Wednesday, mid-day (May 1) through Saturday, 9:40 am (May 4)

A postscript for starters. Why not mix things up a bit? (Who’s boss of this blog, anyway?)

So here’s the thing: it is Thursday, May 9. A whole week has gone by since I arrived at Rabanal del Camino. A bit more than a week. In the interim I have moved forward more kilometers than I care to count, and I find myself now in an albergue from whose windows I can see the huge monastery of Samos, my destination on this day. My thinking had been: if one stay in a monastery town is good, two should be even better. Plus, maybe my short walk to Samos will leave me with the time needed to catch up and write this post about Rabanal.

And to compare the two experiences, right?

Ah, but there is no comparison to be had! Well, alright then, compare and contrast. Uh! Sounds like a Composition 101 assignment. Don’t hold me to any standards I should have learned way back when. Just let me quickly say that Samos is a disappointment. Or “Samos as an experience of monastic life” is a disappointment.

I’m about to head over to the church now for the 7:30 mass. With little enthusiasm. I hope I’m proven wrong. I learned on my tour of the monastery about seven hours ago that

• The monastery does not open it doors to the public for their vespers or morning prayer or any other prayer times, just the mass
• The monks no longer sing Gregorian chant. (They gave it up a couple of year ago because they are so few–there are 8 of them–and because some of the monks are too elderly to join with the others downstairs in the church, so they say their private office in a chapel closer to their living quarters.)

So, I have quickly come to see that Samos is not going to be a “Rabanal” experience. Really, I see now that I might have skipped it. But then I would have missed the lovely walk that brought me here–the Samos destination is an “alternate” route–and the lovely walk I had after lunch along the river here.

And I wouldn’t have known about this monastery, and really, it’s pretty neat to think that for over 1500 years there has been a form of monasticism in this little lost valley between the mountains. In spite of the Visigoth invasion, the Moorish invasion, the many “kingdoms” that fought each other through the centuries. And we’re talking about what grew to be a very, very large monastery.

I asked the guide today how many monks lived here at the “peak.” That was, I think she said, in the 1700s, and the answer was: “80 or 90.” Counting the novices and other groups she mentioned–in very rapid Spanish!–as many as 250 men. And now… 8!

Well, here’s what I hope for them: that it is a lot warmer in their living quarters than it is in the church and the cloisters we toured; that they are fonder of one another than they appeared at this evening’s mass (from which, as I write this, I have now returned…), that they don’t drown under the responsibility of trying to keep the monastery vibrant with no support, as I understand it, from church or state (the 5-euro tour tickets and sales at the monastery shop must have to really be stretched far to keep the place afloat. To heat it to boot? Forget it!).

Now let me try to back up to last week’s stay in Rabanal del Camino which is the story I am really here to tell tonight (and perhaps over the course of the next few days, as I find spare minutes….).

Greetings and settling in

As I described in another post (see “And it only took me four hours,” May 1st), I took my time traveling the seven miles from Santa Catalina de Somoza to Rabanal del Camino, meeting a number of out-of-the ordinary individuals along the way. I arrived with both a light and an open heart. I located the monastery’s little square just off the Camino route and some pilgrims gestured to a man in a plaid shirt, telling me he was the one I wanted to see if I had questions about the monastery. That plaid-shirted man, maybe 50-something, was Father Javier, the prior–head monk–at the monastery. No sooner was he pointed out to me than he slipped into a building on the square, leaving the door slightly ajar as he entered. I followed quickly.

As it turns out, that door led to the monastery’s albergue for pilgrims such as myself. I have spoken thus far about “the monastery,” but this might be the time to tell you that I use the word “monastery” to refer to three things. The first is the building I had just entered; it houses up to 10 pilgrims at a time. Or maybe 12. I didn’t actually count the number of beds, but I know the monks want to keep the number small. Then there is the building which houses the four Benedictine monks and which, I assume, wouldn’t hold but a few more. This residence, you might say, is the actual monastery. Unlike Samos which was established in the 6th century, this one was formed, I believe, in 2002 because the Benedictine monks from Germany wanted to establish a presence on the Camino. If I’m remembering correctly, there was a former building on the site, but it was remodeled and modernized significantly. The third building is the small romanesque-style church, the oldest part of it built in the 12th century, with additions, modifications, and renovations completed in subsequent centuries. (Don’t let the word “renovation” fool you; this church oozed medieval times!) The very modern innovations (improved lighting and PA system) were done tastefully and enhanced the experience rather than detracting from it. So: three buildings. It has just been easier, until now, to refer to “the monastery.”

Back,then, to Father Javier who had just entered the pilgrims’ living quarters with a South Korean pilgrim (John, by name). “Ah, you are Katy?” Fr. Javier continued: “The one who emailed us, yes? We’ve been expecting you. It may be just the two of you tonight. You know, this is the first day of the season that we are accepting pilgrims.”

What?! I hadn’t known at the time I had written to the monastery that they didn’t accept pilgrims until May 1. In his reply, Fr. Javier hadn’t said anything about that. He had just told me that they didn’t take reservations, but that “it shouldn’t be a problem.” I found it to be an incredible piece of luck that my timing coincided with the monastery’s.

“Actually,” he went on, “there was a large group here last night. We don’t take groups, but we made an exception. So things are a little disorderly right now. We’re happy to keep it small for starters.”

Happy, yes, because the hospitalero who was to arrive for his (or her?) early May volunteer gig had been in touch just a few days back to let the fathers know that he was sick and wouldn’t be able to make it. That meant that the monks themselves would have to be the ones washing sheets, making beds, cleaning toilets, fixing, serving, and cleaning up from meals, plus washing pilgrims’ clothes, none of which are tasks they usually perform.

“But it’s okay. We will be fine. Let me show you everything but the living quarters first. That’ll give time for the floors to dry, and then you can settle in to your room.” So he showed us the lovely little enclosed garden, the kitchen where would would be served breakfast between morning prayer and mass, the library-lounge where we were welcome to use any of the books, and the upstairs meditation room (skylight, throw rug, meditation pillows on floor). And then, finally, the bathroom and the one large bedroom with two partial walls and big cupboards/closets in which to store our things. (“Floors get mopped every day, so nothing should be left on the floors,” we were instructed.)

Fr. Javier explained that we were there “to rest.” That we shouldn’t offer to help because that wasn’t our job. We weren’t to wash our clothes; they would take care of that. “Do what you need for yourselves,” he counseled. We had shown up too late to have been included in the lunch count for the 1:55 pm meal, but we should plan on having the evening meal with Fr. Javier and the other monks. Someone would come to collect us. He showed us a printed schedule for the three daily meals, the three prayer times open to the public in the little church, and the mass time, and mentioned that we could also request consultation times with any of the staff. And off he went, having put around each of our necks a key to the front door of our albergue, the door to which automatically locked when shut.

It was quite clear to me and to John: this was a sweet deal. I’m not referring to the price (which was “donativo”–give what you can and what you think appropriate), but rather to the facilities–very new, very clean, very comfortable and inviting–and to the kindness, good will, and hospitality which were so prevalent in the little tour Fr. Javier gave us.

And you’re thinking: at this rate this story will never be told? You might be right!

Getting down to the business at hand

Which for me meant: filling the empty spot in my belly. El Refugio, not thirty feet from my new front door, was exactly the place to do that.

Have I explained how I learned about the monastery in the first place? When Ginny bussed ahead into León and took up residence in an Airbnb there, Roberto was her “host.” Roberto, it turns out, has connections in Rabanal. He had told Ginny about those connections and, when I met him during my one night at his place in León, he brought them up again. Roberto is a consultant for a hotel and restaurant in Rabanal. It’s a business that has been in the same family for several generations, but Roberto has been hired to help them move into the 21st century with their menus, their presentation of the food, their marketing, etc., etc. He has also worked some with the monks, checking out their willingnesss to get on board with his idea of bringing people to Rabanal (and to El Refugio’s hotel) to begin their Camino). His idea: maybe give people the opportunity to stay in the town a few days, get some one-on-one counseling with the monks, attend the services in the church, all while getting excellent meals (vegan, vegetarian, “new age” food appearing on the menu along with local specialties….)

So yes, it was because of Roberto that I had learned of the monastery I had just committed to staying in for at least two nights (that’s one of the rules for the monastery’s albergue, that pilgrims will stay at least two nights and will consider their stay a kind of silent retreat; if you aren’t interested in “things of the spirit” [and if you don’t have a pretty decent handle on English], you aren’t a good candidate for the monastery experience).

It was kind of a “must,” then, that I look into El Refugio as well. Besides, the restaurant offered cocido maragato [a rich meat stew prepared in the “maragato” style of this region through which I was traveling and a dish about which I had been hearing]. So, splurge that it was and feeling not very “monk-like”–sticking to a simple lifestyle, for example–that is what I ordered. And consumed. Every bite. Even the pigs’ ear!

After which: I began to “rest” as we had been ordered to do. I had four “rests” of the sort that I am now going to describe. Now some people sleep to rest, or sit back in their easy chairs; I walk. Fr. Javier had pointed out a notebook in the library in which were descriptions (in  German and in English) and accompanying maps of eight different walking routes accessible from the monastery. The descriptive sheets gave the estimated time of each walk, varying from one hour to two-and-a half. I pored over the descriptions, extracted several of them, along with their corresponding maps, from the notebook, threw a few things in my small backpack, and off I went.

As mentioned, I did four such walks: one on Wednesday afternoon, two on Thursday, and a final one on Friday afternoon. These were some of the most delightful times I have had on this trip. Pure country, if you know what I mean. I wasn’t following yellow arrows, wasn’t going where hundreds of thousands have already gone, but was traipsing up the narrowest of paths “into the hills” or down “into the valleys” with a sense of freedom and a spirit of adventure. And with a camera, for the sights were so impressive. Before all was said and done I had gone to the monastery’s “park,” to its “woodlands” and twice to magnificent overlooks, one above and west of the village, one above and east. On the latter, I carried in my little pack two books I’d borrowed from the library: I wanted the Bible for the psalms and the book of Antonio Machado’s poetry… I just couldn’t resist. (Think Spain’s Robert Frost or Mary Oliver.) I spent some wonderful time seated on a stone throne high in the hills, overlooking pastures with cows and not one but two near-empty villages in the distance while I alternated staring in awe and reading poetry written by awestruck poets. It doesn’t get much better.

And yes, I sang! And yes, I became a bit panicky on one of the hikes. I got a bit mixed up on the directions, couldn’t interpret the printed map, didn’t recognize the “rectangular corner” in the field behind Farmer Juan’s garden where I was supposed to see the towering willow and head into the monk’s woodland…. Before I knew it, I was very confused while trying to make it back to church for vespers, and I found myself in way-above-the-knee “broom” and/or gorse, not sure if I was going the right direction. I could have done without that particular hike. The others? Fabulous. Best “silent retreat” ever! I wish you could have been there, truly.

And that’s how I spent my free time. A little bit of wandering around the tiny town. Quite a few minutes spent just outside El Refugio, capitalizing on their WiFi as, in fact, the monastery’s albergue didn’t have it, the monks figuring that it wasn’t conducive to “silent reflection.” Both Thursday and Friday mornings, while waiting for the days to warm up, I worked on blog posts since I was a couple of days behind. (If you noticed a couple of posts that had fewer typos than usual, those were no doubt the ones written and actually edited/revised on those two mornings. My walks up and down the main streets of this small village revealed a few fun and funky places, like the “Green Park” where a sign read: Free Entrance and which had hammocks and lounge chairs and a couple of sofas under canopies. It also had perhaps as many as a dozen tents set up, available for pilgrims to rent, I assume. The whole place looked kind of 60s style. I stayed away from groups and socializing, though had short conversations with my roommates who eventually included, besides John, Christine from France, Rainer from Germany, and Jiwon from South Korea.

I sent an email to Roberto back in León, thanking him for recommending Rabanal to me. His response indicated that he would be in town working at El Refugio on Friday and that, if I were still in town, perhaps we could have coffee together. And so we did, on Friday afternoon. He told me more about his work and his enthusiasm for promoting Rabanal as a “starting point” for pilgrims wanting a shorter version of the Camino. Turns out that his girlfriend is a big promoter of the Camino as well, organizing “section” or “etapa” [“stage”] tours for people who want more of a “soft version” of the Camino. When we met for coffee, Roberto suggested a hike for me to take, but in trying to follow it, the barking of one particular dog encouraged me to turn around. This was a blessing because it led to my climbing up to the precious overlook that I described earlier where I sat and read psalms and poetry.

The rest of the time? The scheduled meals, prayers, and masses.

Meals and Mendelssohn

So far you’ve only heard about Fr. Javier, who, I neglected to mention earlier, is a native Spaniard. It was at the first dinner, on Wednesday night, when I met Brother Leandro (a young–30-something?–monk from Venezuela) and Father Pío, in his 70s, I would say, from Germany. (The hike descriptions were his doing; very poetically written. He told me he grew up on a farm and has always loved gardening and being out in nature. His handiwork is evident in the monk’s various gardens.). The fourth monk, Fr. Clements from Korea, returned from vacation on Friday and so he, too, became part of our “family.” Apparently Fr. Clements is very well known–at least among Catholics who make up approximately 8% of the Korean population. John said he “knew” him from television. It explains one of the reasons why so many Koreans want to stop at the monastery. However, as Fr. Javier explained, they have placed a limit on how many Koreans can stay at one time: just two! It seemed that several times before that policy was instituted, there were instances when all but one or two guests were Korean. Some with very limited English skills. It made it very difficult for the non-Koreans. Fr. Javier said that without the restriction, they might be entirely filled with Koreans each night.

In all, I ate three breakfasts, two lunches, and three dinners during my monastery visit. The lunches and dinners were taken in the monks’ residence and we were cautioned ahead of time that these were “silent times.” Indeed they were! (Or weren’t, as I’ll get around to explaining in a minute. Be patient.) There was, true, no talking. Zilch. A gesture here, another there, as we offered each other the bread basket or a bit more water. That sort of thing. Otherwise, though, our focus was pretty much straight ahead or on our food. This was awkward for the first meal or two, but each time it became a bit easier. I was there long enough to fall into the routine and to even find it (somewhat) comforting.

Before we sat down to lunch, Fr. Pio read from the Book of Revelations. (I imagine they work their way through the Scriptures and I just happened to be there to hear the most difficult of all the books of the Bible.) After the short reading, we all sat down and, in the absence of a hospitalero, Fr. Javier was not only the cook but the waiter. His entrances and exits were nothing short of a synchronized ballet, performed with a flourish and in a rhythm that was fun to observe (out of the corner of one’s eye, because…. well, because it seemed appropriate to follow the example of the other monks who kept their vision straight ahead). Everything Fr. Javier did was predictable once I had learned the “routine,” everything from the way he removed the three pitchers of water at the same time to the way he collected the glasses and the plates, the water and wine glasses and the bread baskets. Everything as if on cue.

While we ate: music! Classical music. It was “Mendelssohn week,” I was told (after dinner, because, as stated, no talking during meals!). An opera here, a piano concerto there. I eventually recognized a piece or two. So, “silent”? Not exactly.

The meals themselves: very tasty. Very tasty indeed. One would not, however, gain weight on them! If a pilgrim wanted seconds, he or she would be wise not to hesitate to dish them up before the bowl was wisked away from the table. In the evening, expect a lighter meal. Don’t hold back unless you want to supplement your meal in one of the town’s cafes. Fr. Javier added some interesting touches to the salads, bits of apple and pear surprising me in the cold lentil dish or in the salad.

I was lucky: there were three tables which formed a big U-shape, and I was always seated on the only side that faced a window, so besides seeing Christine and Reiner across from me, I could look out onto the patio. The scene I’ll now describe was kind of humorous: at one meal, Brother Leandro was seated next to me. I had noticed, when he was sitting at another of the tables, the degree to which he stared straight ahead when not eating. Very disciplined! So at this particular meal when he was sitting next to me, out the window I caught sight of a bird on a bush. I swear, the bird’s tail was keeping time with the Mendelssohn music! For at least a minute. Perfect timing to the music! I couldn’t help myself–I took a sideways glance at Brother Leandro, to see if he was seeing what I was seeing. I can’t say that our eyes even met, but I knew that we were each attempting to hide the grin on our faces as we witnessed the same delightful sight.

So were they human, these monks? Incredibly so! Very dear indeed. Although there was no talk at lunch and dinner, after the former we would gather just outside the monastery to chat for a bit about our afternoon plans. It was a chance to ask questions or share a quick story. Brief but friendly. The evening meal was over about 8:40. We would then all proceed to a room that I’ll call the monastery “parlor” for some socializing until the bell rang (9:20) sending us scurrying over to the church for evening prayer and the pilgrims’ blessing. During those post-dinner gatherings we learned more about the monks, their work, and their interactions with pilgrims, or they learned a bit about us. Time to ask questions, tell tales, share a humorous story. Fr. Javier, for instance, enjoyed telling about one of the more zealous hospitalero volunteers. It seems that when the Abbott was visiting Rabanal with a contingent of other monks, he stopped by with his group and wanted (all of them) to enter to use the bathrooms. “You’ll have to go use a bathroom at one of the cafes,” the hospitalero told him. “I’ve jut finished cleaning them and I want them to stay clean for the next group of pilgrims.” That’s telling the Abbott where to go! There were laughs all ’round, even though the other monks had heard the story multiple times. And then: the bell rings and, regardless of whether a question has been thoroughly answered or a story fully told, that’s it: off to the prayer service we go.

Gregorian chant!

Yes, it is alive and well in Rabanal del Camino. For the first two days, just the three monks, with Fr. Javier always doing what I’ll name the “call” and Brother Leandro and Fr. Pio the “response.” (Sounds like square dancing, but no, we’re talking voices. Beautiful voices.) What I would call the “chants” themselves were always in Latin, but Spanish was used in some of the services. And, for that matter, English and Korean, French, German. The extra languages came into play when the monks asked visiting pilgrims to do some of the readings or the “prayers of the faithful.” I was impressed, as well, that there were booklets available for pilgrims for each of the daily services (Lauds at 7:30 am, Vespers at 7:00 pm, and Compline at 9:30), in a choice of English, French, or German. One for Korean speakers as well? Maybe. It would make sense. All the prayers very measured, very sacred. Not protracted in length, but not rushed either. And those voices! The echo of them in the small, bare church was so lovely. “Is being able to sing a requirement for monastic life?” I asked at one point. I was told it was not. (So, then, my singing–or total lack of talent in carrying a tune–did not automatically disqualify me; I didn’t pursue the problems endemic to my being a woman, married, and well into my 70th year. Didn’t want to hear too much laughter during our social times.)

You can understand, then, why I was disappointed with my experience at the Benedictine monastery of Samos. It had the 1500-year presence in that location, but, in my opinion, a lot of the “fire” had gone out in Samos.

Final farewells

Warm hugs distributed, Christine and Rainer were off early on Saturday morning; they wanted to get an early start on the climb to Cruz de Ferro. I elected to have one more breakfast and morning mass in Rabanal.

Jiwon had now been there for almost a full day. Three new pilgrims had already presented themselves by breakfast time. (I think they had arrived the day before and were told “Come back tomorrow. We will lose three people on Saturday and you can take their places.”) For some reason at breakfast I volunteered to sing–yes! Me!–one of my “prayer songs.” It was well received by all present (none of whom were native speakers of English). Brother Leandro asked if I would say that prayer when I arrived at Cruz de Ferro. “The ‘grace’ version of it or the ‘joy’ version?” I asked. “Oh, the latter!” And so, promising that I would do so, that kind of wrapped up my stay in Rabanal. I attended the 9:00 am mass, got strapped into my pack, picked up the hiking poles, and then I was off. I had a mission down the road! A song to sing!

(If you must know, I sang a couple of songs when I arrived at Cruz de Ferro several hours later. I recorded them but… trust me on this one: they sure couldn’t measure up to my recordings of the birds! In the end I did not send the recordings back to Rabanal to prove that I’d done what I’d been charged to do. I left my songs and my “joy” stone behind and kept my memories to bring them forward. And to share them with you.

And now I’ve done so.

Rolling with the punches

So we plan… and then reality has other ideas. And when we have no choice in the matter, then we choose our attitude. Which is exactly what we are doing. Or attempting to do.

Yes, I had a walk today, a super one. I’ll tell you about “Day 32” in a different post, when I get around to it.

But for now, let me update you. Ginny, less than 1.5 days from a triumphant walk into Santiago, woke up in severe pain in the middle of the night. There was an ambulance ride to Santiago and surgery this morning for an ischemic bowel! She’s getting good care and putting her translation app and her sweet personality to good use. I will take a little break from the Camino and bus to Santiago tomorrow. (Gotta make sure the city is worthy of my spending another five days walking to it…)

Ginny is wondering if it is St. James / Santiago himself who is behind all of this or if the good Lord himself has designed a test we don’t yet know how to take or interpret.

It’s a reminder, anyway, be it here or there where you are, that we don’t know what our days hold for us. We can only do our best to enjoy each one and each other.

Be back soon!

Day 31, Thursday, May 9: Triacastela to Samos –with detours and a bit of exploration around Samos (17.9 km, 11.1 miles)

This can be a simple, straightforward report for today. As you can see from the mileage above, it was a short day. Planned that way so that I could arrive early in Samos, site of “one of the largest and oldest monasteries in the western world founded in 6th century on the asceticism of the Desert Fathers, taking the Benedictine rule in 960.” Wow, that’s a mouthful. And from my guidebook because if you’ve been following me, you know that even I don’t write sentences that long. Or do I?…

The day began with a startling realization: it had been a quiet night in my room. Six of us? Seven? And no snorers, sneezers, coughers. Just respectful folks with good control of their sound emissions. Alleluia! We were quiet as we packed up. I was still one of the last ones to leave, right around 7:30.

At the far edge of town one has a choice: head right towards Sarria or left towards Samos and the monastery, adding 6.4 kilometers. You already know which route I choose.

The rest of the walk, once I headed to the left? Its story can best be told with the photos (and videos?) that I’ve sent home and that Regina will so kindly add to Facebook and/or to this post.

There weren’t many people encounters today–a former Columbian who has lived in Ft. Lauderdale for the last 18 years, and Tom, from Wisconsin, with whom I spoke at some length before the monastery tour began–nor did I spot any flocks of sheep or cows to admire. However, there was the slug with whom I had a nice little conversation. And the hen. And the cat, though he was skittish and didn’t have much to say. We all were heading down our Camino today, each with a different purpose and speed, but we acknowledged one another’s right to be there in whatever capacity.

And the birds, of course. They don’t let anyone keep them from singing. Joyous and glorious. Ever-present. (Still MIA, though: my cuckoo…)

A different river today. We’ve left the Valcarce behind and moved on to the Oribio. Like its Galician sister, the Oribio was loud and talkative and animated, creating a show of her rock-hopping and ledge-dropping. A pure delight.

Center-stage, though? Taking a bow left and right and center: the trees. Well, the path and the overhanging trees which flanked it. It was such a familiar feeling to be hemmed in and shaded by trees. They weren’t, of course, Indiana trees, but they acted in a similar manner. And at their feet, the ferns, bright and brilliant, nodding in the mild breeze.

Fitbit claims I climbed 93 floors. Yeah, I guess there was some climbing, but through the “woodlands” I barely noticed. I was too busy looking.

Did I miss the howling wind of several days ago? I was fine without it. That was then; this was now. The fury and the calm both had their turns.

Did I miss the rain? Well, yes, in one meaning of the word “miss,” I did miss it, or we missed each other. Again, as was the case yesterday, it didn’t begin to rain until I arrived in Samos. And mostly it didn’t begin in earnest until I arrived, toured the monastery, secured lodging, ate lunch, took a walk, and got back to my albergue. I showered inside while the showers began in earnest outside. Curtains of light rain pushed at a significant angle by the wind. It’s nice to be inside, and with a heat register I can operate on my own.

I’m in a private albergue recommended by Ginny who was here about a week ago. I’ve been told that someone named Stacy is going to share the second bed in this room, but seeing that it is almost 7:00 pm, I’m thinking that maybe Stacy’s plans have changed. Whatever, alone or with a roommate, I suspect I’ll get a good sleep tonight.

As I said earlier, the photos and videos from today tell most of the story. If you don’t see any posted, check back later. If not today, soon. Regina to the rescue.

Day 30, Wednesday, May 8: O Cebreiro to Triacastela (22.5 km, 14 miles)

Things aren’t always as they seem or as you are lead to believe. This town I have arrived at today, for example. Triacastela. Three castles. Only… there are no remnants of any of them! We must take it on faith. (And three? Aren’t castles for kings? Did each one replace the other, being constructed with more grandeur, more turrets and towers than its predecessor? Or did they exist simultaneously, owned by three noblemen who would-be kings?)

Or take today’s weather, which is going to come up several times in this post. With an angry, bruised sky like we had today, with the low clouds whipping across the mountain tops, with the mist dropping down into the valleys, trapped there at times, how could we not get rained upon? It looked like a sure thing. Unavoidable.

Or take the guidebook’s comment that this stage is “mostly downhill” and its reminder to be very careful because “most injuries are sustained going down”…. Downhill? What, then, are we going to say about the 222 floors that my Fitbit recorded for today? If it looks uphill, and it feels uphill, and the highway below looks ribbon-like and the cows ant-like, and in addition your Fitbit tells you you climbed the equivalent of 222 floors, then… it’s probably not “mostly downhill.” Sorry, John Brierley, but in spite of the elevation chart in your book, I know otherwise. So do my toes.

But, hey, it was 50 floors less climbing than yesterday, and, besides, I’m a mountain goat in training. And besides that, I had an absolutely marvelous day, so who’s counting floors anyway?  And one more thing: today’s paths were gravel, none of those life-and-limb threatening stone slabs with foot traps here and there and everywhere. No. These hills, up and down, were “flat,” “level”; it was just a matter of putting one foot in front on the other.

Easier said than done, though, with the wind that whipped and howled and bit and frothed and otherwise did whatever it took to try to earn the main role in today’s play.

It might have succeeded if it hadn’t been for

• The lush green hillsides, covered in sloping pastures divided by rock fences
• The melodious tinkling of cows’ bells as the bovines attacked the hay that had been set out for them
• The magnificent castaño [chestnut] trees that begged to be photographed. (One of them 800 years old, with a 28-foot circumference; others where the roots had grown together so that it appeared to be one grand double-trunked giant
• And speaking of one becoming two: ever seen a two-headed donkey? I did today and I’d prove it if the strange creature hadn’t rearranged itself into two donkeys by the time I got out my camera

Yes, the wind might have been the main character if it hadn’t been for

• The huge bowl of just-now-ready Gallegan soup I had around noon
• The path I chose (1.5 km longer than the one everyone else seemed to follow) which gave me a good half hour to sing as loud as I wanted and not fear being overheard and sent to the nearest lockdown institution (I needn’t have feared singing at any point today because I wouldn’t have been heard over the wind, but it felt luxurious, anyway, to be alone up on that “forgotten” path)
• The wonderful art work in the bar/cafe of O Tear, each piece hung on the stone wall and each depicting a “typical” (as in “folkloric”) Galician scene. I wanted to figure out how to bring a pallet of these paintings home with me
• The conversation I had with the woman who made aforementioned soup and who was patient with me as she explained the finer details of butchering pork and–once the vet has taken samples and declared the now-dead pig “clean”–turning it into sausages and chops and all manner of things in between
• The dozen or so laborers during a pause in their building a stone-fence in a little hamlet who proved beyond any shadow of a doubt that Spain has changed since I was last here 46 years ago. How so? Not a piropo [whistle, comment, or innuendo] or even a second glance out of one of them…. and surely that can’t possibly have anything to do with the way I have changed in those intervening 46 years. Surely not….
• The song gifts that came to me as I walked in the wind. I had been looking for the simple melody of one of them since Easter morning. An “alleluia” song I learned in Orange. Beach, Alabama, and for which I couldn’t for the life of me come up with the melody until today, when, totally unsolicited, there it was. I brought it out “to air” for quite a while. The other came out of the blue, but was oh, so appropriate. Harking back to the 60s and, if I’m not mistaken, from an album by a woman known as “The Singing Nun,” it was about the Spirit of God, blowing, blowing where He wills. More than appropriate for the day. [Aside: we’re often told to listen for that “small, still voice” of the Spirit. I’m here to say: it’s not always that way!] [Aside #2, added on May 8, 2020, one year to the date of this walk: in the intervening year, I had occasion to locate the song I refer to above.  It is called “Spirit of God” and is found in an album released not by The Singing Nun, but by an entire group of singing nuns known as the Medical Mission Sisters.  The album, entitled Joy Is Like the Rain, was released in 1966.]
• The fun of watching and listening, while waiting for my soup at lunchtime today, to the young Italian and the young Spaniard who had slept at my end of the dorm last night. They met each other right at the beginning of their Camino a bit over a week ago in León and have been a duo ever since. They spend a good bit of their time–it’s obvious to the casual observer, but they also told me so directly–swapping language instruction. A bit more time with them and I think I would have been speaking Italian! As a language instructor, I took delight in watching their interactions. (I was also pleased to learn that the Italian’s blister was doing much better thanks to the “surgery” that was performed on him by flashlight last night in the hall outside our large room.)

So yes, the wind was truly a main player in today’s drama, but it shared the stage with other noteworthies. Never doubt it.

In conclusion

Can you tell I really enjoyed this day? What was not to enjoy? I had perfect clothing for staying warm. The clouds did not open up for us, just did their acrobatics, at no charge.

And then: I arrived in Triacastela of the No Castles and, as the first drops of rain began to fall, without much thought or effort, I took a bed in this albergue which not only has real sheets–a top and bottom one (and “real” means not disposable paper ones) but has a (fake, but still….) fireplace next to which is a cupboard labeled “Secador de botas/Boot Dryer.” Boot Dryer! I am sitting right now in front of that “fake” but warm fire and I am one happy pilgrim who is about to go upstairs to bed.

But not before mentioning the super nice priest who offered such a heartfelt mas and blessing to those of us attending the 6:00 pm pilgrims’ service. Although I appeared to be the only Spanish-speaker in the bunch, he acted as if everyone in the congregation understood him and he preceded to modify many of the words of the mass to give it a pilgrims’ “slant.” My guidebook mentions “the delightful Fr. Augosto.” Must be one and the same.

It’s a top bunk night, but in my little “upstairs cubby” I am equipped with a private, shine-it-right-down-on-your-book-or-phone-or-tablet light and a place to charge up my phone. A blanket, too.

Ah, life’s simple pleasures….

Puzzling questions I take to bed with me

1. Every village through which we pass seems to have large dogs kind of stationed at the entrance. What has been done to these dogs to make them so totally, unabashedly, absolutely uninterested in even bothering to stand up when pilgrims come into town? And what might I do to encourage all dogs to be likewise bored by my presence?
2. Why are there so few wind turbines in Galicia? Is the wind too strong for them? Are the roads too winding and curvy, thus making it impossible to haul those huge things up the mountains? Because, in case you haven’t guessed it from everything I’ve said already, there are some noticeable breezes up here….

Day 29, Tuesday, May 7: Trabadelo to O Cebreiro (20 km, 12.4 miles, [almost] all uphill)

En brève

Here’s the quick and dirty. I made it to O Cebreiro today. While it’s not the highest point on the Camino, the climb from 705 meters to 1310 (2313 feet to 4300) in about 9.5 km (6 miles) is significant. (Note: the climb is done on a very stony footpath. Spectacular views, though!) This climb was completed with no snow, no fog, no mist, no rain, no gale-force winds, all of which are common in the area), but with much effort. Clouds? Oh, yes. One wants clouds and cooler temperatures not only to create “atmosophere,” but to keep one cool while working hard. There were many breaks to take photos and videos which, unfortunately, don’t begin to do justice to the scenery. Not as “brief” as I had hoped, but you’ve got the big picture. Scroll down for photos or check back later for them.

You like details? They follow.

Beyond the sounds of silence…

Because, yes, there was some silence. Most definitely. But so many different kinds of reality came along to break that silence at frequent but unpredictable times. Like, for example:

• The birds were busy singing up a storm–except for my cuckoo. Is he taking the day off or, now that I’ve stopped arguing with him, has the fun of trailing and taunting me subsided? I guess that remains to be seen.
• The roosters. I caught many bird songs on my videos, but I couldn’t extract any command performances from the roosters. You’ll have to take my word for it that they were welcoming the day, and even the afternoon….
• The cow bells were charming. Who doesn’t like their comforting, all-is-well-out-here-on-the-range clang? But the bellowing? The I’m-in-intolerable-distress call? From the looks of the cows making the most racket, I’d say that they were in dire need of milking (it was 10:15 am; come on, farmer Hernández, rise & shine!). About that video where it looks like the two most miserable cows are chasing me, uh…, yes, the footage shows that I was a bit unnerved…. I, however, did not scream and add to the sounds of the day. Surprised?
• Horses? Check. (The dogs, though? They could not have been less interested in one another or in the passers by. They were mute; just couldn’t bother rousing.  Just what I like in a dog!)
• The noisemaker of the day, though, was the Valcarce River which flowed beside the Camino for the first half of the day (until the climbing began), and along which I had also walked for several hours yesterday. Hurray for a rather narrow river that is capable of drowning out the sounds of both the local highway and a major national one. The big A-6 and the Camino did a bit of a pas de deux as they continually crossed paths until finally the Camino found its freedom from modernity. (Boy, did it ever!). The river gurgled and cascaded and laughed its way through the valley, often with shade trees blocking one’s view of it but doing little to silence its music
• Katy’s singing? Not much of it. Some. Even some on the uphill. In general, though, I was more into the sounds of silence, letting the animals have their day on stage
• Then, of course, the “Buen caminos” to and from pilgrims. The occasional conversations. Mostly, though, the walkers saved their conversations for the small towns along the way in which they rested and took a bit of sustenance. Out “in the wild,” there was almost an awe for the sacredness of the places through which we walked. The mood was somber and peaceful. A challenge, without question, but well worth the effort. (No doubt the lung power required for climbing helps to explain the lack of much conversation along the route, too.)
• I’m here to tell you, day after, that evening (post 10:00 pm) brought out more sounds as the howling winds outside the albergue competed with the snoring of the weary walkers. The wind alone was consistent enough to be almost pleasant–after all, we were sheltered from it. The snoring? Not so comforting. I heard many commenting about it the following morning….

Encounters of the human kind

Yes, of course there were some.

I had a really nice conversation with hospitalero Pepo before leaving the albergue in the morning. He was a great host to our little party of 5, fixing us a good dinner last night, setting out breakfast eats this morning, having the milk warmed for coffee. I’m not even sure if the other four ever sat down at the table to enjoy it. People rush off in the morning. I bet they were out by 7:00. It was 40 minutes later before Pepo and I had finished analyzing the problems of the world or at least the (possible) ones of the Camino and those who walk it. All hospitaleros, as I have surely mentioned, have been or still are peregrinos as well. Full bearded, a “hippy look-alike” if there ever was one, Pepo has been walking the Camino for years. He’ll do his volunteer gig for another week or two, then he’ll continue walking. Not unlike the David I met a couple of weeks ago, Pepo is inclined to spend most of his time walking the Camino. This summer, though, he’ll walk from Santiago to Rome. Like my host Pedro a couple of stays back, Pepo can’t remember just how many Caminos he has done. It is his passion. He walks the talk. And talks (up) the walk when it is done in the right spirit. (“Most people don’t have that spirit,” he confided.) Nice interaction. Very positive experience at this church-organized facility, tucked into yet another medieval (and crumbling) town which would probably have died of boredom several decades ago if renewed interest in the Camino hadn’t resurrected it.

Early on today there was Oscar from Latvia. He’s making speedy progress on his Camino–though note: not as speedy as Barb–and thinks he’ll wrap it up in a total of 28 days. Nevertheless, he slowed down to chat with me for a while. As we were talking, I kept seeing things out of the corner of my eye that I felt I couldn’t stop to look at or photograph. (That’s one of the reasons why one ideally walks alone.). But soon there was a tempting fountain at which to stop, and Oscar moved on.

Around 2:00, just as I had settled down to have my lunch at a particularly scenic spot, a man with whom I’d been leap-frogging for an hour or more came along. “I’ve plenty for two if you’re hungry,” I offered. He wasn’t, but he was happy to answer my inquiry about the very tall/long walking stick (maybe 6.5 feet in length) which protruded significantly from both sides of his pack (making it, as you might imagine, challenging to pass him on the often narrow trail). A gift from some friends back home in Slovenia. York (sp?) explained that the carved initials C, M, and B were symbolic of both the three wise men (Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar) as well as…. oops, I forget the exact meaning, but something to do with bringing a “blessing” to homes/albergues at which he arrives. That’s when he detaches the big pole from his back and uses it, rather than his hiking poles, so that he’s ready to bring that blessing to towns and to albergues within the towns. An etching of “MM” on the other side of the pole stood for the Latin “mementum moris,” a reminder that we’re all going to bite the dust at some point and so should … well, should keep that in mind as we make our way through life. We’re not such hot shots after all, not the big deals we sometime think we are; we all share that mortality thing. I asked York if I could take his picture with the pole and he said: “Why don’t I instead take yours with it?” Ok! Why not? Hey, that sucker was adding a bit of extra weight to York’s packI I hope he was lightening the load with each blessing given. And that this wise man finds a treasure when he reaches Santiago and/or Finisterre . Traveling wise men should be rewarded before they return home. By a different route.

A brief conversation with the four girls from British Columbia with whom I had shared a pleasant hostel experience a few days ago. I seem to come upon them at the most opportune times to snap photos of the four of them with one or more of their cameras. Spotting them means a chance to speak and hear English with no struggles on anyone’s part. A nice break from the more challenging conversations where first it must be decided if there is a common enough language to have an interchange.

Short encounters or waves with the French couple whose names I never remember but with whom I exchange smiles and brief commiserations as we make our way. We seem to be choosing the same daily mileage for the last few days.

At my end of the big dorm tonight: a Spaniard, a Columbian, an Italian, a Polish couple, and a bunch of people whose faces have been in their cell phones all afternoon and evening. (Oh! “Let the one who is without sin cast the first stone”…)

The really kind priest who said the pilgrims’ mass and gave the blessing tonight. Big smile, big heart, great liturgist. Easy message: “Go and be happy. And share the happiness.” The church needs more servants like him.

Then there’s the (certainly paid) overseer here at the albergue. She got her training in the military most likely…. Oh, but the central message in church tonight was about “love.” I take it all back about the lady. She probably was giving back what she had received from too many cranky pilgrims today. Like maybe pilgrims who couldn’t figure out the WiFi instructions or who looked disappointed when they learned that there were no blankets here… (Guilty as charged…)

Up, up, and away (without the beautiful balloon) OR Macchu Pichu without the llamas and the Incan ruins

The thing about long blogs, written over the course of several days, is that you tend to forget what you’ve already said. No doubt I’ve already described all the climbing involved in this journey and have, as well, mentioned how beautiful it was. But the above sub-title is such a perfect “fit” for the experience that i just had to use it, whether I have anything new to tell in this section or not. Forgive me.

And yes, my ears popped several times as I moved upward from La Faba to O Cebreiro.

Signs along “the Way”

So many! Like when I entered Las Herrerías and found a series of Burma-Shave-like signs but instead of promoting the right to bear arms and to defend myself, they recommended “love” and “unity” and “awareness.” They proposed “meditation,” “taking it easy,” and stopping to breathe and to observe.

Then the sign: “What are your dreams?” And an invitation to write them down and leave them in a waterproof tube so that someone (?) would tie them onto a nearby tree. Or one could tie them oneself, I suppose, with some ingenuity. The tree was full of dreams. Sweet idea, no?

Another sign promoting renting a bicycle to do the climb from Villafranca to O Cebreiro. I sure hope no one chose that idea thinking it would be “easier.” I can’t imagine anything I would have wanted to do less than ride a bike up those grades. (There has only been one short stretch of the Camino where I thought: “Hmmm, that would be nice to do on a bike.” It was also a stretch that was perfect doing on foot as well.)

Another entrepreneur rents horses to pilgrims who want to save their legs en route to O Cebreiro. For 34.5 euros, one gets a horse and a guide for the two-hour, 8 kilometer climb. So the sign says. I did not see any takers, but I saw evidence that there had been some. Just after setting up my lunch stop along the trail, around 2:00, I saw the horse caravan returning from a pilgrim delivery. The timing was perfect for me to grab my camera and video the horses descending from O Cebreiro. Another case of being in the right place at the right time.

The last one I’m going to mention: advertising on the side of a small delivery van. There is, apparently, a beer in the area called “Peregrina.” The sign, in Gallegan–yes! There is such a language, looking for all the world (to this non-linguist, please understand) like a mixture of Spanish and Portuguese–that says: “Et ti, peregrinas [that word refers to “female pilgrim”], a cervexa do teu camiño” [And you, lady pilgrim, the beer of YOUR camino]. Whatever it takes, right?

Cleanliness is next to godliness?

Oh, I’m in trouble! But really, don’t you think that cleanliness is a bit overrated? Why wash those gray pants whose permanent dirt stains are covered with fresh dirt, and which, if cleaned, will just get dirty again. Don’t I have better things to do?

The body I did clean, just because something tells me that I should probably do so every couple of days. It’s a bit of a pain because then it means, at least when the weather is cool as it so absolutely is up in the mountains, staying indoors for a couple of hours until it dries.

Overrated, most definitely. How often did those 10th-century pilgrims wash themselves or their clothes? Come on!

Ya gotta eat!

And you have to relieve yourself from time to time. Behind bushes works better when it is warmer. At least for me.

So yes, I’ve been eating. Lots, actually. Here’s May 7th’s breakdown:

1. 7:00 am: the yogurt I didn’t eat for dinner last night
2. 10:15 am: wonderful stop in Las Herrerías at a lovely cafe (fire in the fireplace there! And yes, I sat on the sofa near it and did email for a while after my mid-morning snack which consisted of apple cake and café con leche
3. 2:00 pm: trailside picnic of half a loaf of “French bread” filled with cheese and morcilla; not a sandwich to die for as the one I’d eaten the day before had been. Same sources for meat and cheese, but the bread was inferior to what I’d had before
4. 6:25 pm (too early, but I wanted to make it to the 7:00 pm pilgrim mass): a thick Galician/Gallegan soup with slices of good bread, followed by a platter of fried eggs served with ham and fried potatoes, topped off by almond cake. (I know, I know: two pieces of cake in one day…. I told you I was eating!)

End of (food) story.

And ya gotta sleep!

Or try to sleep! I’ve already mentioned the wind and the snoring. I’ve already mentioned the lack of blankets. Which caused me to sleep in my long underwear and the Smartwool top that has been on my body at the start of every day since April 2!

Here’s what I haven’t mentioned: the albergue must have a thermostat designed to turn the heat on each evening, needed or not. At some point in the middle of the night the warm clothes and socks were replaced by my little short pajamas. In the morning everyone talked about how hot it had been (and how noisy with the wind and the snorers). I caught my Columbian neighbor reading–on his cell phone–at some point during the night. As for me: I may actually have slept better than usual.

Any PSs?

• Unexpected sight: solar panels on a hillside in an area that rarely sees the sun…
• A farmer with a sense of humor: in an as-yet unplanted garden he had marked out a very large dirt arrow indicating the direction for pilgrims to head, his own small contribution to our successful journey
• Chapel/small church in La Faba was open (pretty unusual, actually) and very welcoming; I lit a tall candle there
• As I climbed, the roar of the river became a gentle murmur and then disappeared, unable to compete with the breeze or reach the heights to which I was ascending
• Thought: there is a contemplative inside each of us waiting to be discovered
• And, finally, to answer the question you have been polite enough not to ask: No, I really don’t share every thought that comes to my head. It just seems that way. Really, you have no idea how many thoughts can come to me some days…