Day 26, Saturday, May 4: Rabanal del Camino to Acebo (17.5 km, 10.9 miles)

The one-word version of the day

Because, really, that word and the photos will say it all:

AWESOME!

The two-sentence version which fills in a bit more

The route was stunning, carpeted in all its spring glory. As I rounded many a bend and saw what lay in front of me, I let out actual audible laughs or mouthed “Oh my God!” I’d wager that even the non-believers among you just might have done the same. Oops! Sorry! That was a third sentence I just added. Never trust me!

Conclusion

Wish you had been there! But since you weren’t, you might scroll down and have a look at some photos (not there yet? Come back later. Or check them out on Facebook at Katy’s Camino).

Details for my own record and for the diehards among you (or for those who want to see if they’ve answered the riddle correctly)

As Rabanal del Camino and the monastery experience fell behind me, Robert Frost’s poem came to me… and not for the first time: “I have promises to keep/ and miles to go before I sleep.”

I had remained on site long enough for morning prayers, breakfast, and mass. Reiner and Christine, who had also spent three nights with the monks, had taken off several hours earlier. At breakfast I had met three new arrivals who would take our places. The young Korean, Jiwon (undoubtedly the spelling is wrong; “think ‘G’ and ‘1,’” he had told us in order to help us pronounce and remember his name) would remain for another night or two. I sang–yes! Me!–one of my songs for the newcomers at breakfast, and Brother Leandro asked if I would sing it for him when I reached Cruz de Ferro. [note: the significance of the location known for centuries as “Cruz de Ferro” is explained in the last section–“Riddle solution” of this post.] “For all of you,” I told him. “Do you want the ‘grace’ version or the ‘joy’ one?” “The latter, please,” he replied.

And so, by 9:40, with no small amount of reluctance, I was departing from the “lovely, dark, and deep” village of Rabanal del Camino and, as I soon discovered, walking into another paradise. “My favorite day of the whole Camino,” a young Austrian told me later. “We have mountains, of course, but I was in awe of what I saw after Rabanal.” Amen.

The walk was slow, true, but my pace wasn’t due as much to the fact that I was climbing to the highest elevation of the entire Camino as to the fact that I was stopping continuously both to take photos and videos, to drink in the beauty, and to write down my thoughts regarding what I was experiencing. You’ll see the photos below. (Some of them, anyway; I took a ton, and I suppose that many of them are really similar one to the next.)

But as for the thoughts that bubbled up in my mind, I’m going to set a bunch of them down, just as they came to me. Not your cup of tea? I totally understand. Really, I do. Just skip down to the section entitled “Riddle solution”… or to the photos… or… call it “a night”/”a day”/”enough already!” All of those will work.

So, then, assorted thoughts and actions along today’s splendid stage:

• Will be taking off jacket soon; not a cloud in the sky; windmills/wind turbines on the hilltops are mostly still
• Cuckoo is my companion, proving to be faithful in his convictions and in his accompanying me in spite of our differences; I think we have agreed to disagree and to “live and let live.” We have made our peace. Now I just call him a “companion on the journey”
• I have learned: stop while taking notes so I can “be in the moment” as I walk…. but I stop often; maybe that should bother me, but it doesn’t in the least. No apologies
• The winter coat will soon come off even as I make my way to higher altitude; this will be a mostly uphill day
• I am alone on the trail but the singing is to myself; too much exertion as I climb to manage to sing aloud
• I’m a liar. The songs are coming fast and furious! I’m not as out of breath as I thought I would be
• Just as I love to be able to read and understand the signs I pass when I’m in a foreign city, I now comprehend better why others love knowing what trees and wildflowers they see by day, or what constellations they see by night…. I wish I could name some of these beautiful flowers along the path.
• Advice: give your WHOLE heart to YOUR Camino, whatever or wherever it is; don’t even think of following mine… and don’t let me fall into the trap of trying to follow yours
• Life is full of miracles, serendipitous happenings, synchronicity… we are just usually too busy to notice…
• Wishing for each and every one reading this: mountaintop experiences to sustain you on your inevitable walks through the dark valleys
• Caution and concentration necessary for this descent; my eyes are mostly scanning the ground in front of me; if I want to glance around, I must stop first or I’ll risk a fall
• This trip has been like a writer’s retreat for me
• The paved road (a rural, quiet one) snakes up the mountain, switch-back style. The Camino crosses it multiple times, ever upward–no switchbacks for us! I remove another layer of clothing…
• I stop to take a photo of the memorial stone to Uberlinda Cortés; I imagine her stepping directly into Gloryland, right from the Camino; there are certainly many ways to go that would be considerably worse
• I’m thinking about how much, pre-trip, I had been fearing the silence and the solitude, afraid I would be a failure at it, that I wouldn’t “get it right.” Now I am embracing it for the gift that it is
• Did St. Francis kneel and worship and talk to the foxes and birds and wild boar in or near the church I’m passing here (of which only a lonely tower/steeple remains)?
• Thoughts: trees and flowers and insects and mountains and rivers give glory to God just by doing what they were meant to do…. we can take a lesson from them. There are a thousand ways to kneel…. figure out what your way is… And then do it!

Bringing the day to its well-earned conclusion

I was getting punch-drunk on thought and beauty. Fortunately, I finally arrived in El Acebo and found a bed in a not-at-all full parochial albergue with the kindest of hospitaleros. Reminder: they are volunteers who do one or more stints/year at a hostel along the route; they have all been pilgrims at sometime in the past. Pedro, retired as are most hospitaleros, is a veteran of more Caminos than he could count, but well over 20. Different routes. Different lengths of time. This spot was “by donation” rather than a specified price, and included, for those interested, a communal dinner. We were Korean, Swiss, American, French, and Spanish at the table. Pedro fixed the simple dinner; the fellows cleaned up. Worked for me! It also worked for me to wander down to the local mesón shortly after my arrival. I ordered a bowl of soup (a 4:30 lunch) to stave off hunger until that 8:00 pm group supper. My soup was too hot to consume immediately, so I WhatsApped the couple who had been at the monastery with me; I was pretty sure that they were planning on staying in El Acebo as well. It wasn’t two minutes before Christine came and tapped me on the shoulder. She had been sitting outdoors at the same establishment when my text arrived. I joined her outside with my soup and beer, and we had a chance to share some of our reflections about staying at the monastery. I’ve collected very little “contact information” from people I’ve met on the Camino. I’m glad Christine and I had taken the time to do such an exchange. She’s very sweet.

Blame Christine and Calvin for my not getting this posted last night. Calvin was one of the pilgrims in my albergue. When I first walked into our dining room/gathering space, I thought he was one of the many Asians walking the Camino. Turns out he is from Chicago! Went to Northwestern. As you might imagine, we used up my writing time swapping Chicago and Midwest stories.

Details? You got ’em.

Riddle solution I hope somewhere below you will see a photo of the little stone I carried with me from home. On it was written, simply, the word “joy.” Perhaps it was four or five years ago that I attended a little winter get-away with my Walking Women group. I think it was our beloved–and no longer with us–Maggy who brought a collection of stones on which we were each write to draw a symbol or write a word, saying, or expression that was meaningful for us. I had written the word “joy.” The stone sat on my dresser, a reminder of something we are all called to seek, to create, to be. Sometimes very challenging; sometimes–though very rarely for most–as natural as breathing.

This small stone was the one I had chosen to carry across hundreds of kilometers in north central Spain to deposit at the base of the Cruz de Ferro [the Iron Cross which is mounted on top of a tall pole]. It is something that pilgrims have done… I guess I can’t say “from time immemorial,” but certainly for a long, long time. They leave symbols of burdens or of their dearly departed or of wishes, hopes. Not messages in bottles but on stones. Permanent.

And so today, after several hours of climbing slowly and gradually, I reached the Cruz and left “joy” behind. I suppose I did not fully understand just why that was the stone I needed to bring from home, but I understood why as I was approaching the spot. I was leaving the “joy stone” behind but I came to understand that I was already carrying with me more joy than my heart could hold. Riddle solved! (Did you guess it?)

Day 25, Tuesday, May 1: Santa Catalina de Somoza to Rabanal del Camino ( 11.5 km, 7.1 miles)

I am, of course, making fun of myself. Four hours to do 7 miles? (A snail… or a “caterpillar train” could probably manage that!) But what a four-hours these were! I think I am beginning to catch on to this “slow down, you’re moving too fast” business. (Another one of the Camino life-lessons that I’m worried will disappear when I return. How to “make the morning last”; how to skip down the literal or figurative cobblestones; how to feel “groovy” more often?…)

Hard to come up with the definitive title for this post. Others that came to me, and in this order (the first five being addressed to the determined cuckoo bird):

1. “You are so wrong! So very wrong!”
2. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”
3. “You’re full of it!”
4. “That’s enough now!”
5. “Go fly a kite!”
6. “Stop, look, and listen” isn’t just for crossing railroad tracks….

But the morning itself began several hours before such thoughts entered my mind. In spite of not turning off the light until 1:45 am, I woke before my alarm and didn’t have the heart to try to go back to sleep. For one thing, I didn’t know what time I had to leave my private room in the albergue; for another: I didn’t want to miss out on anything, including what kind of a sunrise I might catch from my balcony window. Starting, then, almost an hour before sunrise, I must have taken about a dozen photos of the dawn and the about-to-arrive day, stepping out, stocking-footed, onto my balcony every little bit. The first pilgrim I saw heading off from Santa Catalina departed at 6:30 (45 minutes before sunrise). Let them get on down the road; more pristine solitude for me when I eventually commence my day’s journey.

As I got down to the albergue‘s bar it occurred to me that I hadn’t a clue where I’d left my poles upon my late afternoon arrival. The “poles barrel” was just about empty and my teal poles weren’t in it. I returned to my room, but with little confidence they would be up there. They weren’t. So… I went to check out the first hostel that had delivered the news of “no room in the inn,” the one where the Korean delegation was staying. And indeed, there they (the Koreans) were in front of their albergue, getting some last-minute instructions from their leader. I got waves from some with whom I had had brief conversations or with whom “I had slept” days earlier, then made my way to the entrance of the albergue where, as it happened, my poles were leaning against the door, ready to steady my upcoming walk. (That means that so-far, to my knowledge, I have only lost one disposable paper washcloth that hadn’t totally lived out its usefulness and four or five plastic clothespins which remained behind early in this pilgrimage.)

Back to my albergue where this non-coffee drinker ordered her now near-daily cappuccino. There was a young woman on a stool drinking her own daily jump-start. “Care to join me for a mantecada [special pastry of the region]?” I queried. I had purchased a 6-pack of them in Astorga the previous afternoon and, lightweight as they were, I wasn’t eager to tote them all with me. “A what?” I explained, showing her my package. “Oh…, let me finish with my email and I’ll join you.” She had already walked to Santa Catalina from the prior town, and I think this bit of breakfast suited her. She was soon on her way (and her story, other than her being German and having learned very good English in school, was soon forgotten; hate to say it, but after a while these stories do blend together, especially when the encounters are brief; still, they leave me with a sense of “community”…) and I left not long behind her, just long enough so that… ah, the trail was mine!

The path was at times two-track, at times a single track, following along a barely-used paved road, a buffer of vegetation mostly blocking the sight of said road on my left. The occasional bike or group of cyclists buzzed by, some on the pavement, some on the trail, but otherwise I was alone.

Inspirations came quick and fast, and I spent a lot of time with my face in my phone, taking notes so I could hold on to the thoughts.

They were thoughts about gratitude. About joy. About how absolutely lucky I am to be where I am! At about that point, I saw a “life lesson” painted along a fence:

El secreto de tu futuro está dentro de la rutina diaria. The secret of your future is [found] within the everyday routines [of life].

Oh… so the joy and gratitude and sense of good fortune must be found in, among other things, the cleaning of the kitchen, the folding of laundry, paying the bills…. In this day and age, keeping up with emails and other forms of correspondence…. The secret to finding the future you hope for is finding it right now in the activities you pursue and in the attitude with which you pursue them….

Shoot, we all know that, don’t we? But remembering it and calling upon that secret every day? Can be challenging, to say the least.

Duck, duck, goose!

On I go, thinking, taking notes, being in awe of my surroundings, thoughts giving way to spontaneous song. I come up with “new and possibly improved variations on my “grace, grace, give us grace” song. “Hope” and “peace” and “for you love us all” remain, but “grace” sometimes turns to “trust” or “strength” or courage” or “joy”… or all of the aforementioned. And then one:

Joy, joy, give us joy

Joy to live the life we have chosen. [or sometimes this: …to live the life we’ve been given, for some aspects are our lives are one, and some are the other, right?]

[and then, the familiar coda:]

Give us hope, and give us peace

For you love us all

Then another song from long ago in my past came ‘a haunting me, and I began digging into my memory bank, like an archaeologist slowly uncovering the words. It must have been the focus on “joy” that got me started. Eventually, this is what I pieced together. You may recall it from the 60s:

No man is an island

No man stands alone

Each man’s joy is joy to me

Each man’s grief is my own

We need one another

So I shall defend

Each man as my brother

Each man as my friend

The last of the words was just being uncovered when, upon entering the first little village, El Ganso (and a bit more about it in a few minutes), I hear a rather panicked voice call out something. Was it “¡ay!”? Or was it “¡cuidado!”? I couldn’t say for sure, but it got my immediate attention!

Fortunately! For when I looked up, I saw that I was about to plough right into a car. A parked one, but still….

The voice had come from a nearby open window. I exclaimed to the woman I saw standing there, her hand still up at her mouth, as if still stunned by the sight she had seen. “Oh, señora, ¡un millón de gracias! ¡Me ha salvado la vida!” A slight exaggeration, yes; I don’t think my life would have come to a dead halt on the hood of that vehicle, but… golly, hadn’t the woman come upon the scene just in time to be of service? (Wasn’t I just singing about how “we need one another”? Wasn’t she “defending a friend” just as in the song’s lyrics? Coincidence? Serendipity? At the least, her being “in the right place at the right time.”

My rescuer motioned behind her and immediately another woman then showed up at the open window. Fair-skinned, blond, maybe 50-something. Was this an albergue of some type? The newly-arrived woman looked like I did the first ten days or so on the Camino: she had a black eye. “¿Te has caído?” I ask, commiserating. “No, no,” answers the first woman. “Le han pegado” [She’s been beaten]. No habla nada de español. Es alemana.” So… the German woman has sustained injuries to her face and her arm, and… she has taken refuge in the soon-to-be-described village of El Ganso (translation: The Goose!). An older gentleman–obviously not the perpetrator of the abuse–appears at her side. All three smile. “May I take a picture of the three of you?” I venture. “I’d like a visual reminder of the accident I almost had and of the people who witnessed the near-accident and saved me from it.” (Ok, so those weren’t the exact words, but close!). The Spanish woman is a bit resistant. Her hands fly to her hair, she gestures to the nightclothes she is still wearing and brings up the fact that she has just awakened (in time, note, to “save” me), but then she consents.

This was my “welcome” to El Ganso, population too small to be noted in my guidebook, but about which said book has this to say:

a hauntingly crumbling village, evoking a sense of loss or, perhaps, a reminder of a less hurried time. In the 12th century it boasted a monastery and a pilgrim hospital. El Ganso is the first of several Maragato–[my clarification: like one of our “counties” in the US perhaps]–villages that we pass through in the relatively solitary mountains…. If the opportunity arises to meet the locals, don’t pass it by!

Perhaps I don’t have the actual situation totally correct. For me? For me, in this crumbling near-deserted town, a resident has figured out a way to give refuge to abused women whose language she doesn’t understand but who has perhaps once found herself in a similar situation. Perhaps…. “Blessed be the merciful for they shall find mercy.”

Three more things of note in this “crumbling village”:

1. There is a bar in town. It is called–and decorated, after a fashion, in accord with its name–Cowboy Bar. As I’m passing by the outdoor patio I see a woman with her head down on the table. “Is she alright?” I call out as softly as possible to a man at the only other table. Having witnessed what I interpreted as a work of mercy, I wondered what I might have in my pack to bring some comfort to a weary pilgrim (or to one who was stoned? What did I know?) The woman raised her head at my query and said she was fine. I’m off.
2. Just across the narrow street from the Cowboy Bar, I stop to read a large sign. It said, basically, in several languages–you’ll understand in a minute why I didn’t take a photo to preserve the exact words for posterity–“please be respectful of me and my desire to live my life my way and do not take photographs of me or my abode.” As I continued, the sounds of (East Indian) music and the smell of incense met me, and I spotted a tanned man whom I cannot describe in any more detail because, wanting to respect his right to privacy there on the side of the village’s one and only–I think–street, I did not take a long look. I continued on.
3. As I stopped to look at the village church–checking to see if the storks, like the people, had abandoned this hamlet–and, indeed, they appeared to have done so, the sole nest in the bell tower being empty–the French couple with whom I had dined last night walked up. As often happens, we took turns taking photos of one another in front of the church. We had a bit of back-and-forth chatting about how pleasant it had been to dine together and about how, with gestures and some inadequate language skills, we had managed to laugh and entertain ourselves. I sent them on ahead so that they could enjoy having the trail “to themselves” and so that, a few minutes later, I could do the same.

Good-bye, El Ganso. I couldn’t have asked any more from you that what you offered. Much appreciated!

Up to this point, I have traveled only 4 kilometers. 2.5 miles when rounded up! I continue.

From strangers to friends, if only for a short time

I continue my thinking and my singing as I approach Rabanal del Camino where I plan to spend several days “in silent retreat” at the albergue provided by the Benedictine Monastery of San Salvador del Monte Irago. My intention had been to arrive early to assure that I got one of their ten beds. That resolution seemed to fall by the wayside as I accepted the “offerings” of the day. Before I reached the monastery, I was to have two more somewhat lengthy encounters.

The first was at a … how do I explain this? A “roadside stand”? An “open-air way stop”? A “castle out-post”? A ….? I don’t have the right word or name, so I’ll just continue with a description of what/who I came upon. Read on.

I cross a road and see, on a bit of a slope just adjacent to the trail, a canopied table at which was sitting… a… “knight”? A person dressed in attire from… 12th century? 13th? 14th? (A historian I am not). I hope you will find somewhere on this post the only photo I got of this person whose name I failed to get but whose story intrigued me. So there he sits, not in armor, mind you, but in chainmail (right word, I hope; I have no internet access at the moment to double check any vocabulary, not that I would bother even if I did..), the chainmail covering his head and his chest. The when-not-in-wartime attire, perhaps. In front of him on the table, a quill pen standing in an ink-filled pot. Also, upon further investigation, a small sign, in six languages, poses this question: “Would you like to see the most beautiful thing in the world?” The sign was in front of a small wooden box. (You can guess, can’t you? I did. Upon opening it, of course, I saw myself.)

The “knight”–that’s how I’ll continue to refer to him–was there to put sellos [stamps] in pilgrim’s credenciales and enter the date of the encounter with his plume. But more than anything, he was there on behalf of the Asociación Gaudisse (Gaudisse Association), a group dedicated to raising funds and providing support for children hospitalized with cancer or other serious illnesses, as well as to creating activities to increase social interaction for children and youth with disabilities of any sort. Next to the table was a very large poster with photos of some of the interactions brought about by the efforts of this association. One of the photos in the collage showed a bald-headed adult (maybe 50) with a similarly bald-headed child. The former was the knight with whom I was speaking. This I only learned after we had been talking for a while.

He tells me first about some of the things the group does with the children. “We visit with them in the hospital. We go wherever they are. We let them dress like princesses and knights. We have celebrations with them. Show them a fun time.”

He wasn’t going to go into his story. “It is a long one. Complicated.” I told him I had time.

And so, he began to give it to me. 18 years ago this knight was diagnosed with brain cancer. Not good. Reality hit. His daughter was 6 years old at the time. He took her on a camping trip. They were out under the stars where he planned to ease her gently into news of his illness, to somehow prepare her for the worst. He began with a round-about explanation of the stars they were seeing above their heads. Talking about infinity and eternity (to the extent possible when talking with a six-year-old). He eventually looked down at his daughter and realized that she was fast asleep. Seeing that he had not been able to deliver his “farewell” to her, it came to him that this was not his time to go, that he would live to raise her. And so he did.

Ten years later, he was diagnosed again with brain cancer, this time a more serious form: glio-blastoma multiforma (sp?). Not good. But here he is, telling me his story ten years later! He is now retired, doing what he can to help children and to give them joy and hope. Because… (my thoughts here–or Dunne’s words, if you will… but the themes keep repeating, don’t they?) “no man is an island, no man stands alone….”

The knight was diagnosed with another cancer three years ago. Stomach area. But nonetheless he comes out to greet the pilgrims along the trail, wish them well, stamp their passports, explain his purpose, and hope that some will leave a contribution for the Gaudisse Association.

The card he gave me has many online links. One of the following links might prove useful if you are moved to investigate further:

• Www.canalperegrino.com
• Facebook.com/asociaciongaudisse
• Facebook.com/miradordegaudisse
• Facebook.com/yennevacasas
• [email protected]

He also said that if anyone wanted to communicate with him directly about his illness and his to-date recovery, he would be happy to correspond with such a person through Facebook. (Unfortunately, I’m not sure which of the above Facebook addresses would belong to him.)

I told the knight of my good friend with glio-blastoma, and said I thought that my encounter with him was meant to be. So that I could pass on his story to her. He shared with me the five things to which he attributes his cure. I pass them along because, really, they are five things that we all might do in daily life, all within our reach if we so choose. I present them below, translated from Spanish in the order in which he gave them to me, though he would want you to know, they are not necessarily in the order of importance:

1. Do whatever it takes to eliminate stress
2. Eat the best food possible, regardless of the expense
3. Participate in sports or at least in daily exercise
4. Maintain a positive attitude
5. Do what you can to help others, and if you can’t help, at least do no harm

Not revolutionary. Nothing we haven’t heard. My knight was an example of putting these principles to the test and coming out a winner. I recognize this: he has also been very lucky. Whatever it takes….

I’m about 6 kilometers down the road. My notes remind me of some other aspects or thoughts or songs of the day up until this point:

• Upon leaving Santa Catalina earlier, I had sung: “Oh what a beautiful morning…” and smiled to myself when I got to these words: “everything’s going MY WAY“!  [Note: a frequent translation of “Camino” is “way”]
• It came to me: perhaps I had learned Spanish all those many years ago precisely so that I could have the experiences that I am having on the Camino. I remind myself of what a gift it was that Dad said “yes” back at Christmastime in 1966 when I presented the idea–actually, it was my sister Marie who first broached the subject with him because I was too afraid to even bring it up…–the idea of my spending 7 weeks studying and touring in Spain, at age 17
• I recall the words of St. Francis of Assisi–hope it indeed was him; at any rate, it was some important saint–“Preach always. And, if you must, use words.” (Forgive me, Francis, for being so loquacious; I can’t seem to help myself). Why do I think of him today? Because the good saint is said to have trod these very paths back in the 1200s, and to have stayed in some of the same villages where i am staying. Very likely to have prayed in some of the same churches in which I have been praying
• Boy, the Spirit is really talking to me today!
• Was doña María wrong when she chided, weeks ago, to me: “The Camino isn’t a Camino of roses. It is a Camino of thorns.” Thorns? To me it has become a Camino of gifts
• And so on. “…and, if necessary, use words.” …

One more encounter along today’s walk that I feel called to share. Another friend I’ll likely never see again. You’re about to meet Ben from England.

So I finally enter Rabanal. I’ll be looking for the monastery. But I see a young man–25? 30? Everyone under 50 looks young to me anymore..–sitting near a stone building just along the principal street of town. On a turned-on-its-side box he has written: “Is it time to CHANGE YOUR WAY?”[Yes, remember, “camino” = “way”.] And in smaller print, he explains: “I have walked more than 9000 kilometers on the Camino. Each day I write. Here are some of my reflections of things I have learned. Please take one” On the top ledge of the box, under a stone serving as a paperweight, were perhaps 15 or 20 slips of paper. After a bit of chatting with their creator, I chose one. “I’ll read it aloud,” I said to Ben, “and then maybe we can talk about it.” It read as follows:

A lingering sadness in life will keep on reoccurring until the sensation it is expressing within is listened to & understood. When its deep-lying message is heard one can file it away under acceptance & move on with renewed strength & purpose in life.

Listen. Reflect. Understand. Accept. [Change?] Move on. Purpose.

Bless this young fellow! Exotic but sincere. Moving through life, making his way from village to village sharing messages of hope. Another young man did that some two thousand years ago and we’re still trying to ponder, interpret, evaluate, absorb, and possibly follow his messages….

Ben sat there as we chatted, cutting more strips of paper, more reflections to share. “Are each and every one of them unique?” I asked him. I was assured that there were some repeats, repeats of the most important ones. My eyes lingered on the messages still under the rock. A part of me wanted to choose a few more, greedy that I am for words and (possible) wisdom (believe it or not: I do not ascribe to everything I see or hear!). “Do you have an online presence? A place where you store your reflections for the benefit of others?” Ben told me he had a blog, though not necessarily a collection of the thoughts he offered at the roadside. In somewhat of an imitation of the Russian author he so admires, he has called his blog “homelessness and punishment.” I haven’t had the chance to check it out, but if you are interested, the full link is as follows: homelessnessandpunishment.home.com

Buen Camino. Buena vida, Ben!

HOME SWEET HOME

Speaking of home, I soon reached what was to be mine for the next two or three evenings (TBD). I was warmly received by Father Javier who had just begun to give a tour of the facilities to a pilgrim from Korea who had arrived only minutes earlier.

I have reached my journey’s end for the day, at least the walking part of the journey. The monastery experience deserves its own post once my stay here is complete. And so, more to follow somewhere further along THE WAY.

Thanks for walking with me!

Day 21, Saturday, April 27: Mansilla de las Mulas to León (21.8 km, 13.5 miles)

Ok, friends, I know: this is terribly out of sequence. The title of this post and the heading above were, indeed, written on April 27. “The rest of the story” I sit down to write on Thursday, May 2, a wonderful blue-sky day as seen from two windows of the lounge of the Benedictine Monastery where I am “resting” (that’s what the monks have told us we are here to do) for several days. Now 10:15 am, Laudes (morning prayers), breakfast, and a beautiful mass with Gregorian chant (by the three monks) over, I will play a bit of catch up.

Lucky for you, some of the details have, undoubtedly, taken a back seat in my memory. Maybe this post will be shorter than some. Surely it will be. (“Let it go, Katy…. Let it go….”)

Vocabulary: learn something; take a (somewhat) educated guess

I’ve checked my notes for the day. Other than being able to recall (with their assistance and that of photos I took that day) that I was the last one to remove my boots from the “boot shelf” in the morning, there’s not much left to tell of my walk into León. Not everyone, however, had left the albergue’s kitchen when I stopped in there before heading out. Some of the young people who were having such a good time the night before were still there, organizing their day. I was offered some left-over pasta from the previous night’s dinner, some chocolate and some figs. The olives in the pasta were beyond off-putting for yours truly, and I eat chocolate only when not doing so might offend someone, but the figs I accepted, looking for some better bowel functioning (sorry….). I dug out two cellophane-wrapped croissants which I’d been carrying for many days and then enjoyed the repartie among the young people. One pilgrim, age 20, told me with enthusiasm: “This [pilgrimage] is the very best thing I have ever done in my life.” He is young. I wish him many “better things,” but still I am happy that it has been such a powerful experience for him. I trust that the life that awaits him will be “all that much better” for what he is now experiencing.

But on to vocabulary: I was walking toward a big city. Less boring for me than for some because I can at least read the signs and understand them. Furniture factories. Car dealerships (well, those would have been pretty universally understood). Manufacturers of bathroom fixtures…. And then, one sign that I had seen before and hadn’t understood. Here I was seeing it for the second or possibly third time. My notes say: “What is a ‘tanadero'”? I knew it was not a tanning studio and I suspected it wasn’t a taxidermy business. What then? I just looked it up: it is a “funeral home” according to Wikipedia (or perhaps just a place to prepare the bodies for burial?). Learn something knew every day.

And again, with plenty of time for my mind to wander, it occurred to me that in an earlier post I had used a word that I put down as a “place holder” until I had a chance to check it out. Which of course I totally forgot about doing. My notes jotted down on the walk say: “Ferrier–horseshoes?” From what recesses of my often-forgetful mind had I pulled out that word? Anyway, I’ve checked and… except for the spelling, I had it. Should have been “farrier,” the kind of person I needed the other day to supply me with some new “shoes” to replace my tired feet! (The recesses of my mind were aided by the Spanish word “herrero” that made me feel that I was at least on the main track.)

(Really, you have to find things to think about while walking, and singing as you walk your way within a city’s outskirts is a way to get youself labeled as a “lunatic” [which is what the cuckoo bird has been calling me for weeks now!]; and one needs a break from praying for everyone you have ever known or will ever know. “Vocabulary” fit the bill and brought me into the city.)

I’m not great with Google maps, but once I found the address of the Airbnb which Ginny had sent me days in advance, I plugged it in and before long….

A little refuge inside the big city

… before long Google was telling me that I had reached my destination. Only… only Ginny hadn’t told me she lived in the middle of a lovely city park! I admired it, and then began looking for a nearby street (which was, as it turns out, directly across from one side of the park), a “house number,” and the bell that would lead to Ginny’s friendly voice over an intercom: “Hi, cousin,” and a welcome buzzer indicating I should push the door and go inside.

And then, in order:

1. Big hugs!
2. Meeting Marcela, Ginny’s “flatmate” from the Czech Republic who has been traveling and working in Spain since…. January (?) and who plans to “do the Camino” from the town of Lugo once she has recovered from the cold that set her back a bit on her plans
3. Changing clothing and digging out everything that I’d put in my pack which needing washing
4. Loading washing machine
5. Filling belly with the huge bowl of oatmeal–my favorite, and nothing which has been on any menu we have yet to see!
6. Catching up
7. Hanging up clothes on a line just reachable out a window, the pulley system proving very useful; setting smaller items (socks) on the stone ledges outside our bedroom windows where the sun was beating down
8. Heading out to the corner cafe for coffee and a sweet (to complement my breakfast/lunch; in tow: my winter jacket on a hanger
9. Crossing the street to the lovely “parque de los reyes” (Park of the Kings) where we placed my jacket in the sun, admired –and photographed–the tall, fat-trunked cypress trees, did some catching up with family via WhatsApp (Ginny able to join in on the weekly Saturday morning “conference call” where she was able to speak to her siblings and her husband), just as if they were all in the same room)

How quickly four hours can pass! Also: we tried to come up with a “plan” for Ginny. Hard to do when there are so many unknowns: where’s the bus station? To what towns along the Camino do the busses go? How many days ahead should she jump? Etc. Etc. Kind of stressful stuff. Hey, much more fun to take off for the historic downtown, a 20-or-so minute walk from the Airbnb. And so, around 5:00 pm, that is precisely what we did (after bringing in the now-dry clothes and turning the burner off under the… get this!: lamb stew Ginny has had simmering now for hours (the marvelous aromas of which had greeted me upon my arrival).

The surprises León had in store for us

So… I really am capable of enjoying a big city (León, by the way, has some 130,000 inhabitants) in small doses. I took in some small plazas, some fountains, some roundabouts, made use of an ATM–with Ginny’s help; what will I do if I’m ever short of cash and she’s not around to come to my aid?–, and mostly followed like a faithful puppy dog as Ginny had traversed this route (toward the cathedral) several times already.

Hey, a familiar pilgrim here, another there! Greetings! Hugs! And before long, we’re in the thick of things, the “thick” meaning: cafes, bars, outside tables, possibilities (obviously) for food, for giving the legs a break, for finding a cozy table in the sun. We continued down the street, not finding right away the meant-for-us spot. And suddenly, we were in the cathedral plaza, lured by a cafe sign indicating that sangria was to be found within. And pastries or tapas.

Frankly, I don’t remember if we chose either the one or the other, but I do clearly remember the outside tables, bathed in glorious sunshine, being full. But wouldn’t that (most likely Spanish) matron who was sitting alone just love for us to join her? And so, with only a gesture on our parts–to tell the truth, it was Ginny who piped up with a “Do you mind if we sit here?” While I played “dumb” and didn’t let on that I knew Spanish…–and another on hers, we were soon seated.

But who can resist? Eventually, via a conversation I had with the waiter, it became obvious that we could have a conversation. Anything else would have been more awkward than it already was to have taking over her table and, most likely, blocked her view of the tons of passers by (tourists, couples, pilgrims, families, grandmothers and parents pushing strollers, folks gawking at the cathedral; this is where it was at… and we didn’t know the half of it… not yet….). So this well-dressed and well-coiffed “matron”…. I learned that she was my age–sobering! I thought she was a “matron,” you know, kind of elderly…–was in town for a month. She and her two siblings take turns coming to León to be companions to their 92-year-old mother who is in pretty good shape but who they don’t want living alone. In the plaza, she was enjoying a bit of a respite from her caregiving. Was this the woman who told me that she had not done the Camino, but that she went to Lourdes every year with a contingent, bringing ill people in their caravan. (Or was that someone else? Hmmm: I think that was the woman we met at “Ginny’s park” who asked me to hug “the santo” for her when I arrived in Santiago.). Anyway, a pleasant conversation even though some of the specifics escape me these many days after the fact.

Then along came Fabio and Regina, a Brazilian couple we had met during our first week and with whom we have met up several times. The very first time, at the chapel in Eunate to which we had detoured, we saw them taking selfies at the chapel while holding a small stuffed animal. As often as we have talked with them, we have not questioned this act, out of respect that their reason for doing this might perhaps be “raw” and personal, even while hoping that it is a fun gesture, a photo taken to send to a grandchild back in Brazil. Hugs to them both and then good-byes, hoping we meet up again but knowing that one of these times will be the last.

And then–we’re getting to the crème de le crème now: the sound of drums from a distance, but getting ever closer. I stand up to peer down the street, and what do I see approaching?  Costumed walkers bearing large flags (of their “pueblos”–villages–I later learned), and then many, many costumed villagers. Out came my camera and I snapped and snapped and snapped some more! They paraded into the plaza and settled in a cordoned-off area where they proceeded–in groups according to the villages they had come from–to dance to the music played by one or two in the group. Is this why the plaza was so full? The waiter couldn’t tell us what the occasion was. “Just the pueblos celebrating their identity,” he told me, sounding a bit bored with it all. Maybe something like this goes on often, though the waiter offered that it might be related to the post-Easter celebration. We soon left our table and found a bench on which to stand to see the dancers a bit better.

With great reluctance, but knowing that a delicious lamb stew and a loaf of crusty bread and a good salad awaited us back at the Airbnb, we headed for “home” about 8:00. Counting our blessings, blessings we would likely have missed had we not lingered so long at the park in the afternoon (me, chafing at the bit to see a bit of the town before we were too tired or hungry or out of the notion) or had we chosen a different cafe at which to sit and sip sangria.

Life works out sometimes, doesn’t it? And even when it doesn’t, it does. If you get my drift….

Another day comes to its close

To conclude, then: we returned to a waiting Marcela, reheated the stew, made salad, sliced bread, and set up a “dining area” in our bedroom (kitchen too small to seat three people), and dug in to a meal fit for queens (while looking over the Park of the Kings where daylight lingered and families were still out enjoying the air and one another).

Roberto (owner of the Airbnb) and his Dutch girlfriend returned from a performance/recital by a group of would-be circus performers and joined us in the bedroom-turned-dining room. Lots of pleasantries and also suggestions for how to proceed on the Camino. “Go to Rabanal. You must go to Rabanal. Eat at El Refugio, a restaurant for which I am a consultant. I help them become more modern, more successful. There’s a monastery there. One stays for two or more nights. You should go.” (“And the rest,” as they say, “is history.” You’ll hear more about the degree to which I listened to Roberto’s recommendation in time.

I felt so bad: I was all prepared to give Ginny a massage… and by the time the “party” was over, I was 100% exhausted. The massage on the tight muscles was not to be. In spite of the big bowl of oatmeal, in spite of the lamb stew. In spite of my best intentions. Not to be. This night was over!

(You see why I had to postpone the telling of this day? It was too special not to do it justice. Photos from the day may or may not already have been posted somewhere by Regina, one of my at-home techno-geeks. Perhaps she’ll add some to the start or end of this post. And perhaps not. “Let it go, Katy. Let it go.”)

Day 24, Tuesday, April 30: Santibáñez de Valdeiglesia a Santa Catalina de Somoza (23 km, 14.3 miles)

Sharing a few bits of good news:

• Ginny very carefully walked 12 or 13 kilometers today, stopping often to rest, stretch, massage, and–the great part: enjoy some beautiful paths. She’s looking forward to busing on to Sarria and tackling the last 100 kilometers of the Camino at the pace her body calls for. She’s so grateful for the huge fan club supporting her in our thoughts and prayers
• Barb knocked off the Camino yesterday morning ans will enjoy a full-day of sightseeing (or just sitting in the Retiro Park? or sleeping in?) in Madrid tomorrow before her flight home on May 2. Way to go, Barb! Oh, this just now in: she already did the Retiro and the Botanical Garden today; tomorrow will be the Prado Museum.
• After last night’s singing and dancing, my roommates and I were steady, relatively quiet sleepers last night. All the better for getting an early start today. Oh, but that’s the story for the next section. Keep on reading!

Glory Hallelujah, Part 1 (7:00 am to 10:30-ish am)

Out the albergue door by just a few minutes after 7:00 this morning. “A la izquierda y entonces siga todo recto, recto, recto,” the cook and general overseer told me this morning. And so off I went, to the left and straight, straight, straight. Straight up. Not so steep, actually, but the general trend was up. I was so happy that I had waited until morning for this next stretch, that I had not moved on yesterday after discovering that the town was as dead as they come. The day had been gradually heating up, and it would not have been fun to do the uphill paths/roads in the afternoon heat.

Instead, I did them this morning, decked out in the usual “cool weather” clothing (including winter jacket) with which I have begun almost every day on this trip, knowing that, like I did yesterday, I would be shedding and/or switching layers as the day progressed.

My early departure this morning–earliest of the trip by a good 10 minutes–was due to my hopes of catching a pretty sunrise. While it wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, it was very pleasant. I was rewarded, as well, with the town’s roosters crowing (along with the call of that darned you-know-what who still accuses my endeavors of being crazy ones. Let him keep it up; I’m turning a deaf ear.

The climbing was stunning, and I felt like I had the views all to myself. For one thing, the trail curved quite a bit so I wasn’t always seeing far in front or behind me. For another, two of my roommates were off before I was this morning, and Takeshi was getting a slow start. (Yes, there had been a second hostel in town and it had a good dozen or more people. But take my word for it, the solitude was both real and delightful.)

• Three highlights as I passed through terrain in which farm fields (some) alternated a bit unevenly with lands marked as private hunting preserves (the vast majority of the land):

The first: Catching sight of a deer on the trail. The trail has gone through a lot of land signed for hunting, but this was the first “wildlife” I had seen. Who doesn’t love to see deer? (Don’t answer that Bloomington friends whose gardens are being destroyed by them….). In addition to that one sighting, there was a lot of scat on the trail/road. I had to wonder what other beasties might have me in their sights….

The second: I met David at his very unique Casa de los Dioses cantina in the middle of nowhere. His story begs to be told, so bear with me and I’ll do my best to tell it (in one long paragraph because that’s the only way to maintain this numbered list…). I really dawdled at this stop because I found David absolutely fascinating. I walked up to his not-so-little complex where, in addition to some pleasant landscaping and some ramshackle (sort of) buildings, David had set up five or six hammocks, a self-service covered counter with muesli (my choice; hadn’t had breakfast yet), soy, rice, and regular milk, coffee, juices, sugar, cinnamon, chocolate, nuts…, and, on the side, big baskets of fruit: apples, bananas, kiwi, oranges. David yelled out from behind a wall where he was washing dishes and silverware, heating water for coffee, and squeezing more oranges for a drink: “Help yourself! It’s a gift! Enjoy!” He later came round with a clean spoon for me. Sandrina, the Romanian from last night, was at the stop when I arrived, so David was using English as the common language. When Sandrina moved on, however, we switched to Spanish and I learned a lot more about this very sincere–but enigmatic–dreamer who has been giving gifts of food to pilgrims at this site for the past 10 years. “I am moving on,” he told me. “I know now that I am supposed to just take off and walk and walk.” He explained that just a week or so ago he had returned to his “cantina” after wandering for six months (three of them barefoot), but that now he had discovered that it was time for him to leave for good. “I have to live my values. Now I live in contradiction with my values. Look at this fruit I give to pilgrims. It takes trucks and planes to get some of this fruit here. Too many resources. And for what? The pilgrims today aren’t seeking spiritual enlightenment like they were when I started here. They don’t even know why they are doing the Camino. They do it with such little thought, just because they heard about it, heard that they should do it. They are all materialistic. I need to get away from materialism. Look. See. I don’t wear a watch. I don’t have a phone. I don’t even have money. But I am not a beggar. No. I don’t beg.” “Do you depend on the good will of others, then?” I asked. “No, not on good will. I depend on their nature, their opening to the god-force within them.” We sat and talked for a good half hour. Mostly, I listened. There was no reason for me to challenge him, or for me to ask him details about how he could actually survive for any length of time without money. For one thing, he seems to have already been doing it for quite some time. Do you kind of get the picture? A little bit? It was maybe somewhat like visiting the Desert Fathers from the 3rd century, seeking their wisdom. I asked him if he had read any of Carlos Casteneda’s books. (He had, but not too impressed.) Me? No, I am not ready to imitate this (just) 44-year-old from who-knows-where (native speaker of Spanish, but I didn’t press for his personal info; it seemed more prudent to just listen, assenting when I could honestly do so, merely listening and pondering most of the time). Most of the pilgrims passed by or perhaps grabbed a piece of fruit, asking only where they should put their donativo [donation]. “No, it’s a gift. You don’t need to give anything. I do it for love. But if you feel like giving a gift in return, there is a box over there.” Those passing quickly had no idea that David plans to leave his operation in a few days “to walk and walk and walk,” giving others a chance to bring out their divine nature as they interact with him. “I just don’t believe in the Camino anymore, in what it has become. And I know now that I cannot change other people. I have to be my most authentic self.” I certainly couldn’t disagree with him that materialism and the “creation of need” defines our culture and our lives…. Lots to think about.

Third morning hightlight: Shortly after getting David’s thought-provoking life lessons, I was treated to spotting a caterpillar “train.” The name is of my invention, but seems like a logical one for this phenomenon. I believe I may have mentioned it before and perhaps posted a photo and/or video. Worth doing so again. I’m not shooting for total accuracy here, as I have no time to do research, but, in a few words: this particular kind of caterpillar is likely to link up with seemingly identical caterpillars, the group forming one long line as they/it make their/its way “down the camino.” Or across it. It’s impressive to see, but what I saw today demands a more powerful word than impressive. “Strength in numbers”? Easy to agree with. “United we stand (or crawl/propel ourselves,” as the case might be). I think we’d all agree. But get this: the caterpillar chain I came upon this morning was an amazing 72 insects strong! (Yes, I got down on my hands and knees in the red-dust road to count them. I later heard that they eject poison and it really stings the skin. Who knew?). Did I photograph them? You’d better believe it. Still and video both. I was quite delighted that I happened to notice them out on parade. I’ll have to do a bit of research at some point. Do you suppose the parents send them out to play and tell the oldest to keep an eye on her siblings? “Don’t let your brothers and sisters out of your sight!” And I wonder where they were headed or what happens when the lead caterpillar decides to turn around. Lots of wondering.

Yep, a glory hallelujah kind of morning. The kind we might all wish to have each and every day.

In between the Glories and the Hallelujahs, or: Get me out of the city! It’s too much for me! (10:30-ish am to 1:30 pm)

I arrived in the old city center of Astorga about 10:45. I saw that the first old church I happened into had a noon mass and, liking the name of the church (“Socorro Perpetua” / Perpetual Help) and thinking the acoustics would be good, I decided to stay in the area and attend. I went to a nearby park, ate an orange I had picked up when I stopped at David’s complex and a couple of hard-boiled eggs I’d been carrying around for too long, and enjoyed the vista of the distant mountains. I also observed this: almost all the natives who passed by my bench and noticed me eating called out “Buen provecho” (“Enjoy your meal”); I suppose it means as little to them as our saying “God bless you” when someone sneezes means to us, but nonetheless I found it a rather sweet way of them acknowledging that I existed. One older woman stopped to chat a bit longer. I then proceeded to read about this town in my guidebook, realizing that I probably should have done my research ahead of time.

With time left before heading over to the noon mass, I did a bit of exploring on my own. Oh my! It was market day! “Every Tuesday,” I learned. But this was way over the top! Way over! Not a food market (although I did see a bit of food down one side street). This was block after block on several parallel streets of “stuff.” “New stuff” as far as I could tell, but … “stuff.” Factory-produced “stuff”: underwear, shirts, jackets, scarves, socks. Lots of people milling around, bumping into me, making me a bit nervous about my pack knocking buyers over as I made my way through the crowd. Perhaps it was my natural aversion to crowds or to shopping, or perhaps, as well, my recent conversation with David. At any rate, I just wanted out.

Turns out the mass was a mistake. Acoustics were not good and, because of the delay, I found that I really didn’t have time to see anything in Astorga. I had read about some wonderful museums, including quite an amazing and fanciful Gaudí building housing four floors of displays plus a garden area designed a la Gaudí. I knew I shouldn’t take the time to see it, but I went inside anyway… only to learn that it would close between 2:00 and 4:00, so I would have only 45 minutes to tour. No tickets for a “garden only” tour. No, I realized, I don’t want to rush through this thing, and I really don’t want to carry my pack any longer than necessary…. Astorga, with its rich Roman history, was something that I just wasn’t going to experience. Nor was I going to be able to sample the dish for which it is very well known–the very filling meat-and-vegetable stew known as cocido maragato. (Bought some “famous” pastries, though: mantecadas.)

On the one hand, it was disappointing to be missing the highlights of yet another Spanish city; on the other hand: I was already longing to be back in the countryside. Let’s get out of here! Enough!

Glory Hallelujah, Part 2, or: Just who was she anyway? (1:30 pm to 9:30 pm)

I’m not going to wax poetic about the journey from Astorga to Santa Catalina. It was getting hot. Only in the 70s, but there was no shade to be had and my backpack seemed to be getting heavier by the minute. It might have been pretty. The most welcome sight, however, was of a cafe where I took an internet break and met up with a few pilgrims I’d befriended before.

I was getting a bit nervous as I had heard quite a few people say that they were heading for Santa Catalina. This wasn’t in my plans. The small town of just under 50 residents has no grocery stores; its church has mass one Sunday a month; the village is located in the middle of a Camino “stage”. For those reasons, I had thought that there would be no problem finding a room. When I got closer to the village, a Korean pilgrim caught up with me. I think we had slept in the same room a few hostels back. He remembered talking with me, knew I was almost 70 (and so about 7 years older than he). He said he was so very happy to see me. I, however, wasn’t so very happy to learn that his group of about 20–all Catholics from Korea, most with very limited English–were all staying in Santa Catalina. They would be taking up most bunks in one of the albergues.

Long story short: when I arrived, neither of the albergues had a bunk bed for me. They had a couple of actual rooms left. Well, hard for me to pay 30 euros when the “bed only” price was 5, and I did let the proprietor know that I would share my bed with any single woman who found herself without a place to sleep. But here I am, luxuriating in my own double bed, my own private bathroom, my own balcony overlooking the main drag, towels, a door that locks…. No automatic lights off. No creeping around in the dark with a flashlight hoping I can find the bunk’s ladder, wondering where to set my glasses. Pretty nice, indeed! I just had better not get used to it.

Here’s the thing I really want to tell you: after a quick check of my room, down to the bar area again for my first beer in 2019 and perhaps the best one in my life! And then! Then: I went for a walk around town. Now when the town has 47 residents plus two hostels, it doesn’t really take too long to walk it. But there’s always the countryside. I’d come in from one direction and would leave by the opposite, but that still left two directions to check out, north and south if I was reading the sun correctly. There seem to be paths everywhere in Spain, and I’m a sucker for following them. The rejoicing began. There I was wearing that grin again. “Just a little bit further,” I’d tell myself. “Just to that tree/post/sign down there,” but then I’d see another temptation and on I’d go.

Obviously, the sun was no longer so intense. A few welcome clouds had moved in, and it was around 6:00 pm, so more pleasant for sure. When I reached an intersection where five sandy roads met, I knew I’d better turn around before I confused one path for another. I concluded my return trip with checking out a street in town down which I hadn’t previously walked. I saw an elderly woman sitting out in the sun and by her, the cutest little dog who actually really liked me and whom I enjoyed petting. Now that is something! The old woman had her work cut out for her to hang on to Puscas who desired nothing more than for me to hang around petting her/him.

I tell you, I just couldn’t get enough of this sleepy little town and its environs. Gorgeous clouds, sensational old stone buildings. Santa Catalina would make an ideal movie set for the right script. Seeing it without toting my pack was ideal. I wrote home asking if anyone wanted to set up housekeeping here. (No response from Ken on that one.)

Little wonder that I wanted to read something about this saint after whom the town was named. What? Who? I wouldn’t think that people would just make up a name because they liked the sounds of it, but darn if I can find out anything about her. Google only knows that Santa Catalina de Somoza is the name of a town in Spain. Hmmm….

Final act

By 7:30 I had had my shower and I headed downstairs to find some food. I don’t know when I’ve had to “work so hard” for my food. I suggested to a couple waiting for a table that we sit together. Ah… but Bernard and Kati–who did not come to Santa Catalina, as had I, because they liked the name of the town–were French-only speakers. Okay, Katy, dig deep, very deep. You’ve had some practice lately. Let’s have a pleasant meal together. We did! The waiter was so grateful for my help translating and making sure everyone got what he/she wanted. Bernard never stopped smiling. The two of them were very fresh, today having been their first day (this year) on the trail. They have been doing the Camino in stages for the past six years, a little here, a little there; today they started their last section and plan for Santiago or bust with this go round. I’m recalling more and more French, but I’m also getting better at being humiliated as I know I am murdering the language. Happy to say that I have not felt any “snobbishness” directed at me. The French people I have spoken with have been pleased that I could handle their language at all.

What happens when Katy has a private room? She stays up until 1:00 am! For shame!

Short walk tomorrow to Rabanal where I expect to find a bed in the Benedictine monastery San Salvador del Monte Irago. A two-night stay. Why do I think I might just have to take one or more naps there? Unless, of course, the surrounding countryside calls to me as it did today. Then all bets are off.

 

Day 23, Monday, April 29: Villar de Mazarife to Santibáñez de Valdeiglesia (20.5 km, 12.7 miles)

Setting the stage

I have some catching up to do, as Saturday’s post is still lingering in my head instead of on the page. And today’s, as well. My plan is to attack them both. Thought I’d share where this siege is taking place. Some of you will be jealous and some will say: “better you than me.” Which are you?

I am in the courtyard of the parochial albergue of this small town. I know it is small because I missed a yellow arrow and walked to the end of the town where there were arrows pointing in the direction from which I had come. Apparently I am not the first one to miss the turn!

Here’s what I can tell you about the town. It seems it’s too small for the guidebook to bother giving its population. It doesn’t have a grocery store. I’d say it doesn’t really have any stores. Probably very few people and they would all be elderly. My guess, anyway. I arrived at siesta time and so, obviously, the sidewalks were rolled up. However, I’ve seen no reason to return to the post-siesta streets as the patio in which I am sitting is delightful.

Takeshi (male), my Japanese roommate, is sleeping on a mat which he has spread out on the grass. Sandrina, a Romanian woman, is out here as well, catching up on her email and her journaling. Charlie, a third roommate, from England, left us a while ago after doing a bit of serenading on his guitar. Also joining us is an English-speaker (American?) who has shared his peanuts but not yet his name. He is staying in the albergue across the street but has found the innkeeper rude and so he doesn’t want to spend any money there. He will be joining my roommates and me for the pilgrim dinner here at 6:30. For now, he is enjoying a beer with his peanuts and cursing his email which doesn’t seem to be working. (Frankly, I preferred Charlie’s strumming on the guitar, but this guy’s ok, I think.  I’ve certainly been know to let four-letter words fly when my email or internet isn’t cooperating….)

When I saw how tiny the town was and how lacking in services, I contemplated going against my better thinking, heading on down the trail–I mean up the trail, for there are hills and more “páramo” awaiting us. I did not want to go to the next big town, though, and the town 10 kilometers away has only one small hostel and I couldn’t find out about availability (they wouldn’t answer the phone). I didn’t want to take the chance, so I was forced to follow my better judgment and stop. There is a reason for my being here (and it isn’t because the bedroom is toasty warm, that’s for sure).

I was greeted at this albergue by two young Brazilian volunteers, emphasis on the word “young.” One was busy plucking facial hairs that didn’t suit her; the other occupied herself with her cell phone (at least assuring me that the Wifi worked on the patio). Typical teenagers (sorry, do I offend?), bored, realizing that this volunteer business was not exactly the ideal escape from the watchful eyes of their parents, on the other side of the ocean, as they had hoped it would be. Instead, it was work which, of course, is a bore! Oh, I am being hard on them. Sorry. They got me registered, showed me my room, sighed with frustration that I had trouble understanding their Portuguese when one of them was trying to explain to me that the shower in the indoor bathroom should not be used but that the indoor toilet could be used, but only in the middle of the night. Otherwise, we are to use the showers and the bathrooms outside. Why did I have trouble understanding the bit about the shower in the patio?

Fortunately, a quick check in the patio proved that the showers were not exactly outside, just in a building on one side of the patio, complete with roof and door (not that it locked, but for the 5 euros I was paying, what did I expect?).

Also in the patio: a clothesline that makes about a 260-degree loop through trees (yes, trees!), thus more than enough space for four of us to hang the few clothes we were willing to wash in the outdoor sink’s cold water. The groundskeeper was busy mowing the small lawn. He was already working on it when I arrived, and still working on it while I took my shower, washed and hung up clothes, and settled in to write. The machine must have sputtered and stopped a hundred times if it did it once.

“They need to get you a new lawnmower, don’t they?” I asked him. “Yes, but it’s not likely to happen.” This man, a Spanish volunteer, assured me that the plentiful bees were not to be feared. Even more, that the occasional bee sting is good for a person as long as said person doesn’t have an allergy to bee stings. No allergy here, but I’ll take a pass on the healthy sting.

Every half hour, at 25 minutes after the hour and 5 minutes before, the church bells across the street peel out. I’ve been telling myself that I should have my microphone ready to capture them. Kind of a contrast to the croaking of the frogs that I recorded yesterday (and, I admit, again this morning).

This is also quite a contrast to the atmosphere I had while writing last night: by the time I finished there must have been some twenty or more noisy locals in the albergue’s bar, laughing, drinking, sharing tales, cheering for the soccer game on the TV. Katy, oblivious to it all. Concentrating.

But now: the sun is still streaming into this courtyard, the clothes are likely about dry, and I’ll get in on a communal meal in just under an hour, a meal where we’ll all learn a bit more about one another. Since the English speakers don’t know any Romanian or Japanese, we’ll be muddling through with English. Should be fun.

But on to today’s walk.

A tale of many stops

It was really tempting this morning, as I was heading out of Villar, to do that Huerta loop I had walked yesterday afternoon. I started in that direction, and then I made my first good decision of the day. Turned around. My back was feeling particularly sensitive to the weight on it: extra clothing (for the first time on the entire trip, I was wearing neither the long underwear nor the wind/rain pants, thus they added to the bulk and weight of the pack, extra water, extra food for what I thought would be “wilderness.”

Not really. There were numerous small towns. I stopped in a park on the outskirts of one town, more as an excuse to take the pack off for a while. Take an orange out of the pack; put winter jacket and gloves into it. Fair trade. Next town: buy some yogurt, a banana, a bag of peanuts, and some cookies in a grocery store. Find a bench at which to consume some of the purchased food. Remove neck gaiter and cap; dig out sun hat; hook the remaining food on the pack. The following town: eat the second cookie with the café con leche purchased at the bar; swap heavy Smartwool shirt for lightweight one, hang fleece vest from S-hook on the pack. One more town: and here I stay for the night. I did remove more clothes, but fear not! I replaced them with other, cleaner garments.

As for my pack: it’s going to remain too heavy. One thing about our new-and-much-improved weather: extra water is a must.

Human highlights of the day

• I met a local woman on the paved road that led out of Villar de Mazarife and we shared an exchange. In her 60s, probably. Late 60s? My age? She used a cane (well heck, wasn’t I using two hiking poles?) and was out on her daily constitutional. “Por lo menos 8 kilómetros cada día.” Bravo! I remain amazed at how many locals get in that daily walk. They are out with their canes and their walkers. They are being pushed in their wheelchairs. I guess I might add how many are using the handles of their grandchildren’s buggies to possibly steady themselves (grandchildren in tow, of course). The point: they love to be out getting fresh air, possibly chatting with friends, possibly alone, knowing instinctively how very healthy it is for them and just wanting to do it. I think the fact they have very small houses encourages them to get outside, if only to get out from under one another’s feet. And also: since the houses are small, they can keep them clean more easily and thus have more time to get out. Am I proselytizing? At any rate, I love seeing people enjoying the outdoors.
• Walked and talked for a while with Kristof, a German fellow with a good command of English. He wondered if one couldn’t do something sort of similar to the Camino in the US. You know, prepare an itinerary, walk from village to village. Even if one were doing the Appalachian Trail. Come off the trail each night and stay in a village. Wishful thinking. He doesn’t understand, does he? We don’t begin to have the infrastructure for that sort of thing. Not even close. I did tell him about my friend Eleanor–are you reading, Eleanor?–who did a 500-mile (?) walk from KY/TN to Virginia to duplicate the route Mary Ingles had done when she escaped Indian captivity back in the 1700s. (He wanted to know if she escaped alone, and I had to tell him that she escaped with a German woman who was more than half crazy…. Hope he wasn’t offended by a finger being pointed at a compatriot.)
• I saw Miguel, the young Spanish fellow whom I encountered yesterday as he completed the challenge of walking 5 km barefoot. “How are the feet today?” “They hurt a bit,” he replied. No kidding!
• There was the young Japanese man who asked me to take his photo by a famous bridge (and who now happens to be one of my roommates tonight); the four Irishmen trekking together; the lovely British couple (she Indian-born) with whom I had a lengthy conversation. Barbara and I had a lot in common it seemed; with her husband I had in common that we were both born in ’49
• I came upon a threesome I had seen on Day #1 when we headed out from St. Jean Pied-de-Port. We had not spoken before, but I recognized them due to the moose each carried on her pack, and the excess weight each carried on her body. Frankly, I was really surprised to see that they had made it this far. Very surprised. They got a kick out of being recognized for the moose (I didn’t let them in on the other factor that helped me identify them). I’m so happy they’ve been doing well. It made me wonder about some others who started with us, especially red-haired Silvia from Argentina. I met someone today who brought up an Argentinian woman he’d met yesterday. “A red head, by chance?” I asked. “Yes!” But not a bright red-head. Not Silvia.

Other highlights of the day

And I’ll try to make these quick as the pilgrim meal will be served in about 15 minutes and I am more than ready!

• Found my bed last night; very little snoring!
• Beautiful sunrise! One of these days I’d like to be out on the trail at sunrise. Hope I can make that happen!
• Walked 6 kilometers on a paved road this morning without seeing one car!
• Another chorus of frogs near an irrigation ditch
• The cuckoo is starting to believe that I’m not so crazy after all; he had very little to say today
• When it works out, I enjoy a stop in the early afternoon at a cafe or bar where I can connect with the Indiana family members who are just rising, drowsy but able to exchange a few pleasantries with me before I head on down the road. It seems that even the smallest of bars has WiFi with its password prominently displayed. It’s one (of many ways) you can distinguish the natives from the pilgrims; the latter are often seriously connecting with their cell phones instead of with one another (plenty of time for that on the trail).
• Seen on the trail today: cattle for perhaps the first time; tractors in some fields; farmers with hand tools in other fields; the land ready to receive the seed; mountains ahead, to the right, and over my right shoulder, a display of hills in at least 180 degrees
• In three villages I witnessed the same bread truck as he made home deliveries. (Well, I only saw him twice, but I heard him three times.). He pulls in front of a house and toots his horn about 7 or 8 times, then waits for the lady of the house to come down and choose her bread. Wow!
• Speaking of bread, in the store where I bought the yogurt, banana, etc, I noticed the pricing of bread. A relatively large round loaf was .4 of a euro. Seemed like a bargain to me. Alas, too big and too heavy to carry…
• One of the most impressive sites today was not a natural phenomenon but a human-made one: the puente [bridge] of Órtigo. I’ll quote from my guidebook: “one of the longest and best preserved medieval bridges in Spain dating from the 13th century and built over an earlier Roman bridge which formed one of the great historical landmarks on the camino.” There are celebrations connected with a famous month-long jousting tournament held on the bridge in 1434 during which a certain knight, for love of a certain woman, managed to win her hand by braking 300 lances of knights from all over Europe. And this at a town of just over 1,000 inhabitants. Picture a bridge with 12 or 13 arches. For that matter, you don’t have to picture it as there’s a photo of it that just might get posted below…. Very impressive!
• Heard on the trail (in addition to the aforementioned–I think!–frogs, cuckoo bird, church bells, and bread man’s honking): pretty songbirds

Possibly the best evening yet!

And so it is that after having made some rather disparaging remarks above about this hostel, and having expected the worst from the “communal meal” (my, would it be prepared by the sullen Brazilian teens?), much to my surprise it turned out to be one of the most memorable meals/evenings to date. For one thing, there is a retired Spaniard, a volunteer, who stays at this albergue several months/year, and he is the one in charge of the cooking. I had a delicious big bowl of hot green beans and sliced potatoes. Like three of the others, I chose baked chicken for my second course and it, too, was excellent. The other three, however, were jealous of the Romanian woman who was served a whole trout (head and all). We all took photos of Sandrina’s plate. Good fellowship, with English as the key that kept us going, with Takeshi and Sandrina seeming to follow quite well.

But then… then Charlie got out his guitar again, and before long, the dancing began. Yes, even me! For a good long while. We joined Charlie when we knew the lyrics–and sometimes when we didn’t. No language barrier stood in the way of adults being 20-somethings again. Very fun. It wasn’t long before the Brazilian teens who had served us the dinner were peering through the door with their cameras and iPads, filming the dancing and singing some of the music as well. I think perhaps it was the most entertainment they had seen since they began their volunteer gig here.

The moral is one we have all heard often: “Don’t judge a book by its cover” and be open to the fact that first impressions are not always accurate.

The cook left the dining room a while ago, having tired of his solitaire game. My roommates are long in bed. The promised Saturday-in-Leon post has not been written. Tomorrow, fortunately, is another day. I’m heading for the town of Santa Catalina de Somoza just because I can, because who among you would not want to spend some time in a town bearing your name? Maybe there will be less excitement tomorrow night and I’ll get caught up.

In the meantime, I have sent some photos to “the folks at home.” Regina has been doing a great job of incorporating them into the posts and putting some on Facebook. I have found that I just don’t have the time to mess with Instagram, easy as it is. Thanks, Regina.

And if you must know: I pushed the wrong button and lost a good bit of my original post. I have recreated it… but… it was better the first time around. Oh well…