Hairy-shaved-tanned & tired legs of Pilgrims

St-Jean-Pied-du-Port has leading from it and heading south, the D428 and, because it seemed to be the most direct road to the Spanish border and climbed steeply, the scenary looked promising on this bright morning. Whispy layered clouds hung in the valleys and the sun was about to disolve them away.
Soon apparant was the string of hikers heading south, their numbers swelling as the steepest inclines slowed their progress. Up and away into the hills our presence soon became slightly embarrassing with umbrella and single walking stick firmly fixed to the M44 luggage rack. All too easy, our romp skywards was far and away the laziest form of transport imaginable to a hardened walker.
At one stop along this narrow road, a couple from Edinborough explained that their pilgrimage was of concern to their children back home, but this was a now or never chance. Into their sixties, yet sprightly enough to set off, confident that eight weeks would be sufficient time in which to reach Santiago-de-Compestela.
Our serendipitous choice of route became our own challange, to pick a way between the souls bedecked with rucksacks, stout staffs or lightweight hiking sticks. With their backs towards us, a warning note was out of the question. This road was their road.
We reached the Spanish border and lost the trail, but rested a while amongst the creamy white cattle and crocuses adorning the hill pastures that sloped away on both sides of the road.