing is almost always reliable. Even if you’re moving slowly, you can find a rhythm, and that can help you settle into a good flow.
By contrast, the most significant ascents and descents on the GR-10 follow rocky footpaths on which every stride is different and every footfall needs to be managed with perspicacity and precision. There’s a mental focus required to keep your ankles in good standing. Going up is exhausting; going down is nerve-wracking.
So why do it? My god, just walk this stage and you’ll know the answer. Because when you finally stagger to the top, huffing and puffing and cursing, hating yourself and your life decisions more than you ever imagined possible, you’ll marvel at the world you’ve entered. You’re now walking along a ridgeline. To your left is a cliff’s edge, plummeting fatally to the pristine French half of Basque Country below. To your right are Spain’s green mountains. As the footpath winds along the cliffs (it’s possible, incidentally, to walk further inland if that sounds more terrifying than enlivening), you’ll pass by a group of grazing sheep, then a circle of placid horses. Take care when edging down along the cliffside, not just for the obvious reason, but also because there may be mountain goats lurking there. I edged down at one point to take a picture of the goats I could see, only to hear a chuffing sound and then discover there were several others within a couple of meters to my right. Huge birds circled overhead.
In this direction, I continued ascending gently throughout the ridgeline experience, padding softly through the close-cropped grass and sheep droppings. Finally, I pushed into a dense grove of trees, where a seasonal spring is accessible 300m off-trail. I’ve never gotten much of a drink from it in summer, but fortunately I had that experience to draw upon this time and was better prepared for an otherwise dry 20km.
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After continuing along at higher elevation for a bit longer after the woods, I eventually dropped into Saint-Etienne-de-Baigorry, where most would complete their first stage, walking from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. I emerged in a small, Sunday market, with lots of handicrafts and specialty foods, along with a churro dude. I was just pleased to get a proper coffee. The GR-10 passes through the “modern” part of Saint-Etienne, but I detoured into the “old” town, past the elegant medieval bridge, which is mostly one main road leading to the church. The church is a stunner, with beautiful coloring and the requisite Basque balconies.
I couldn’t wait too long, though, as I had another up-and-down ahead of me. The jelly effect was already noticeable in my legs, but I knew this ascent wouldn’t be quite as exhausting as the first. Indeed, the walk up to Monhoa peak is much more forgiving from this direction, as the walk includes an extended stretch on a gentler grade, though it begins and ends with some calf abuse. (I’d call this Veal Day, but I don’t want to be an aggressive vegetarian.) Of course, that means the descent from this direction is much more abrupt, so I had that pleasure to end with, careening down into the village of Lasse and then on to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port
Given that I’d spent precious little time out and about in Saint-Jean on the previous night, I was committed to enjoying it properly this time. Instead, I found it to be my strangest experience in the town. Admittedly, SJPDP has always drawn tourists, but this year, with so many people traveling locally and so many fewer pilgrims on the Camino, it seemed like the ratio had skewed wildly towards tourists. Pilgrims were a distinct minority. And I’m not looking to ignite a pilgrim-vs-tourist argument here, nor do I apply a value judgement. For my experience of Saint-Jean specifically, though, it felt different, not being surrounded by pilgrims. I was kind of sad. I ate a pizza in the fortress, slipped through the church, watched a couple strive for the perfect selfie on the bridge, and went back to my room. A strange year.
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I left Saint-Jean—for real this time, pack and all—the next morning. I backtracked the last five km from the previous day’s walk, as the GR-10 and the Voie Nive Bidassoa overlap for that first stretch. The VNB is the lower-level link between Saint-Jean and Hendaye, waymarked with scallop shells and other Camino-themed signage. The route is considerably shorter than the GR-10 and much easier, but I certainly wouldn’t qualify it as easy.
Most pilgrims walking the VNB are likely to end their first stage in the same place I started yesterday—the town of Bidarray. The walk to that point is unremarkable, almost entirely paved and meandering alongside the Nive. It’s pleasant, for sure, with plenty of shade and very limited traffic, but only a couple of small villages (Anhaux and Irouléguy) to interrupt the walk.
After Bidarray, I continued the paved march, remaining side-by-side with the Nive, until I was shocked out of my rhythmic stupor by an abrupt left turn onto a footpath in Le Pas de Roland. Instantly, I was ascending, weaving through a bunch of day hikers (where on earth did they come from?), wondering all the while if I had stumbled back onto the GR-10. It wasn’t terribly long and the footpath wasn’t too rocky, but my legs were leaden from yesterday’s exertions and slow to respond. Nonetheless, I was thrilled, especially when I broke out of tree cover for the first time all day. I popped back onto pavement but then returned to a dirt track, and at that point the red and whites reappeared as well, really confusing me. It turns out that I had briefly overlapped with the GR-8, though we parted company soon after. Instead, I had earned my final descent of the day, dropping down to the village of Espelette.
I confess that I hadn’t done my homework. I had no idea that Espelette was a tourist destination. But my goodness, if I thought SJPDP was touristed, I had another thing coming here. I quite literally gawked as I arrived in the village center, marveling at the pristine Basque buildings and the coursing river of sightseers running through them. I was not, in any way, prepared for this.
I found my gite, after a bit of work—but no Lalbenque-esque meltdown!—showered, and decided I could play tourist, too. I took pictures of the buildings lined with Espelette peppers, I slipped in (and quickly out) of fancy shops, I drifted up and down the pedestrian streets… and I got bored with it all after fifteen minutes. I struggled with navigating around the hordes of aimless strollers, meandering like zombies from shop to shop. I realized that part of what makes the tourist/pilgrim discussion so challenging is that so many different kinds of behaviors and practices are subsumed beneath that “tourist” label. As I stared at this zombie consumerism, I realized that a tourist oriented towards *doing* is a fundamentally different beast than a tourist oriented towards *shopping*. And then I reconsidered, wondering to what degree I, someone who probably merits being labeled a workaholic, am being harshly judgmental when I don’t know how to appreciate simply being in a beautiful place.
I still think most of the people didn’t need or even want most of the stuff they were buying and will probably wonder what drove them to shell out those 12 euros for a wedge of cheese they could have bought at Carrefour for 5 euros. But I’m cheap.
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After Espelette, the Voie Nive Bidassoa quickly rejoins the GR-8 for a longer stretch, and not coincidentally this is probably the best chunk of walking on the route, climbing back into the hills and enjoying some lovely views. The routes finally split shortly before the GR-8 heads into Sare, which is intriguing given that Sare is on the GR-10. It’s another easy way to mix-and-match the two routes, based on interests and time.
I was sticking with the VNB, though, so instead I descended into the village of Ascain, another lovely and well-touristed Basque town. The center, a compact and cramped intersection, includes the church, a pelota court, and a bunch of businesses. I confess that I had OD’d on quaint Basque villages with a 10-to-1 tourist-to-resident ratio and 12-euro Basque cakes by this point, so I settled for buying a couple of pastries in a bakery near the end of town and munching them down by a pond on the outskirts. The timing of one’s visit is so crucial to the experience. I suspect that if I had been here in June, I would have loved everything about it. Instead, my internal narrative in Ascain was, “wow, this is beautiful, now get me the hell out of here.”
I was more content in Urrugne, the next small town, and the place where the inland branch of the Camino from Bayonne intersects the VNB. I gratefully sat down at a bar in the plaza, sipped a coffee, and enjoyed the quiet. And from there, the final approach to Hendaye began. The way out of town passes an old pilgrim hospital (now a gite), gets one last short stretch of rural walking on unpaved tracks before an unmemorable march through Hendaye’s sprawl. This route bypasses the town center and the coast, instead taking the most efficient approach possible to get to the Saint Jacques bridge into Spain. This wasn’t my time for Spain, though, not quite yet. Instead, I headed to the train station and made a quick journey to Bayonne, where I was overnighting. And Bayonne, tourists or not, is a wonderful place to spend the night.
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Every pilgrim on the train from Bayonne was getting off in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. Except for me. I wonder if they were concerned for me when I disembarked in Bidarray.
Instead, it was time for me to carry forward on the GR-10. I made that steep ascent through the town center, again, not feeling quite as clever about my plan this time around. This third stage actually begins with a sharp, rocky descent and then a few km on a flattish paved road. Then it ascends gradually. Then it ascends sharply. And then you transition onto a footpath, where the real ascent begins.
I previously wrote that the walk from Saint-Etienne-de-Baigorry to Bidarray is the hardest part of the GR-10 between SJPDP and Hendaye. I stand by that. However, this third stage may well feel worse, due to the combination of fatigued legs and this opening climb. Because it is, indeed, a climb; you will need to use your hands at many points to balance and maneuver yourself up the side of the mountain. Cables and poles have been added to a couple of stretches, new since my last visit, and those offer a little more security. None of it feels like an explicitly high-risk situation, but if you had a serious stumble and failure-of-balance, it could be dangerous. So, while this isn’t the hardest stage, this may well qualify as the most challenging ascent.
When it’s done, though, the vast majority of the day’s challenge is behind you. Even better, you’re within a few km of a proper break, as a mountain farm, Ferme Esteben Borda, offers coffee, sandwiches, omelettes, even multi-course meals. They have a gite as well, if you wanted to split the walk here. Spain is just on the other side, so you could detour to an Asador as well, if you were so inclined. I was nervous that I might have arrived too early, pulling in just before 10am, but the woman in the bar was tremendously welcoming, even volunteering to refill my water bottle after bringing my meal.
From there, the walk follows smoother footpaths and a number of dirt tracks as well. While they ascend at times, it’s a gentler grade, and a substantial share of the kilometers are closer to level. It’s lovely, lower-impact walking, and if the weather is accommodating the views are outstanding. (Alas, the weather was rarely accommodating during my time in the Pyrenees this year.)
I descended towards Ainhoa, another pristine Basque town. It’s perfectly positioned to be savored while approaching on the GR-10, fully exposed to views from above. There’s also a tremendously memorable spot in the hills above the town, with the Chapelle Notre Dame de l’Aubépine, three crosses, and a collection of Basque tombstones sprinkled across the grassy hillside. On this occasion, though, I wasn’t focused on any of that. Instead, my attention was drawn to a group of horses.
As I wrote, it’s not unusual to come across horses in the Pyrenees. They’re chilling out all over the place. These horses, though, were low on chill. On the contrary, they were amped up; two in particular were playing Horse Rochambeau, backing into each other and then kicking assertively. Another hiker was walking nearby, not paying attention, and nearly caught a heel to the chest.
I decided, like the responsible adult that I am, that this would be an excellent thing to record, so I whipped out my phone and hit the big red button. If you watch the video, you’ll see that I started off intending to record the two, but I quickly panned as I realized another horse was moving towards me, with a little more energy than I cared to see. He paused, so I turned back to the others, who had calmed for a bit. Suddenly, the one near me made a noise, and I realized he was still there, right there, staring at me intently. I stopped recording, kicked it into reverse, and then, not panicking at all, cast a wide berth around the equinsanity and took shelter (not ironically at all) amidst the tombstones. The kicking resumed in due course, but my filmmaking career did not.
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The GR-10 between Ainhoa and Sare doesn’t feel like the GR-10. It’s mostly flat, entirely at low level, and follows a shady, riverside track for much of the way. It’s the reason I think it’s possible, for very fit hikers, to consider doing this in four stages. You’d need to go from Bidarray to Sare and have another longer walk to Hendaye, but it’s viable.
I spent the night in Sare. I’ve never slept here before and I was committed, this time around, to give it a fair shot. Another of the “most beautiful villages of France,” I’ve never fully appreciate the appeal. It’s a Basque village, so of course it’s not ugly, but in comparison to Espelette or SJPDP or even Ainhoa, it has always struck me as a bit more ragged and scattered. There’s a brightness to Ainhoa and Espelette, in particular, that is quite appealing. Something was eluding me about Sare.
It’s still eluding me. I had the whole afternoon to stroll. There’s just not a lot to it. No distinct gimmick, like Espelette’s peppers. No specialty baked good, like the pains d’epices in Ainhoa. There’s not even much shopping! Is it the nearby grotto? And the Petite Rhune train, also a short car ride outside of the center? That must be it. Anyway, for this pilgrim Sare’s biggest virtue is a SPAR supermarket, something lacking in Espelette. Did I tell you that I’m cheap? I’m cheap.
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The final chunk of the GR-10 runs something like 9km to Olhette, 6km to Col d’Ibardin, and 15km to Hendaye. Olhette’s hotel is the place you’d stay if you wanted to make this a five-day walk, probably walking there from Ainhoa. The hotel has a bar, so it’s also a chance at a coffee, but it’s an unfortunate 700m off-route. I passed on that this time, instead gunning for Col d’Ibardin. I would have no interest in such a place if I were in a car, but on foot it’s a marvelous, magical place.
In Ibardin, you’re right on the border with Spain. How much on the border? Well, as you walk uphill through the single-street settlement, the buildings on the left are in Spain, while those on the right are in France. Choose carefully, based on whether you want a café au lait or a café con leche. While the “supermarkets” are glorified alcohol stores, they do give you an excellent opportunity to load up on Valor chocolate and Filipino cookies. I got a coffee and a crepe and stared off into the clouds. Today’s ascents were easier than the previous days, but there were two of them, one between Sare and Olhette, and then another leading to (and past) Ibardin. At this point, though, the worst was behind me. Plenty of distance remained, but it would soon be more along the lines of pilgrimage walking than mountain trekking.
When I previously walked here, it was through a dense fog that blocked visibility to 20m or so. I was coated in mist and constantly wary of slipping and going full-turtle. This time, while gray and cloudy, I could actually appreciate the kinds of views I had been oblivious to last time. Near Olhette, I saw Saint-Jean-de-Luz laid out before me. And now, after Ibardin, I saw the mouth of the Río Bidasoa beneath me, with all of Hendaye below it and all of Irún and Hondarribia beyond. What a remarkable vantage point. Someday I’ll catch it in sunshine.
While the Voie Nive Bidassoa pursues the most direct approach to Spain, the GR-10 is oriented towards the coast, cutting straight across Hendaye to the beach. It adds some kms to your walk if you’re ultimately aiming to walk into Irún, but it gets you close to the dock if you’re interested in taking the boat across to Hondarribia.
And now, finally, it was my time to enter Spain. I proceeded on foot. While I had been comfortable in France and absolutely loved being on the GR-65, I wasn’t prepared for the warmth and deep sensation of competence I felt when I started speaking Spanish, realizing how much more completely I could now manage my affairs. I rinsed my legs—as inconspicuously as possible—in a fountain. I ate a falafel and then changed my clothes in their bathroom. I got a café con leche and ordered a tortilla bocadillo to-go and almost laughed out loud when it only cost 4.5 euros total. Spain. What a country.
Then I boarded a bus, two hours ago, for Gijón. I have never felt more professional than in this act: instead of walking from Irún to San Sebastián, on one of the most beautiful stages of any pilgrimage anywhere, I’m getting ready to walk from Gijón to Avilés.
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So which to choose? Is it better to walk the GR-10 or the Voie Nive Bidassoa between SJPDP and Hendaye/Irún?
I love mountains. My bias is strongly towards the GR-10. But it’s not for everyone. This is hard walking at times and if you’re not ready, there’s a greater risk of hurting yourself. There are fewer resources and very limited exit points mid-stage.
There’s also a lot to like about the VNB. Espelette is, to me, the most beautiful of the villages along either route, even if it’s not my dream destination. The route offers enough offroad stretches into the hills to give you a taste of the Pyrenees, while also providing more relaxing, easygoing kms as well.
The main point I’d like to convey is that it doesn’t have to be an all-or-nothing game. You can mix-and-match, or dial back the difficulty. The Express Bourricot offers pack transfer on the GR-10, so if that’s a barrier, they can help. You can also make use of the train and local bus, if you’d like to keep SJPDP or even Bayonne as a base of operation for a couple of days.
You can also cut between the two. If you started on the GR-10 and found it too difficult, you can obviously switch seamlessly in Bidarray, but the VNB isn’t too far outside of Saint-Etienne-de-Baigorry, so you could bail after that first stage, too. It would also be very, very easy to follow the VNB to Espelette, then take the GR-8 into Sare, and follow the GR-10 from there to the coast, enjoying the two least demanding ascents in the Pyrenees. There are options.
Even if you’re not continuing on the Camino del Norte, there’s a certain satisfaction that comes with finishing the country, walking as far as France goes and then stopping when the land gives out. There’s some geographical closure in that, if no other kind.
