Day 16, Easter Monday, April 22: Castrojeriz to Frómista (26.27 km, 16.3 miles)

(Note: I have not yet posted Day 15 [Easter, April 21]. I didn’t have time to do justice to two days this evening, and so I decided to capture this day while it was fresh. Stay tuned for the Easter report. )

But first, an update on the Pilgrim Trio, as of 6:00 pm on April 22:

• Barb: Wonder Woman that she is, she is half-way through the 24th “stage” of the Camino (our guidebook breaks the whole trek down to 33 days to Santiago. To give you some perspective, she is a good 8.5 “stages” or “etapas” ahead of me! She is upbeat in all her evening reports, is taking photos, meeting pilgrims, drinking in the beauty. Just for the record: there is absolutely no way on God’s good earth that I would have been able to keep up that pace. Out. Of. Question. So happy that Barb has found her pace and been able to maintain it, healthy in mind, body, spirit. You go, girl! (And if she hasn’t maintained those aspects to the extent that I think she has, then those are her stories to tell, not mine.) Barb is getting ever closer to the legendary O’Cebreiro where I’ve seen a forecast for 4 or 5 days in a row with some snowfall. Maybe she could try making an igloo and save a few euros on her nightly accommodations.
• Ginny: She might be having the most unique Camino experience of the three of us. I’d love to say that the knee problem/tendonitis was behind her. You can’t know how much I’d like to claim that. I have to limit myself to saying that the knee is better than it would be were she walking on it. Wisely–and because, really, there was no other choice while she was trying to heal–Ginny has done a bit of leapfrogging. Saturday morning she bussed ahead two “stages,” having her own experiences as she found bus stations, located her reserved albergue, got permission to stay two nights, was “hired” as assistant hospitalera to kind, English-speaking Javier. I met up with her on Sunday in time for the two of us to attend Easter services together. Again this morning she had another series of adventures taking a taxi to a town through which the León-bound bus would pass, then hopping onto it, stopping in the town I’ll reach tomorrow. She reports being escorted by helpful Spaniards who kissed her on both cheeks before she boarded the bus, and being given an emotional hug from a Korean she had met earlier, who, injured, was bussing even further down the line. One does what one can do…. I know you are all eagerly awaiting news of the two of us heading down the trail together again.
• Yours truly: “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” so they say. My strength, apparently, is increasing, along with my love for the Camino. Still have a few tender toes, but nothing I can’t handle. (And, no, Kevin, I haven’t popped the blister between my big toe and the next one over. My technique is to cover them up and pretend that they aren’t there. If you can’t see them, they aren’t, right? My back muscles are being strengthened thanks to the pack; the core muscles surely are getting stronger as they are called into use very often to help me clear my nostrils. Remnants of that cold I caught early on. Hasn’t been too bothersome, but I’m ever grateful that Regina made me bring the large pink bandana. It is pinned–another great idea, those safety pins!–to my pack and called upon often. It is probably my most oft’- washed item on the trip. So, yes, I’m holding up quite well. Calling myself very lucky. I even seem to be getting used to the snoring that goes on around me. Are people really snoring less or I am just sleeping more soundly?

Ok, health and progress updates complete, I can’t wait to tell you about my walk to Emmaus!

Solitude? What solitude?

That’s what I told Ginny when I left Castrojeriz this morning, that I was looking forward to walking alone again today. There was lots of chatter at the long table at the breakfast buffet (corn flakes; packaged muffins which I heated in the microwave and the hostess acted like I had invented something brilliant; “would never have occurred to me,” she said; “I haven’t seen anyone else do that.” Huh? Surely I’m not the only one who prefers warm anything to room temperature!; biscuits to dip in the café con leche; orange juice). Yes, a lively group discussing which town each was walking to, which albergue they hoped to stay at, which we should avoid, etc., etc. I thought I was ready for some silence. I told Ginny of the few people for who my prayers were going to be directed.

And then…. then I started meeting people. Talking. Listening. Sharing the beautiful views together. I met:

• David Stott from England, from near to James Herriot country. We talked about Herriot and then discovered a lot of things we have in common. He, for one, not only had “business cards” printed out, but he brought his along on the Camino. So check out this photographer, scrapbooker, traveler, writer of poetry and journals and blogs at David’s story.weebly.com We parted company when one or the other of us stopped to take photos, but met up a few times along the way. He had along with him an actual photo album and I saw photos of his wife (deceased about a year now), his three daughters, his granddaughter whom he cares for 1.5 days/week. Very pleasant and engaging conversation.
• Neus and Jaume (from Barcelona, native speakers of Catalan). They were amazed to learn that I had studied Catalan in the US and that at one time I could speak and write it. Crossed paths with them at least three times today as we leap-frogged one another; along the way we find different reasons to stop
• Elaine and Bred (needs some kind of a diacritic so that the “e” is pronounced like the “e” of the word “eat” (one of my favorite things to do), sisters from Ireland (Limerick). I joined them on the porch of a cafe where I learned about them and told them about the counties from which my Daly, Hanley, Conley, and Dowd ancestors came from (Limerick being one of them). When I first connected with them, they were with three or four other Irish gals. “Were any of you on the Camino last April,” I asked of them, in, I’m afraid, my thickest brogue because I just can’t help myself! I’m supposed to be on the lookout for some women my friend Virginia walked with a year ago. “No, not us,” they assured me. And then we moved on, each one at our own pace.
• Karl from Germany. His English being as limited as my German (well, not quite…) we weren’t together for long.
• Raquel and Eduardo from Barcelona. They took my email and said they’d drop a note when they return home. Maybe during my post-Camino visit to Barcelona we might connect?
• And then, then the “find” of the day, a very precious hour or more alongside Jesús from Alicante (along the Spanish Mediterranean). He did the whole Camino 30 years ago when he was 30. (“Changed my life. I’ve been a different person since then,” he reported). Now he does trozos of the Camino–bits of it, a week one year, a week another–. He’ll finish this year’s section tomorrow. For him it has been mostly a silent week, he told me, but we clicked and I had my most enjoyable, deepest conversation of the Camino with him. Get this: he won the Premio Goya (Spanish equivalent of the Oscars) for his documentary film Sueños de sal in 2016 (I think). With the well-known filmmaker Carlos Saura–look him up: he rates next to Luis Buñuel and Pedro Almodóvar as one of Spain’s best-known filmmakers!–with Saura as one of his competitors! Wow, no? He has plans to redo the film (a full-length one, I think) to present in the 2022 Oscar “documentary shorts” category. But it wasn’t all that that got my attention, but rather his “feeling” for the Camino and his admission of some of the ways he had changed because of his very first pilgrimage. Our exchange became even more memorable when we stopped for an mid-afternoon break (coffee for him, orange juice for me) and he was telling me about an experience he had a couple of years ago. His mother’s death affected him greatly and he took a few months off to get his head screwed on straight. He recalled how he was walking on the beach one day when he saw a man sitting there, staring out at the ocean. This was in Algiers, down across from the Straight of Gibraltar. The muscular young man had only one leg. He saw him again the next day and talked with him. “I’m training to swim across to Africa,” the young man told him. Jesús had the opportunity to see him slip in the water and swim off with strong strokes. Training. It changed something in him. Lifted him from the fog he had been in. Made him realize how disabilities can be overcome with determination, etc., etc. That so much is just a matter of believing in oneself. But that’s not the story. The story is this: all of a sudden a 20-something male came around the corner. He had been working in the room next door, but he couldn’t help but hear the conversation and he came around to join us, showing us the stump at the end of his left arm. “Motorcycle accident,” he says. “But I haven’t let it hold me back. I’m an optimist. I wouldn’t let the fact that I’m missing a hand stop me from being all that I can be.” THEN the bar owner came in from whatever duties he had been performing and the conversation continued about the importance of the “cerebro,” the mind, by far the most valuable organ that we have. “If we have all our limbs and our health, but we aren’t using our minds, then we are nothing, have nothing.” …. Maybe you had to be there, but it was very powerful! I then shared about my friend Pam who did not let the fact that her MS left her paralyzed from the neck down keep her from being an inspiration to many with just her smile and her faith. Powerful time. With about an hour remaining in our day’s walk, I suggested that we not continue together, that we return to silence and attempt to process what we had experienced together. He stopped on the outskirts of the town where we’d stopped for the drinks, to meditate, and I walked on. We may or may not ever see each other again. Fine, either way. That’s how it goes on the Camino. The reunions are always joyous when they do occur.

Emmaus?

You remember, don’t you. The two disciples walking along, so distraught over Jesus’ death a few days earlier, so uncertain as to how to continue, thrown completely off course. And then this stranger, walking along the same roads, meets up with them and a conversation ensues. “And they recognized him [Jesus, the resurrected Jesus] in the breaking of the bread.”

So, from early on today, prompted, no doubt because it was, after all, the day after Easter, I found myself thinking of the road I was on as symbolic, as a road to Emmaus, where the strangers I was linking up with were somehow helping me interpret life. I had decided, almost from the get-go, that my post would have Emmaus in the title.

And the funny thing is, I had parted company with Jesús for well over an hour when it occurred to me to really take note of the fact that I had run into JESUS on my road to Emmaus! (I’m slow!). That realization tickled me.

Let me tell you what happened maybe fifteen minutes before my encounter with Jesús; this is appropriate for an Emmaus walk as well. I’m heading along on the near treeless meseta when I see a little copse on a little hillside. Cozy, refreshing, cool, easy to access… plus a good possibility to find cover and privacy for… well, you know what for! I climbed the rise, hung my backpack from a tree branch, took off my shoes and socks to apply more vaseline, and settled in to watch the pilgrims trudging up the path. When what do I hear? A long, loud, distant carcajada, a belly-deep …. “laugh” doesn’t really get the meaning across, but it’s the best I can do. What the heck? I look across to a distant hill, a kind of pyramid jutting up off the plain. It is not close to the trail, but atop it, unmistakable, is a pilgrim. Or a statue? A statue with a built-in speaker set to go off at intervals? All was still. No sound, no movement. Some other pilgrims coming up the trail stopped and looked. “It’s not moving”; their assessment concurred with mine. The form was stiff. Surely a wrought iron statue. All was quiet again. And then, another roar of a long carcajada, a slight movement. Arms rising to the sky, and holding.

I was fascinated. I watched him for at least 15 minutes, during which time there were several bursts of long-held laughter and a number of different body positions. Twenty minutes or so later, I noticed the lone pilgrim “merging” onto the trail again, maybe forty feet or so beyond where I was sitting.

So, folks, I figure there are several ways of interpreting this, and who’s going to say which one is the correct one? Was he laughing at how this world is just a thing of folly, signifying nothing? Laughing so as not to cry? Releasing something from down deep? And if a release, one that was very healing, joyful, reflecting some bit of self-discovery that had been long in coming? As I thought about it a good bit of the afternoon, I liked the version in which this was an enormous expression of Easter joy. The laugh was at Death and Meaninglessness of Life, all defeated when Jesus rose on Easter morn. The last laugh was not death’s, after all, but ours. Hey, it works for me. Emmaus! He lives!

As Jesús and I were leaving the bar, a tall young man with long hair and–I think!–a beard, huge pack on his back, entered the bar. Jesús, to whom I had talked about my “Emmaus day,” kidded: “Why, there’s your Jesus.” I wondered if there was any way that this might actually have been the “laugher on the mountaintop” (wasn’t that where Jesus liked to go to pray, to get away from people?). I was alone again on the trail and I walked slowly when I noticed that this tall, mysterious stranger was a ways behind me. When finally he caught up I asked him if perhaps he had been up on a high promontory earlier in the afternoon, laughing. “Not me,” he replied in English that was good but not native. “I’m just an ordinary person, trying to find my way in life.” He didn’t care to elaborate and I let him pass on without pressing him further. “An ordinary person, trying to find my way in life.” Aren’t we all?

And then there were these scenes

• Often I like to go into little stores just for a chance to interact a bit with the locals. I did so right off this morning as I was leaving Castrojeriz. Thinking it wouldn’t hurt to have some food along with me, I entered a very small and basic grocery store. I smile even now as I picture it. A tiny, tiny old woman came out from behind the curtain (or from behind the counter? She was so short I wouldn’t have seen her behind it!). I looked for something I might buy, and my eyes lit on an apple. Weight I didn’t need, but it sounded good, and I wanted to buy something. But then the problem of putting it somewhere. It’s such a chore to take off my pack once it is adjusted. Better idea still, and this is where my smile enters: I asked the woman if she might put it in my pack for me and I knelt down on the floor in front of her, attempting to describe which of the zippered pockets she should open in order to find a spot for the apple. A short interaction, but a sweet one. Wish I had a photo of it!
• In another little town through which the trail ran–a town with cute little dogs just doing their doggy strolls on the streets, no owners in sight–I got a good-sized chunk from a loaf of crusty bread, five slices of salami, and the same number of cheese slices. 1.3 euros which seemed shockingly little (just under $1.50 if you don’t factor in the price of the airline ticket…). This would make a fine lunch down the road.
• Said lunch I then forgot to eat until about 4:00 pm because I was either enjoying conversations with people or processing them when we parted company. It all worked out, though, because the trail hooked up with the Canal de Castilla, a canal built in the 18th century to help move the once-pulled boats filled with the meseta’s grain to market. It was beyond lovely, still full of water. Ah, the way the trees and clouds reflected in the still water was mesmerizing. I was in my glory. For the first time ever I could see myself doing a portion of the Camino on bicycle. I hadn’t read or heard about this canal, so it was a huge surprise to come upon it. I settled down for my picnic. I had barely put the sandwich together when off to my left I see… a good-sized excursion boat coming down the canal! My camera was already out to snap a photo of the sandwich spread out on my legs. You’d better believe that I caught some photos of the boat as well. Empty save for the boatman. Tourists on the canal? It was hard to picture. I have to wonder. Anyway, great sight. You would have loved it, no question. There was a reason why I had waited until 4:00 pm to sit down, fix my lunch, and take in the scene. I just didn’t know until then what that reason was.
• (Here allow me to vent: it’s a certain type of pilgrim who needs to read this, but if the shoe fits, wear it!). Ok, people, I understand that it is sometimes a long way between towns, especially on the meseta. I realize that you may need to irrigate or, lamentably, fertilize the soil from time to time, especially if you are hydrating as everyone says you must. But come on! Admittedly, there are few private spots and you are in a hurry. I understand that, too. But there is no excuse that I can think of for leaving your tissues behind. Please don’t! Pretty please! There are thousands of people trekking this Camino every year. You aren’t the type that would ditch a plastic bottle or even the wrapper from an energy bar. Think before you take off each morning; where are you going to put the soiled tissue to pack it out? You could think through all the logistics of how to get to the Camino. It can’t be that hard to figure out how to keep it pristine (even behind the bushes). ‘Nuf said!
• Today’s greatest challenge, and a warning to you to pay attention to your surroundings at all times. I found myself in one bathroom today (sorry, but there were no bushes in sight nor any large trees), the bowels a bit loose. I finish my business and, not spotting any toilet paper, remove a napkin from breakfast from my pants pocket and then… the lights go out. Not unusual. Happens all the time here; they seem very conscious about waste (of anything but bread and wine…). No problem. One just waves a hand a bit. Only today that didn’t work. Pitch dark, rather large bathroom, napkin in my hand. My phone–with a flashlight when one can work the screen properly, was on the floor somewhere, abandoned briefly while I… never mind….. Anyway, I did remember more or less where the door was and where the light switch was likely to be. Fortunately it was. All’s well that end’s well. I used to think it was sufficient upon entering a bathroom to make sure there was toilet paper available. Now, the paper, yes, but also be aware of where the light switch is. And remember to carry that napkin or paper towel in your pocket because your backpack with the toilet paper in a baggie is going to be outside on the sidewalk where it won’t do you one bit of good. End of that story.
• There are those who say the meseta is boring and monotonous. I couldn’t agree less. Today was so different from yesterday and especially the day before. Whereas my first encounter with it included a strong wind which made the grasses appear to be rippling wildly and racing “to the finish,” it couldn’t have been any more still and hushed than it was today, especially in the morning as we made our big climb out of Castrojeriz. For some the meseta is soul-draining, but I think for many it is the highlight of the trek where the largest amount of soul-searching takes place. It is, either way, a force to be reckoned with. For the next three days I’ll have a chance to reckon with it in the rain. We have yet to encounter a downpour on this trip. I would be happy to postpone that indefinitely. My feet aren’t eager for the rain and especially dread the resulting puddles and mud. Fingers crossed.
• Yes, though it was almost 5:00 pm when I arrived at this albergue, they had a bed available for me. Yes, a top bunk. Yes, as I finish this post, my roommates have been asleep for at least an hour if not more. But life is good: I have a blanket and, knock on wood, the snoring has ceased for the moment.
• Late lunch meant that i had no interest in the usual 7:00 or 7:30 dinner. My late afternoon included a shower, a bit of clothes washing and hanging, starting this post, going to the pharmacy, resuming writing. And then, as 9:00 pm approached, the realization that I was hungry. Maybe at least a bowl of soup. Heading down the hostel’s stairs I met a young Australian fellow who had been at the same albergue with me last night, a sweet 19-year-old who told me the restaurant just down the street had the best mushroom risotto he’d ever eaten. To die for. So off I rushed. Sat alone, but soon recognized the Catalans I’d met earlier in the day. They were just finishing up, however, so I ordered my risotto (first plate) and, for second plate: callos a la madrileña (“tripe” as cooked in Madrid). Oh, every 45 years or so a stomach deserves to eat some intestine, don’t you think? My time had come around again. The obligatory basket of bread, but what? Also a full bottle of wine for me? An excellent wifi so that I could actually send some photos and videos home (and I hear Regina has posted them on Facebook for me. Peter from Austria found his table partners leaving one by one, so he introduced himself and joined me (I’d invited him to help with the wine as I didn’t think it right to leave 5/6s of the bottle abandoned. The most memorable part of the story: feeling like Cinderella when I realized that I needed to scurry back across the street or my hostel’s entry would be locked tight for the night. Guess what my breakfast will be? Half of the risotto and tripe which the waitress boxed up for me. And my desert: an orange. I’ll have multiple reason to hop to it when that alarm goes off in the morning.

Quite the day!

Emmaus? Frómista? Bloomington? Chicago? Wherever you are, get out for a walk and see who or what you encounter on your road!

Day 14 (of walking), April 20: Burgos to Hontanas (31.7 km, 19.7 miles)

Mais oui, bien sûre!

So one of the last pieces of business last night was the nodding and smiling to Nadine about possibly setting out from Burgos together about 8:00 am. If it worked out… I wasn’t thrilled about it, truth be told; trying to call up my French–either to speak it or to listen to it–is challenging. Still, it wasn’t my intention to avoid her. However, by 7:20 I was packed, I had brought Ginny’s backpack to the bar to await the vehicle that would carry it forward two days, and I had delivered Ginny’s ice to her bedside. I was going to wait another 40 minutes for what? And so I left.

Ha! The morning’s jokes were on me. For one, I kept waiting for there to be a “better spot” to pick up some breakfast just a little bit further along, and thus… I missed my opportunities and had to face the prospect of walking six miles on an empty stomach. Not smart. By mile five I was stopping to shed my winter coat–a brilliant blue sky was giving the sun the chance to do its warming tricks–and to dig out the second of the three energy/protein bars I had brought from the US. The other joke on me was addressing another solo walker as we came to the far end of Burgos and starting a conversation with her. Oh, no! Back to French again! This woman apologized for her lack of English and lamented the state of English instruction in France. “We should be ashamed of ourselves,” she went on, in French, of course! “The Germans. They all speak English [editor’s note: no they don’t!]. From Norway, Denmark, all over. But the French? We are disasters!” We must have walked together for an hour and a half or so, but then we met up with Leko from Japan and before I knew it, Leko and I had taken a lead on my new French friend.

Breakfast in Tardajos was very welcome. Tortilla española, café con leche, orange juice. Ready to move on. Ah, but here comes my French friend from the morning walk, who sits and joins me, having first checked out the little town a bit. And then, miracle of miracles, here comes the lonely Nadine from last night! Here’s my chance to get these two women connected with one another so they can chat without effort to their hearts’ delight. And I’m off the hook.

But here’s the thing: it’s now my turn to tour the little town a bit. I was admiring the outside of the village church (there’s no curing me!) and in the process met up with a family (2 adults, 2 kids) who were admiring the stork’s nest on top of the bell tower. The kids thought it was cool. The family interested me; very definitely not Spanish. I was curious. “Move back about 20 paces,” I suggested to them in Spanish, ” and you’ll see the stork.” And then: “¿De dónde son Uds?” “De Madrid.” Nah, can’t be. “Well, we came from Ecuador, but years ago. The children are españoles.” Ah. The wife knew nothing about the Camino, the husband a little, so I provided some information and left behind a family who were saying that they should consider taking on the Camino when the kids were a little older. But you know what? In the course of my conversation with them, and also a bit further down the road when I had occasion to be speaking in Spanish, I found myself saying things like “oui” and “très bien”! Oh, my! Mon dieu, mon dieu!

Lunch and the meseta

Three or four hours down the road I found myself on the outskirts of my proposed destination for the day. It was 1:30, dreadfully early for me to want to stop. And I felt good. I was walking with Yolanda and Ruth, aunt and niece from Madrid. They had reservations for Hontanas, another 10 kilometers down the road. Hmmm. The wheels start churning… Hmmm. I could do that. It would be about 20 kilometers, longer than I’ve ever walked, but… I could do that. And I’d have my inaugural view of the “meseta.” Ruth offered to dial the albergue where she and her aunt were staying and make a reservation for me. Said and done.

I saw the Spanish gals ducking into a tiny store and, though at first I passed it by, upon recalling that I had missed the breakfast hour by passing up opportunities, I decided I shouldn’t do the same for lunch. Did an about face. For under $4 I walked out with a nice chunk of peasant bread, five slices of some kind of cold cuts, a wedge of hard goat cheese, an orange, a tomato, and a yogurt (can I still count the yogurt even though at some point it fell out of my backpack? I hope there is another pilgrim somewhere writing home about “how the Camino provides”!)

Ah! The “meseta.” Loved my intro to it as I climbed up to the “dry” high plain (so just why were there puddles on the trail?) Definitely lends itself to introspection and contemplation and many stops to just turn around and take in the full view, all 360. And to watch the waving grass, listen to the strong wind as it passes through. A tail wind! the best kind, no? Wondering: is this planted? Not a farm house in sight. Not a piece of farm equipment in sight. No flocks of sheep, no grazing cattle. On and on and on. I kept thinking I should take a photo of a tree since it might be the last one for 150 miles. Barren and lonely, but yet not that at all. Distant vistas… maybe 30 miles away? More? I took a lot of videos and some photos. The former, I’m afraid, will never load on the kind of Wifi I’m encountering; the latter, maybe you’ll see if I can ever find the kind of time I need to send them on their way. Or: come do this part of the Camino yourself. Not flat exactly–according to Fitbit I climbed 128 floors on this stretch–but not as rocky or as challenging as other sections. And at some point, it was time to sit by the side of the road (a gravel one, one car in two hours at the most) and, back to the Camino, meseta spread ahead of me, have a picnic with the crunchy bread, the meat, and the cheese. Lovely! Delicious!

More special sights or thoughts on this full, long day

• Ever seen a St. Bernard drink out of a small town’s fountain? So happy to have caught him with my camera. Gotta get the day’s photos uploaded!
• Have I told you that on one of my stops along the meseta I took off shoes and socks to relube my feet, and, refreshed and reenergized, got up motivated to “lift up” in prayer each and everyone of you I could think of, and “all the rest whom I’m forgetting at the moment, Lord.”
• Did I mention it was gloriously sunny? All day long? That when I arrived at my albergue in Hontanas that sun warmed the large stones of the hostel, its patios, the streets of the town? And that being the case, that the pilgrims were out at the cafes instead of hiding out in their dorm rooms?
• Spent some reflecting on this statement I’ve read/heard about the Camino: “the Camino might not give you what you want, but it will give you what you need.”
• Thinking about how WE are put here to be each other’s “miracles,” how we are the only hands and heart and voice and love that God can show in the world. Instruments. Big responsibility! To be God’s presence in the world.

Home for the night

It was a long haul to Hontanas towards the end. I’ve been used to seeing villages from quite a distance and being certain that I was heading towards them. In the case of Hontanas, no clues as to its whereabouts. No visible church towers calling out to me. Just the vast expanse of plain. Finally, ahead, I saw a huge hill looming in the distance, a reddish gravel road cutting through the middle of it. Oh, no! Yet another distance to cover before the town? And then, a few more steps, I crested the smaller hill I’d been heading up and saw, just down at the bottom of the hill, quite close to me: Hontanas at last! I could celebrate the longest walk (to date) of my life, at just under 20 miles.

I’m a big one for exploring a town before I settle in to the chores of clothes washing, showering, checking out dinner options, catching up on electronics. A fan of it, but it’s not often the way I proceed. But this day, yes! My albergue was at the entrance of the town. I located my bunk, spread out my sleeping bag liner and night clothes, and headed out to “see the town.”

You do understand, don’t you, that the towns, the pueblos we are passing through, are very tiny? They pretty much exist because of the pilgrims. In my guidebook, Hontanas is listed as having a population of 70! I’d wager that most of the 70 are at the service of the one-night visits of the pilgrims. It was a joy to run into Kelly from California and a couple from Germany; I would have imagined them several days ahead of us, but… for one reason or another, many pilgrims get delayed along the way, with injuries or just the occasional day off for R & R. My walk through town took me past a restaurant whose evening menu was very inviting. I entered to see if the meal was only available to those spending the night in the establishment and learned that it was open to all. I was given a 7:15 arrival time at a table, I later learned, that I would share with 7 or 8 folks from California who are doing the Camino on a bigger budget than my own.

As I continued along the central street of the town, lined with outdoor tables and chairs and loud chatter from Camino walkers who were thrilled with that still-bright sun, the church bells began to peal as the natives gathered. I learned that there was a 6:00 pm Easter Vigil service, not really suiting me with my 7:15 dinner reservation and my still-dirty body. I talked to some of the locals as they were entering the church and asked if there was a service in the morning (“no”) or if they knew if I would find a late morning or early service in Castrojeriz, the town I would reach the next day. I was informed that there was a 1:00 pm mass there in the Iglesia de San Juan. Perfect! I had only 10 kilometers to walk in the morning. Piece of cake!

Back to my albergue to wash and hang up some clothes, shower, and head back up the main street to dinner. If you must know: a salad with greens, beets, strawberry, and warm grilled goat cheese for first course; vegetable curry for the second; strawberry and apple cobbler topped with chocolate for desert. 10 euros. Most of the Californians were either 1) beat from the day’s walk or 2) intent on catching up on emails. Nelson, though–or was it Henrick, Henry…. or….?–apparently has a reputation for never shutting up. He did nothing to make me feel otherwise and… by 9:15 I was more than ready to return to the albergue, collect my clothes from the outdoor line up beyond the parking lot where half an hour earlier it had caught the last rays of the sun, and make my way to room 10. I found my five bunk mates already in bed, three apparently asleep and two just about ready to turn their lights off. All of which explains why I didn’t write this post last night but rather put the lights out and settled down into my silk sleeping bag liner, my winter coat spread atop me as a blanket, and waited for sleep to come. (Don’t let me get too much of your sympathy: it was a pretty comfortable temperature in the room.)

Thus ended a typical night of a typical pilgrim. If different from other nights, it was because… at the break of dawn we could proclaim: “Resucitó.” “He is risen.”

I’ll hope to be updating photos soon on Instagram/Facebook (Katy’s Camino). It just seems to be problematic to get them on this blog with what is often a weak internet signal…..

April 18-19: “bumming around Burgos”

Do I admit it? I did not go into the famed cathedral (though I did plenty of admiring from the outside). I did not take in even one museum. Didn’t get in on “the scene” (I saw revelers enjoying wine as early as 9:00, but the half liter of sangría–one glass–I shared with Ginny was “it” for the boozing), I had at least five meals in the same bar…. Nevertheless, I left town with very positive memories of the “miracles” that fell upon us from the moment we arrived in the outskirts of this historic, more-than-thriving city (all shared in a previous post) and a good handful of memories to take with me upon my departure. Among the latter, and in no specific order, I’ll relate a few details covering my stopover in Burgos.

Relaxing with the locals

At one point I dared say to one of the friendly and accommodating waiters in the bar: “Your food is excellent, but we’ve eaten here several times now. Would you mind sending us in the direction of other nearby eateries?” This must have been Thursday, late afternoon of the 18th, the first of the two-day official Easter-related holidays. We emerged from our Airbnb after an afternoon consisting of: washing clothes; writing that long blog about the angelitos that you may have waded through; icing and stretching (that would be Ginny); and having a lovely chat with Lisa from New Zealand, who had spent the night with us so she could sleep in. (Aside: we encounter people doing such amazing things! Lisa, a 61-year-old teacher from New Zealand, left home just before Christmas… for a year of travel! A year! Before meeting up with us she had, among other adventures, traveled with a nomadic tribe in the desert for several days. Her daughter will join her soon to accompany her for maybe three weeks on the Camino; her husband will join her later in the summer in Rome for a few weeks. After her adventures, she plans to return to teaching in New Zealand for another five years. Won’t she have had some amazing experiences under her belt by that time?) Again, I digress. Let’s go back to the friendly waiter and his happily given instructions so that we could eat at some of his competitors’ establishments. His “down, then two rights, then a left” led us to the Plaza Mayor, the central plaza of the old part of the city, just four or five blocks away. The memorable?

The memorable was being with the locals as they relaxed and enjoyed the holiday. And being able to give Ginny a taste of what the pre-dinner hours (anything before 10:00 pm) are like in Spain. And, of course, to relive that myself. We were not in the heart of “pilgrim country” with all the “where/when did you start,” “how far are you going,” “how’s your heal/ankle/knee/hip,” “first Camino?” Etc. No, we were with the natives or those who had returned to their city of origin for the holidays. Festive, animated, but “typical,” as well. This is how they do it: stroll and chat, chat and stroll. A bite here, a nibble there. And more chatting! Nicely dressed and neatly coifed “gal pals” (in their 50s, 60s), families, the little ones so excited when the abuela arrived to join them at the restaurant.

So yes, we did find a restaurant. A so-called “cafetería” that was nothing of the sort but at which Ginny delighted in finding a hamburger topped with goat cheese (which I think sounded better than it actually was…) and I had… enough chicken breast to place some in a plastic baggie for another day. The best part, though, was not the meal but the people-watching. Several young children near us were so adorable as they played hide-and-seek and just oozed pure, unadulterated joy! (I’m wondering: can “adults” experience “unadulterated joy” as well? Surely! Whenever we bring out our inner child, right?)

Needing just a little something sweet to finish off the meal, we returned to a pastelería on the square where, between glances at the very chatty clientele–(Ginny: “Katy, do these people ever quiet down? Do they ever go home? And they still haven’t had their dinner? This is really different!”)–we availed ourselves of the WiFi and were a real anomaly as we sat there quietly trying to connect with loved ones and get some photos uploaded. “What strange people,” the locals must have thought. “They barely talk or even look at one another. So intense! Clearly, not from our country!”

We may not have overstayed our welcome at the cafe when we eventually left (9:30 perhaps?) to return to our Airbnb, but Ginny’s knees were none the better for her having sat upright for so long. We left the locals behind with their strolling and chatting. We “small town girls” had had our fill. How many Holy Thursday processions had we missed with all our sitting? Several, no doubt. But clearly we were not the only ones “playing hooky” and missing out on the strictly religious overtones of the día festivo!

Planning ahead

We did, after all, need to come up with a plan. Friday morning, April 19. We need to vacate the apartment before noon. Wow, had it been a treat! Even without wifi. To have control of the thermostat was worth the price; we could be as warm as we wanted to be. Ditto with regard to control of the lights; on when we wanted them on, off when it suited us. A room for each of us! No snoring in the background! Bet this isn’t our last taste of luxury. Time will tell.

Between rising time and 3:30 pm, we came up with a plan. We moved just down the street to the municipal albergue, an amazing 6-story affair run with a precision reminiscent of the military. Because of the predicted (and actual) rain, because the city is a “fun place” for youth and Burgos has much to see and do, and because of the Holy Week activities, people were lined up to get registered when the hostel opened at noon. We were in line for a good half hour and, eventually, assigned beds on the 2nd “planta” (which is the third floor). As in all hostels, shoes/boots are left behind in the reception area. I can’t tell you how many times I took them off, then put them back on to go in search of information, then off again to return to Ginny with said information. And so it went for a few hours. But, SUCCESS was in order! We found a bus that would move Ginny ahead two days, located the bus station and learned how one could go about buying a ticket, figured out how to have her bag sent ahead two “stages,” found an albergue that would allow a two-night stay… All this was accomplished with help from our human angelitos who answered questions, looked up info on the internet, explained bus systems, and the like. (We are all, are we not, meant to be angelitos for one another? Isn’t that what it is all about, that “brother’s/sister’s keeper” business?) It felt good to have a plan in place. If not the dreamed-of Camino, the necessary-for-the-time-being one. (I have heard it said that “the Camino doesn’t necessarily give you what you want, but it gives you what you need”… even if you didn’t know you needed it….)

Burgos my way: the 4-hour version

And so I’m off to “see the city.” It was my intention, truly, to head to the cathedral, the exterior of which I had been admiring for days now. It really was. And I did walk the two, three short blocks to it. And around it. My eyes, however, caught sight of the arrow pointing up to “el castillo,” the castle. Ah, first that, first the castle!

Up some stairs. Up a winding street. Up and up. And then, to the side of the winding road I spied a narrow dirt pathway into the woods. You’d better believe it: I was soon making my way on that path, my heart oohing and ahing as I left all hustle and bustle behind. As they say, “you can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl.” I know, I know, I was born in bred in Chicago, but I have always been and will always be a “country gal” in my heart.

The trek up to the castle reminded me so much of the isolated, private, lovely hike I did in Prague in October 2017 when I couldn’t figure out how to buy tickets for the tram from the machines at the bottom of the hill. Everyone around me seemed to be a tourist and none eager to speak English or to explain the machines and token use, etc. So… turns out my most memorable Prague experience was that walk up the hill in total seclusion, getting views of the gorgeous city as it was left behind down by the river as I climbed. The climb in Burgos from cathedral level was not as extreme, but it was delightful. It felt so liberating to be back on a trail, to be in the trees, to be heading towards a view from above and a castle about which I knew nothing but which surely had figured prominently in days of old.

Old, indeed! When I reached the top there were–as was the case in Prague–people aplenty taking in the view over the city and the displays about the castle. Originally built in the year 884 if I’m remembering correctly. Protection against the “moors,” the “infidels” who had invaded the territory we now know as Spain back in the year 711. That original castle was built, then rebuilt often over the centuries, its present incarnation being a restoration of our current century with some excellent maps, displays, and explanations (most of which I didn’t try to absorb; it was enough to try to imagine the atmosphere.) I took photos of the well that was constructed to give water to the villagers living near/within the castle. An amazing work of engineering. I could look at my photos and quote how many meters down this well went to access the river below, but I’ll spare you the details and myself the interruption to this narrative. Enough for now to just marvel at the skills with which certain ones of us have been endowed, to the great benefit of the rest of us!

Next for me was to retrace my steps and also discover some new paths down the hill. On descending, I passed for the second time a good-sized park–still closed for the season–which appeared to be a “challenge” park or a “team-building” park. You know, obstacle courses, wooden structures to climb, ropes, bridges, etc. I thought of how much Maura would have enjoyed this in the past… and how she might relish it today as well. Wish it had been open so I might have watched people trying to relearn what our ancestors could do as if by second nature.

Having been up to the top, I decided it was time to go to the bottom, to a level down below the cathedral. To the river, of course. I was still lamenting that we did not enter Burgos by way of the river route, so I was determined to walk along it for a bit. What is better than a stroll along a river?  This river walk was bustling with cyclists, dog-walkers, and nature lovers. Time being the premium it always is, my walk along it was too short and I was soon crossing it. For one thing, I wanted to scout out the location of the bus station so I could give Ginny some confidence for her walk there the next day). I had the opportunity to query some natives to make sure I was “getting warmer,” heading in the right direction. In the process I passed a church whose door was open, took a quick tour of it, and noticed that there was a Good Friday service at 18:00 (6:00 pm). It was about 5:15 at that point. I had time to spare.

In the interim: time to find the bus station, chat with a lovely girl from Madrid, a pilgrim–I had guessed that as her pack was at her side–who kindly explained about buying tickets on the bus if no one was available at the ticket counter the next day. I love these interactions with natives, all of whom I have found very accepting of my imperfect Spanish. (Happy to say that it has been a joy to speak it and to see that it wasn’t as far back in the inner recesses of my brain as I had feared.)

Still time. I dashed back across a different bridge to the cathedral side of the river, asked a local for the name of the bridge he was photographing, and learned that he wasn’t a local after all, but a Dominican (from the Republic, not the priory) in Spain for research for his PhD. He must have been itching for someone with whom to talk (and talk and talk and talk) as I had to extricate myself with apologies and head back to the church.

Definitely not a pilgrim mass. Well, not a mass at all, as on Good Friday there is never a mass per se. I was definitely among the locals for this traditional service. As it would have been at home–and worldwide–many readings, many prayers, veneration of the cross, communion service. In the middle, a long homily, a very long homily, memorable because… I barely understood a word of it! There was such a tremendous echo in this church and the priest was talking at an I-want-to-win-this-marathon speed. When he finished and the two laymen–the ones whom I could barely understand when they were, earlier, doing the readings–when those same laymen began the prayers of the faithful, I caught just about everything. We prayed for one and all, believe me, whether “one and all” wanted those prayers or not.

Upon exiting, a quick walk back to the Plaza Mayor where I entered the same restaurant where Ginny and I had eaten last night so as to take advantage of the WiFi. Connected with Ginny and learned that she hadn’t had dinner yet either. We arranged to meet back at “our favorite bar” just inches from the albergue. Over the course of several days, I had enjoyed pureed vegetable soup there twice; this night it was cream of mushroom soup to accompany the wedge of tortilla española. I have, I admit it, very simple tastes when it comes to food.

The evening ended with a big challenge when we invited a woman to join us at our table. When one is anywhere near other pilgrims, the table gatherings are ever-changing. A Danish or German or Australian or North American leaves and his/her spot is quickly replaced by someone from Lithuania or Japan or Argentina. Tonight is was a French woman. For all practical purposes, Nadine did not speak English. Two years ago, after we’d spent a month in the Province of Quebec, I might have done quite well with her. Oh, but that was then, after months of review. And for the last three weeks I’ve been concentrating on Spanish. It was a strain at the end of this long day to try to communicate in French. When Nadine suggested we walk together in the morning as we headed out of Burgos, I admit that I sort of cringed. It is hard enough for me to understand her when we are looking at one another (the background noise of other pilgrims doesn’t help…), but it would be even more of a struggle to try to carry on a conversation while looking forward as we walked. Still, I told her: Bonne idée. Une plaisir (several errors in those phrases no doubt; very humbling to know that I am speaking some absolutely horrible French!). She was planning to leave about 8:00 am, the deadline for leaving the municipal.

Ginny missed a good bit of that conversation as she had returned to our new home for more icing and stretching. I was happy to join her and fall into bed. Four of us had one of many “cubbies,” but the partial walls were enough to keep it relatively quiet and I soon fell into a good sleep. No blankets for us here, but the radiators were going. I was fine inside my silk sleeping bag liner with my winter jacket kind of draped over any part that got chilled. Not a problem. (I am so glad I brought that jacket. I wear it most mornings and most evenings. Haven’t cursed it yet. Nor the purple mittens made by friend Sue from some fleece remnants covered by scraps from Ken’s old rain jacket. They are on my hands every morning. Cap AND headband on my head. On the few days in which we’ve had sun, the sun hat comes out later in the day, but generally on top of my fleece cap. Spring is late in coming, temperature-wise. Rain and temps in the upper 40s are forecast for next Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursdays. No question about it: I’m happy to have brought some warm enough clothing. I don’t even need to look down at my sleeves to know that I am still wearing the heavy Smartwool top that has been on my body every day since April 2!)

I am finishing this post on Easter Sunday morning, April 21. HAPPY EASTER TO ALL! Will hope to give the April 20 update later today. Right now, as I conclude this post, I hope that even those of you who plan on a sunrise service are still fast asleep.

Day 13, April 17: San Juan de Ortega to Burgos (22 km, 13.5 miles on foot; @ 9 km, 5.6 miles by bus from outskirts of town)

It is Friday morning, April 19, as I begin this post, hoping to catch up on my Camino narrative. It will be short–I hear that sigh of relief at your end!–though later today I’ll attempt to post a few photos. Very few were taken on this day and few notes dictated as well. For one thing, I was still chilled from the frigid interior of the monastery in which we slept, plus the morning air was cool and damp so I had little interest in removing gloves and getting my phone out to take photos or record thoughts. And for another: it was a thick pea-soup of a morning, so, really, there was very little to see! We were not witnessing the distant fog but rather walking right through it for a good while.

Our first stop, for a bite of breakfast, was a short 3.6 km trek down the trail where we were tickled to find a bar/cafe called L’alchemiste (somehow related to Paulo Coehlo’s book of the same title. Unfortunately we did not get a clear answer about the relationship and whether Coehlo stayed in this town when doing his Camino or while writing his book about it. He did write a book, no? At home I watched a video he narrated about doing the Camino, but it’s a bit vague to me at the moment.). Anyway, this was one of those sweet stops, and memorable for us because we got to know Amapola (as in “Poppy”), the lady who ran this place with, I’m assuming, her husband.

I told Amapola how welcoming (lo acogedora) she had been and what a nice spot she had. “Oh,” she explained (in Spanish), “but you see, I’m a pilgrim, too. So I know how important it is to meet up with friendly faces and with kindness along the way.” She went on to tell me that she “needs” her annual Camino trek, that each year, in winter, she goes out for a couple of weeks on the Camino, returning, of course, to be of assistance to the pilgrims who begin to trickle through in late winter and then become a horde as spring turns into summer. Before we left, we got our pictures taken with her and she sent us off with tight hugs and “buen caminos.”

As we exited that town (it was Agés, population 60), we were a bit confused by signage. (The first confusion of the day, but, unfortunately, not the last.) We crossed a simple medieval stone bridge built by San Juan de Ortega (a disciple of Santo Domingo and also a great friend to pilgrims, so think year 1050 or so), and then we had a choice to make at an arrowless intersection of two sandy, gravel-coated pathways. To the left: we would head off into the fog-filled countryside–very appealing–and to the right: a low-traffic paved road. A couple of Spanish girls thought the only logical thing to do was to turn left. We got our guidebook out, and after studying it and listening to Ginny’s gut feelings, we headed to the paved road. I kept turning back to check on the Spanish girls who remained in place maybe 15 yards along the left path for the longest time before the fog blocked our view of them. (We later learned that they eventually retraced their steps and came out to the road behind us. The correct decision.)

Just before entering the village of Atapuerca (a whopping 200 inhabitants) we passed two spots of interest. One consisted of a bunch of stone memorial obelisks commemorating a battle–year 1054–in which two brothers, one king of the area known then as Castilla, the other king of neighboring Navarra, came to fisticuffs resulting in the death of one of them. (You probably realize that “Spain” was not always “Spain,” but a series of kingdoms. Ferdinand and Isabel–financiers of Christopher Columbus’s trip to the “Indies”–solidified the country with their union, each bringing into the marriage two large kingdoms.) I have a confession to make: in general I am not doing justice to the history through which I am walking. I have the remnants of my years of study, greatly blurred by time, but neither the time nor the energy nor the ability to try to absorb too much new. And while you would think that, at the slow pace at which we are moving, it would be possible to learn a lot and “really get it,” such is not the case. Nor is it the intention of this pilgrimage. A pity to let so much go by the wayside, but that is the way it has to be, at least for this pilgrim.

The second thing found on the outskirts of Atapuerca was a sign indicating a diversion to an archeological site some 3 km off the route. We were not lured, but curious. From the guidebook I have since learned that it is a UNESCO World Heritage site because the prehistoric caves we might have visited there are said to be the source of the “earliest human remains ever discovered in Europe.” The book goes on to say that yes, our ancestors were cannibals and that “the latest analysis points to human activity going back 1.2 million years, and counting.” Back in the summer of 1967 I had visited the “Cuevas de Altamira” (or was it “Altamirano”?); I’m wondering now if that is still a revered site….

Here are the other memorable things of our trek towards Burgos:

• The rather steep climb on the rockiest pathway you could ever imagine. (I’ll be posting some photos of it.) In case there was ever any doubt, it was obvious that “we weren’t in Kansas” anymore
• A memorable stop in another village. Latin American music playing. I started swaying and moving right away with the lively music. A different accent from the woman on the other side of the counter. She was Venezuelan. The family comes here for six months of the year to earn their living from the pilgrim trade. I’ll be posting photos of her children as they prepared our fresh-squeezed orange juice, along with a couple of photos of the pilgrim-styled decor. A pleasant break to our day.
• Oh, the sheep! A huge flock of them just adjacent to our pathway. Is it possible they all wore bells? It was a lovely melodious sound. A joy for this lover of sheep.
• As for the rest, you’ve heard about it in my post about the “angelitos”: missing the turn-off for the “river route” and making the long and lonely trek around the airport to the industrial outskirts of Burgos and the dreaded sign alerting us to the fact that we still had 10 kilometers, hard asphalt, awaiting us. And then the “miracles” began! Before long: the hiking part of our day was over and the healthcare portion began.

Day 12, April 16: Belorado to San Juan de Ortega (24.4 km, 15 miles)

For the 15th day in a row, I slipped into my light (and lightweight) gray skate-boarder pants and the teal heavyweight Smartwool top. So easy not to have to make decisions! The pants have sometimes had long underwear underneath or rain pants over them, but the gray pants have been a constant; the only long pants I brought on this trip. The shirt? Usually topped by a Polartec 200 fleece vest and either my rain jacket or my winter coat. And thus I stay comfortable… except inside some of our albergues where the centuries-old stone buildings still retain the chill of winter but the heat is deemed unnecessary because, after all, it’s the middle of April. Brrrr… The cold is on my mind because I have been sitting upright in bed for the last hour, dressed in the above-mentioned Smartwool shirt and the Smartwool long underwear bottoms on top of my pjs, a wool blanket pulled over me and… missing the two microwaveable bed buddies I would have in bed with me at home, not to mention the flesh-and-blood buddy who would have me warm in a matter of minutes. Ok, pity party over, let’s move on!

Sometimes I title my blog posts and then never get around to including any references or explanations of the title. Let’s get that out of the way now. Yes, the train? You know: “toot, toot.” I keep hearing it, but not seeing trains or tracks. Whatever could it be? Surely not the huge bowl of bean soup I consumed last night? Surely not! But just in case, a fortunate thing I walked alone for the better part of today…. Speaking of trains (well, sort of…): usually when Ken and I are on vacation, our campgrounds are situated near train tracks. We constantly hear the trains rolling through. It occurs to me: other than the train that took us from Madrid to Pamplona back on April 3, I haven’t seen a train or a track. We are really in remote areas. The towns are serviced by buses, though we don’t see those either. Do not believe anyone who tells you that the Camino is on a lot of roadway. Or do not believe that the roadway is one that is traversed by cars. It’s just not so. Or hasn’t been so. There are more snails and caterpillars on the roads we’ve been on than cars, and I’m not exaggerating. This may not always be the case, but so far. As this post asks, “where’s the train?”

The Camino provides

Take our lunch, for example. We took an apple and an orange and one wrapped croissant from the breakfast buffet at the albergue. (Yes, I know the sign said that the food there was to be consumed only on the premises. Mea culpa! I did my penance climbing 153 floors today. And besides, we didn’t consume that much at the actual buffet.) We ran back to the dorm room to pick up our packs and head down the Camino, but then Ginny disappeared. She showed up a minute later with a big grin on her face and a plastic bag in her hands. “Lunch,” she said. “I found cheese and chorizo and brown bread and chocolate cookies just left out on the pilgrim’s kitchen table. Stuff people didn’t want to bother packing up.” Ah yes, the Camino provides.

It provided some really cool sights before we’d even gotten through Belorado. I’m afraid Ginny was a gal on a mission and she missed the following. I promise pictures in the next couple of days, but here’s the story behind them:

1. I saw a pilgrim reading a sign not minutes after we left the albergue. It was on the side of a building, written in both English and Spanish. Something to the effect that pilgrims should walk ahead about 15 feet and turn around. ???? Silly, right? But what would it hurt to do just that; this is not Sodom and Gomorrah. So I walked on a bit and turned around. Whoa! A beautiful mural, two actually, each, I’m thinking, about three stories high. One of a mature woman, one of a child. Lovely! Hope my photos do them justice.
2. Also just a bit from our albergue: an open store front with a long table set up just off the sidewalk. On the table: two huge pans, one empty and the other filled with just-cooked rice, set out to cool. I’m talking large pans. Maybe a square yard each? Off to the side, a large cauldron in which more rice was cooking, being stirred a bit by an attendant. And the proprietor bustling about. “¿Venden arroz?” I asked, puzzled. As easy as rice is to cook, and as much of a staple as it is, why would anyone buy it? Bread, yes, I get that. But rice? Well, I had it all wrong, but the owner was more than willing to strut his stuff.  “A world-famous sausage maker,” he said. “That’s me!” When I asked if I could take a photo of the rice, he gestured for me to follow and sent me into two different rooms to see all the chorizo sausages hanging to dry. He showed me the sign on the side of the building with his web site, promised that if I ordered from the US, I could have fresh sausage from him within 24 hours. And please, would I spread the word because he had three children to support and, he added, gesturing to his wife who was by this time working to fill the second pan with more freshly prepared rice, “she’s pregnant again.” It was a really fun way to begin my engagement with this new day! What more would the Camino provide before the day was over?

Some lovely vistas, that’s what. At the beginning. And then, moving forward, we were up into the “mountains” again (high point 1,150 meters or almost 3,800 feet). We left vistas behind for a while, including those snow-covered mountains we’ve been seeing from time to time for days now, and we could enjoy being surrounded by trees: some oak and, to a greater extent, pine. We moved along at our own pace, spending a lot of time in silent marvel and far-reaching, good-fo-the-soul thoughts. Even though the path was wide, the surroundings reminded me of some of my treasured Indiana training hikes. Minus the creek crossings!

I think in another post I may have mentioned my new technique of recording some experiences and thoughts as I walk along, to help boost my memory of them as I reflect on the day and attempt to do a post about it. Both good and bad. It is easy enough for me to get the phone out, press the image of a microphone, and record line after line of text. I’ve just read some of those lines…. Ha! Very difficult to decipher. For every sentence that the recorder got correct, there are many phrases which require translation and interpretation. Still, they serve to jog the memory and even now, as I finish this post three days after the experience, the feelings do come back to me. Lumped together in non-sequential order, I’ll share a few of the details–both thoughts and experiences–of the day. More than you want or need to hear? Too “preachy”? No problem. This is meant to float my boat and may not be at all what keeps yours afloat.

Varied experiences and thoughts

• A spoonful of sugar and some steamed milk sure helps this usually non-coffee drinker enjoy the occasional cappuccino. Especially when it is cool outside!
• as we climbed and climbed and climbed and climbed–I think this was a 153-floor day–I was reminded that Lamaze breathing is good not only for the process of giving birth and for pedaling up steep hills; it’s a great distraction for “mountain climbing” as well
• I have been taking absolutely way too many pictures of the exteriors of churches, but I just can’t resist. Especially the really old ones, the 12th-century ones. I love the plainness of their huge stones, the way they are visible for miles and miles, how they dominate the small villages. I love how I can sometimes look out over the countryside and see several villages off in different directions. I spotted one today built into the side of a mountain. It would have been a significant detour to check it out, and the day offered ample challenges, so I “let it go” (except for the photograph…)
• Our “pilgrim-provided” lunch in front of the church in the hometown/birthplace of Santo Domingo was perfect in its simplicity. The table was directly in front of the church where the saint had been baptized one thousand years earlier. His birth home was across the “street” from the church. We were more or less in the “playground” of his childhood and also in the “work ground” of his adult life when assisting pilgrims was his life’s mission. Still trying to wrap my mind around how much “sacred traffic” passed through these small towns and this challenging terrain a thousand years ago….
• I thought often today about how today’s pilgrims are a miniature United Nations. But truly united. On the same mission, even if for varying purposes. We all wish each other well. The Camino is a safe place in which to build friendships. The “buen caminos” with which we greet one another are so much more than “have a good days.” So much good will and good cheer. We have so little on our backs, but what we have is… for the one who needs it. Plastic bags, clothespins, knee braces, ibuprofens, blister patches, oranges, etc., are given to the one who needs them without (much) thought to what will happen if/when they might be sorely needed by the giver. “The Camino will provide.” Trust. Trust. More trust.
• How basic our needs really are: shelter, food, drink, at least a few people who care about your well-being and treat you with affection. Yes, “life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness.”
• I had a conversation with a French couple as I made my way today. My Spanish is coming back remarkably well and I don’t hesitate to speak it though medical terms and technological ones throw me off!), but the French I worked so hard to recuperate a couple of years ago is slow to come out. It is humbling to know that I am garbling verbs and verb tenses and otherwise sounding like an illiterate, but at the same time, it is rewarding to see that I am making myself understood and am managing to understand. (Easier still to carry on conversations with Brazilians, they using their Portuguese, me speaking Spanish, grinning as we see that we are communicating. But I digress again…). It was from the French couple, from Guy and Ann, that I learned about the tragedy of the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris. A loss for the whole world, but so much more personal for these folks. I have yet to see any news reports or to brush up on the news via anything online.
• An oops that I’ve noticed. We did have a picnic lunch at the church where Santo Domingo was baptized…. but that was the day before, on the 15th, and probably described in the post for that day. And you probably have already noticed my mistake. Today’s picnic lunch, made from the bits and pieces of what other pilgrims had left in the kitchen, was enjoyed as we sat on my rain kilt up in the mountains, just on the side of the trail, Ginny with her knee elevated on my pack, pilgrims stopping to greet us and to accept–or not–some of the pilfered food we offered them.
• Sign seen on someone’s daypack today, written in Spanish: Don’t dream your life, live your dreams. No sueñes tu vida; vive tus sueños. Doing just that right now!
• Struck today with an awareness–brought on, no doubt, by the tedium of carrying the pack– that we all carry burdens. Some are more visible than others, some heavier, longer-lasting, more painful, some more fleeting, but carry them we do. What to do? Help one another as best we can, and notice and be grateful for those who lighten our load in any way.
• The song “Let there be peace on earth” came to me often today. Do you know it? It includes the words: “…with every step I take, let this be my solemn vow,” the vow being to live in peace and harmony. I took lots of steps today. Have I brought any more peace and harmony and good will into the world? Hoping so.

San Juan de Ortega

The monastery for pilgrims is, basically, the town. That and the bar adjacent to it to meet the pilgrim’s needs. A few quick observations for my personal recollection, and then something major I want to get to. The quick ones:

• It was so cold there! Inside the thick walls of the old building. The heat which we were told was programmed to come on at a set time never came on.
• Lovely out in the courtyard in front of the albergue. The sun shone on those walls and so, while it was still up a bit in the sky, it warmed the stone in front of which we sat, dried some of our clothes, helped us relax.
• Another top bunk. A challenge to remember where the ladder was. Plugs weren’t right there by the beds.
• Why was everyone afraid to turn the lights on, both in the evening and in the morning? I like it better when the hospitaleros are in charge of lights instead of the pilgrims….
• Nice hot water in the showers
• The most generous (in quantity) pilgrim meals yet. I consumed everything! Cheapest “3-course meal” yet at 9 euros. Four courses, actually: soup, salad, meat, potatoes, pasta, then yogurt or fruit. No wine.
• The bar was willing to give me ice if I brought the plastic bag for it.

But on to the most significant thing about the visit to San Juan de Ortega: the pilgrim’s mass. For once the mass was strictly FOR the pilgrims. I’m sure townsfolk would have been invited had there been any. It was just us. 6:30 pm. Much better than 8:00, right? The priest was the most warm and welcoming one I have encountered thus far. “Hospitality” just dripped from him as if he were a direct descendant of St. Benedict. A wide, compassionate smile. No hurry, as if he had all the time in the world. He spoke only Spanish, and at a pace which allowed any non-native with a moderate command of the language the chance to understand. Each pew had several notebooks with the entire liturgy–the priest’s part, the congregation’s part, given in six parallel columns: English, French, Italian, Spanish, Polish, and German. Before mass started, the priest found volunteers to proclaim the first reading (in French, if I’m remembering correctly) and the prayers of the faithful (in German). All were encouraged to follow along in their own language and to utter responses in their own language. And the two readings were chosen as ones that would be meaningful to pilgrims, most especially the Gospel reading (of the Prodigal Son). The priest’s homily based on the Gospel and spoken with such kindness was perfect in delivery and spot-on in content. This priest was a real shepherd. Many stayed behind to express their appreciation of the celebration. And we were at the dinner table shortly after 7:00. Very special.

That about wraps up Tuesday, April 16. I’ve yet to catch you up on “the road to Burgos,” Wednesday’s trek. It’ll come, along with some photos. I’ve posted (Instagram and Facebook) lots of photos of the 16th. Maybe you’ve seen them.

For now: signing off from Burgos. Not sure when I’ll be able to “publish” this. Perhaps now if I turn on data; perhaps in the morning.