I grew up hearing the tale of my ancestors escaping Spain for a better life elsewhere but it wasn't until my grandparents passed that I realized I had never truly listened to it. With this realization, I made the commitment to one day cover the distance between Ayerbe, Spain—where they grew up—and Lourdes, France—where they eventually settled.

Despite years of procrastination, the realization that 2023 marked a century since their endeavor finally pushed me to embark on this journey. Fascinated by the iconic power of places, I planned to pass through significant locations to their journey—and my heart. Due to the personal nature of this project, and my need for mental space at the time, I decided to undertake this completely on my own, adding another element to this personal challenge.

Would it be a multi-day run or more like a speed-hiking trip, though? The day before departure and after months of planning, I still wasn't sure what to call it, nor what I was getting myself into. 

Concerns from my parents added to the uncertainty, but my partner Laura, who tends to be much wiser than me, pointed out that no one had given this more thought than I had. Every adventure starts with a ‘fear phase,’ where everything seems chaotic at first but becomes manageable as details are sorted. I couldn't expect others not to see the danger I initially saw. Regardless of plans and others’ concerns, at some point all that’s left to do is go for it.

Starting in Ayerbe felt emotional, like time had taken a nap there. The football pitch, the train station with bullet-marked walls from the civil war, and the iconic Cesar Ascaso bakery, purveyor of the locally-famous pan de anís, all stood as nostalgic reminders of my previous visits.

It was August but, to my surprise, the air was still chilly in the morning. Freezing cold, even. But the thought of running towards and through familiar places kept me warm.

The Mallos de Riglos, where I’ve been several times for family hikes, still have this sprinkle of magic. Those timeless red canyons and the vultures soaring overhead could have you believe that you’re somewhere in the southwestern United States. The deserted landscapes unfortunately match the towns I pass through. Aragon is so beautiful but also looks abandoned. Nonetheless, there were a few open bakeries that catered to my diet.

Slowing down during the most technical sections allowed me to foster connections and share life stories with fellow travelers. In Santa Cruz de la Serós, my cozy nest for the first night, a woman in front of a restaurant sees I am limping and calls out to me: “Come over here, guapo, I’ve got some ice for you!” My idea was to stay for a beer, but she immediately laid out the cutlery on one of the tables, leaving me with no choice but to stay for dinner and chat with her.

I know my family hung around Jaca for a bit, where they helped some cousins with their sandals business, before eventually moving up to Canfranc, right on the France–Spain border. It was here that they got their hands dirty, helping to build the historical railway tunnel. 

Jaca was my next destination, where I planned to stop by the cemetery to refill my flasks––always a trusty place to find a tap with drinking water––and see what else I could find. I started checking some tombstones and uncovered about a dozen bearing my family name. I had no idea who these people were, but for an uncommon name like mine, this made me feel a profound sense of connection, as if the echoes of the past were reaching out to me. Did these people perhaps know my great grandparents? The tangible presence of familial ties and the blurred boundaries between past and present left me disoriented.

With my newfound dose of intrigue, I continued my way up to Canfranc, satisfied to have stumbled upon possible breadcrumbs of my family's past. 

The old train station in Canfranc, left abandoned for 50 years, has been completely renovated into a swanky hotel and now draws a hip new crowd. I decided to spoil myself with a night there, hoping the cold baths would help my now aching knee. I did feel a bit like an outsider, walking in there in my sweaty running clothes, without any luggage. When the bellhop proposed carrying my hydration vest to the hotel room, I kindly declined and we both laughed at the situation. 

Before checking in, I stopped to take a picture in front of the old train tunnel. The one my family helped to dig.

Pedro, an old running buddy of mine who now works in the area as a doctor and mountain rescuer, offered to tag along for a couple of hours on the third day. Doctor, you say? Too good to be true. He immediately looked at my knee and reassured me. It was textbook tendinitis, but it was not going to prevent me from completing the rest of the journey. It seemed that living in the Netherlands, accustomed to running on a track was not good preparation for the rollercoaster of elevation changes this route threw at me.

Newly reassured about the knee, it felt so good to finally share the trails with someone and to catch up with a friend after so many years. We stopped for a snack, admiring the sunrise’s spectacular show on Monte Perdido. Or should I say Mont Perdu because, ouh la la, we were now in France.

Pedro was working later that day, so he had to turn around. We exchanged a hug, swore not to let another decade pass by before our paths cross again, and parted ways.

Feeling more confident about my knee situation, I stormed down the valley until a babbling river, where I stopped to wolf down my homemade tortilla de patatas sandwich before going back up again for the longest and steepest climb of the whole adventure.

This is where things took a turn. I soon noticed the signs indicating Gourette, my destination for the night, were saying “6 hours left”, which sounded exaggerated. I asked a couple of people coming from the opposite direction, and they confirmed the bad news. They had covered the same ground earlier in the day, and I still had a long way to go.

As I approached the base of the climb, the brutal reality set in—it was all rolling stones, a two steps up, one step back kind of drill that would drain me and slow me down enormously. Another problem was that I was getting thirsty, I’d finished my water, and I was far from any public fountain. Thankfully, there was a river nearby, and I had some purifying tablets that I’d packed for emergencies like this one. I stopped there for a good thirty minutes to freshen up before pushing on.

Every step felt like ten, and every hairpin turn was like a punch to the stomach as it revealed more ground to cover. Long story short, this climb took me over three hours when I thought it was going to take me less than one. 

My guesthouse check-in deadline was getting dangerously close, and it was making me nervous. I was feeling dehydrated and feverish. Needless to say I was not enjoying this. I was trying to rush, but it was complicated by the fear of possibly twisting an ankle or a knee. For the first time in my life, I was sobbing from fatigue and stress.

Miraculously, I reached Gourette and my guesthouse in time. I went downstairs for dinner, and what I ate isn't exactly a top priority because shortly after I found myself making a not-so-elegant exit upstairs to revisit my meal. This time no doctor's verdict needed—it was heatstroke.

I crawled into bed with the feeling a kid gets when they pull off some shenanigans, but deep down know it wasn't the smartest move. I blamed myself for being too ambitious that day. It was too long, “too much of a day for a day,” as I like to say.

A round of texts to Laura, Pedro, some other friends, and my family, was met with an outpouring of support and words of encouragement. I kept my chin up. Lourdes was a day away, and it was almost all downhill from there on out! With a family reunion planned there, there was light at the end of the tunnel.

I decided to set off a bit later and take the last day easy. The climb from the previous day took me to mental places I never want to experience again. While making my way, I found myself trying to recall everything that had happened in the three previous days. With the end in sight, I started regretting not taking more time to absorb the memories or stopping longer in some significant places. I tried to focus on enjoying what was left of the journey.

One last much-needed stop at a supermarket for a highly questionable lunch—a bag of sour gummy cola bottles and an actual cola bottle, and en route.

I thought I wouldn’t be able to run anymore, but the first signs indicating Lourdes gave me wings. As promised, I texted my uncle 30 minutes before my arrival because he wanted to take a picture. Turning onto his street, there he was, on the doorstep of his house. The one where my grandparents lived. The one where he was born 85 years ago. The one he’s never moved away from. We both started crying, but these tears were very different from the day before.

Shortly afterwards he politely invited me to take a shower. After wearing the same outfit for four days, I had gotten used to my smell, but I can’t imagine what it must have been like for him.

Later, my cousins arrived and we sat down in his kitchen to video call the rest of the family—the very place that has witnessed decades of family tales unfold. 

While I was in the mountains, my uncle was apparently inspired to dust off some old photo albums he usually never dares to open. “Because it causes unnecessary pain,” he says. 

He had dozens of pictures he wanted to show us, of my grandmother, of my grandfather, of them together, and stories he wanted to tell us. About her, about him, about them. Inspiring my uncle – a quiet, eccentric man – to open up and share these stories was an achievement almost on par with the run itself. He even asked me about some sections of the route he’d hiked himself decades ago. His memory can be fuzzy these days, but he clearly remembered his adventure and murmured that my grandparents would have been immensely proud.

I am not satisfied with all my choices during this journey. But I am happy to have gotten my uncle to unlock a treasure chest of family stories that probably would’ve disappeared with him.

I can’t wait to tell my future children about all of this. One day, I hope, they’ll go on their very own ‘Road of Hope,’ creating new family memories to be passed down.

Words and photos by Laurent Dieste

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