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…

Day 22, Sunday, April 28: León to Villar de Mazarife (23 km, 14.3 miles)

How do I even begin to describe this magnificent day?

Let’s start with updates

Barb: She checked in this evening to let us know that she is 11 kilometers from Santiago! She will be at Camino’s end before noon tomorrow. This is an absolutely amazing achievement, and one attained by someone who (at least at first) had no intention to get anywhere close to Santiago! If I’m not mistaken, she will have walked for 24.5 days, finishing a trek about which most guidebooks would say “a well-prepared person who takes no rest days could aim to complete in 33 days.” I’ll remind you–hoping I’m not giving away any secrets–that Barb is just five months younger than I am. What does it take to complete the 500-mile “Camino francés”? Lots of training, fierce determination, and a tremendous amount of luck. To finish it in 25 days? The former things plus a whole bunch of heart, soul, and spirit. If you want to congratulate Barb, her email is: [email protected]

Ginny: We were side by side in church this morning, in the chapel of the huge cathedral in León. At the handshake of peace, Ginny whispered in my ear: “I have a plan.” Because this is what was worrying me as I prepared to leave the city this morning. For all the searching we did for Airbnbs, for all the paging through the guidebooks and the studying of the maps, for all the options that were thrown out, there was no “plan.” And if it bothered me, I can only imagine the stress it was causing Ginny. Every couple of days figuring out how to move forward, where to go, knowing that in another few days it would be time to do it all over again….  Far from ideal!

Yes! The knee is improving. There was a breakthrough of sorts when Ginny got a fabulous massage a few days ago from an osteopath. After the visit with him during which he worked for a good 80 minutes trying to loosten some muscles–pardon my lack of the most accurate terms here–she found some real relief and definitely felt the best she had in a couple of weeks. Progress! Progress she has no interest in jeopardizing. But the desire to reach Santiago by foot burns deeply.

So… the plan that came to her in church was this: take a bus to O Cebreiro tomorrow (Monday) because she has a real desire to “experience” the place and has been told by many that she has no business attempting it to “conquer” it on her own power–O Cebreiro is said to be as high as and possibly more challenging than any climbs we did in the Pyrenees. On Wednesday she will bus forward to Sarria–about 100 kilometers from Santiago. From there, she’ll test out the waters, beginning to walk towards Santiago as slowly as necessary to avoid regressing. There are many hostels/albergues along the way, and she has until May 15th to reach Santiago.

I know you are cheering for Ginny. She has been the best of sports through this very challenging time and has endeared herself to so many. You should see the huge smiles and the hugs she receives from those who have crossed paths with her earlier and then come upon her again. Happened yesterday evening as we walked through some narrow streets and again as we sat having a glass of sangria in the plaza by the cathedral. Happened again this morning as we exited the cathedral. She will definitely bump into old friends and make new ones as she makes her way. I feel that we are bound to cross paths at some point “down the trail,” but I felt singularly alone as I bid farewell to her this morning. This “plan” definitely marks yet another departure from our modus operandi, yet one that promises less stress for both of us and greater possibilities for Ginny to achieve her goal.

We talk a lot about how the Camino has lessons for us to learn. We are trying to pay attention.

Me: I’m planning a few “detours” and perhaps some days at a slower pace. I’m trying to reach by telephone the Benedictine monastery in the town of Rabanal where I’ll arrive on Wednesday (could be Tuesday, but I’m thinking of slowing the pace so that I can manage an early arrival on Wednesday and thus take more advantage of the facility). Those wanting to stay at San Salvador del Monte Irago have to commit to at least two nights, the intention being to have a “silent retreat.” Only 10 spots at the monastery, so it remains to be seen if I’ll manage to be one of the 10.

Updates complete, let’s move on.

Grinning through the desert

Any chance I’m really a hermit at heart? It was late when I parted ways with Ginny. Almost 11:00. Thus, almost three hours later than my typical starting time. Still, I was determined to take both optional routes upon leaving León. Did I figure I’d have the trail more or less to myself? Yes, since very few do the options to begin with, and most would have headed out much earlier.

That’s kind of the thing about the Camino, though. One feels so safe! There is, especially in the big cities, some indifference to the pilgrims, but mostly what I have encountered is a respect for them rather than any resentment for the way in which they have kind of remade the human landscape.

It took almost two hours to really leave the big city behind. I did well with signs and arrows through the city (León did a much better job than Burgos in that regard), but when I reached the first option and read the notes saying that there were no markings (so I had to do “such and such” for .3 of a kilometer and “such and such” for another .3, and then go straight through the park and cross “such and such” streets…., all unmarked), I was relying not only on the guidebook which for the first time I carried in my hands, with poles tucked under my arm, but on the help of a few natives in the town of La Virgen Del Camino. If I didn’t do it “just right,” I would end up on the “usual route”–which would follow the highway–instead of the “alternative route” which promised to be much more scenic. So… I didn’t give myself the choice: I paid attention and did it “just right.”

And the grins began! Once I left behind La Virgen del Camino and the highways that pass close to it, I entered a type of ecosystem that the map calls a “páramo.” Kind of a desert, but not. Kind of treeless, but not. A high plain, but not exactly like the meseta. Is there such a word as “scrublands”? No time to look it up.

Anyway, it made me happy to be there. With the birds. The crickets. The low brush, nothing to obstruct the view of those seemingly ever-present snow-topped mountains (though I had to turn around to see them). Again: no farm houses, no barns, no… really, nothing but sky, a blue one with low clouds along the horizon, 360-degrees. Oh, and the cuckoo bird who is so persistent as he tries to imply I’m crazy to be doing what I’m doing. At least I have a bigger vocabulary than he does!

Ok, so there were a few towns. Two miles and the first. I had a café con leche, which was served with a cookie and a slice of bread topped with a little wedge of potato omelette. I didn’t know that would be the case when I ordered the bocadillo de chorizo y queso, so I wrapped up the latter and saved it for a picnic some three hours later.

Another two miles and a tiny town. The next one was 5.5 kilometers later. In between those two, with a great view of the trail both in front of me and behind me, the only humans I saw were three cycling pilgrims, who passed me as a group, and one car. Time to sing! Time to think! Time to pinch myself and ask: “Am I really so lucky as to have all this to myself?”

When I came to the third little town, I found all the action in the bar. Mostly pilgrims. I think they must have arrived hours earlier and had had plenty of chance to hit the beer hard on what was turning out to be a pretty warm day (and remember: no shade. Me? Feeling that maybe I had died and gone to heaven, lover of sunshine and warmth that I am). It struck me as kind of a “hippy” place. Ken will remember the atmosphere at Hot Springs (Montana?). I wasn’t interested in reliving the hippy days I never fit into anyway. For the first time on the Camino, I used a bar’s bathroom to get rid of my waters and to pick up some water without buying anything. I left wondering what albergue all those folks were going to be staying in and hoping that maybe I would be lucky enough to choose another. Truth be told, I had enjoyed my “private road” and had pictured it leadings to a town I would have practically to myself. Now I had to face the fact that some others had actually taken the alternate route.

In the final four kilometers leading to tonight’s stay in Villar de Mazarife, I passed by a few small groups of pilgrims (no more than 7) and a few more passed me when I stopped on the outskirts of town at a little service area with benches where I finally ate my sandwich.

The guidebook listed three albergues. I knew I wanted to avoid Tío Pepe’s because he’d left a bunch of brochures on signposts along the route, topped with stones to keep them from blowing away. I didn’t feel like supporting the “big guy.” Now I find myself in what is alternately called the Casa de Jesús, the Refugio de Jesús, and Paraíso de Jesús (Jesus’s Paradise).

Lovely place, with many tables in the outdoor patio, large outdoor sinks in which to wash clothes, ample line space in the sun. The beer seems to be selling well. And there are currently some sports fanatics sharing the room with me (bar area) watching a soccer game.

But feeling more hermit than cowboy here in the scrublands, I’m being a stick in the mud, writing about my day. I didn’t start the writing immediately upon my arrival however. First I checked out the albergue’s walls. You’re sure to see some photos of them if I’m able to get them sent. What you’ll see: that many pilgrims are quite artistic and have left their drawings, philosophies, and favorite sayings up and down and all around. “Wow,” I said to the hospitalera who showed me to my room, “I love the art work.” “There used to be a lot more,” she assured me. “Every surface was covered, so we repainted and they started it all over again.” I like the touch… A lot.

Having explored the albergue, I went off to explore the small town. My grins continued. Supposedly I was looking for the little grocery store that I was told would open between 6:00 and 7:00 pm. But I was drawn by the three active storks in the three nests on the church bell tower. And then I spied three old codgers walking down the street, one with two canes, one with one, the third more mobile than his companions. I just had to get their photo from behind, and so I followed them as unobtrusively as one can follow on noisy gravel streets. Ok, I had my photo, but then I thought: where are they going? What’s down that path? As if my 12 kilometers in the wilderness were not enough for me, I continued following them. At some point they turned around and so I told them I figured they knew the best places in town, and, please, what would I find if I continued along the gravel road down which we were headed? They told me it was all “Huerta” which I took to mean fruit-bearing trees and some cultivated gardens (though that wasn’t the case). They were heading just a little ways to the left where they would find a bench (“our friend has hip problems and can’t walk very far,” said the one with just the single cane). “So you will sit and solve the problems of the world, no?” I suggested. They laughed. I asked what I would find if I followed the road to the right, and I was informed that it would make a loop. “Ok, then, I’ll do that. If you are still seated on the bench when I come round, then I’ll let you know what I thought of the Huerta.”

Here’s what I thought of it: trees! Groves of trees! Shade! I hadn’t realized that I’d been missing trees and shade until I found myself surrounded by it. And then, more magic: I heard the pond before I saw it. How many frogs must have been serenading the late afternoon? Hundreds? I couldn’t resist taking several videos. While I grinned. And then grinned some more. Wish you had been there.

When I came round to the bench, a fourth gentleman, a younger one, had joined the trio of cronies. This time I was upfront with them, asking if I might take their picture as they enjoyed the afternoon sun, that it would help me remember a lovely walk on the outskirts of the village. They complied. I also asked for an explanation of the “caves” I had photographed as I made the loop. I had seen something similar upon leaving the city in the morning. “Bodegas,”they said in chorus. “From when we used to grow grapes around here. Lots of grapes. Ahora no. Now we have crops like corn. More irrigation. Now we don’t have grapes. the bodegas are empty.” The chimneys I had seen, they explained, were for ventilation. It was really a fun encounter. These are the experiences I crave. Before returning to my hermit state!

Wow! It’s after 9:00 already! Have I showered yet? Nah, did that this morning. Washed clothes? Nope. Did that yesterday. Had dinner? It was a late lunch, but the apple here on the table is starting to look tempting. Written the post for yesterday? Oops! Not yet! Might have to hold off on that one for another day. I’m going to try to send photos of some of the things I’ve described in this post  Reminder: smile, it’s good for you!

Postscript

In looking through my photos from today I was reminded of another unusual sight: a young pilgrim walking barefoot. I caught up with him just before we entered one of the small towns where his friends were waiting. This was at the end of a long stretch during which I hadn’t seen anyone.This fellow–Miguel, a Spaniard who works in Norway and who had come with 14 others all natives of Norway–had been walking barefoot since the previous village, for a total of 5.5 miles! It was a reto [a “challenge”] he had given himself. And yes, he was looking forward to putting his boots back on!

Day 20, Friday, April 26: Calzadilla de los Hermanillos to Mansilla de las Mulas (24.6 km, 15.3 miles)

You have to admire those town names, don’t you? I mean, are they not pure Castilian names?!

And, had you been on the road with me, you would certainly have admired the scenery! Oh, my gosh! You’d have to be totally immune to beauty to not have uttered, as I did countless times, “Oh, my God!”

That said: it took a tremendous amount of determination to put one foot in front of the other. And then do it again. And again. And again. 37,000 times, in fact (or so says my Fitbit).

The short version

She walked. She arrived. In one piece, which means, does it not, that “she conquered”? End of story, at least the short version of it. Go back to what you were doing, or, stay tuned to help me “name that tune”…. oh, I mean: “name that post.”

The details

(Don’t worry, there won’t really be that many: there were no stops along the way [nowhere to stop], very few people with whom to talk, and too much wind to have any hope of hearing what anyone said. So this will be shorter, if not sweeter, than most)

The day called for distracting oneself from the reality of the wind.  One such distraction was to come up with possible titles for today’s post.  Here are some of the ones that occurred to me:

• What shall we call today’s post?
• The sun doth return, but the wind remains to welcome it
• That darn cuckoo bird is still taunting me
• Mountain magic, music, and stones…. lots and lots of stones!
• Walking in the wilderness
• Walking the Roman Way
• In the footsteps of Charlemagne
• Where’s the nearest farrier? I need some new horseshoes
• Remind me why I wanted to do this…
• May the wind be ever at your back (don’t I wish!)
• Are we there yet?

But I’m actually getting ahead of myself, so, if you can bear with me (I know, I promised few details, but then I start writing and the floodgates open…).

Shortly before lights out last night, I told my three roommates to alert me if the clicking of my keyboard bothered them at all. I was wanting to get yesterday’s post done (didn’t happen…). Alan said: “It won’t bother me. I’m going to turn in now, but I wear ear plugs every night. I don’t think I snore. My wife says I don’t.” Within minutes his snoring began. Loud. Constant. For the first time on this journey, I got out my ear plugs. I can only conclude that Alan’s wife is a martyr or that she lives several houses away from him. But hey, we survived. The ear plugs were uncomfortable and didn’t block everything, but they helped. By 6:30 am, Alan–who, I trust, had an excellent sleep–was packed up and out the door, leaving Victoria and Pia and me some privacy for getting dressed and rolling our eyes about Alan’s opinion regarding his sleep habits.

When I, too, was packed up, I chose to head over to the municipal albergue just down the street to see if I might join Kelly and María at their dining table. (My place had a “breakfast menu” and didn’t encourage pilgrims to bring their own food into the dining room. I had a hard-boiled egg, an orange, and some pastries that I didn’t want to tote around with me.) It was fun to see the girls again, and their hospitalero welcomed me in and brought three glasses to the table, along with fresh-made coffee and a pan of heated milk. (The latter was my choice, and, having discovered yesterday just how good warm milk can be with a spoonful of sugar, I indulged again.). So yes, the hospitalero was both friendly and kind, but he made it clear that we were to eat our breakfast quickly–“celulares, no; ahora no” [“no cell phones now”], he chastised. “You need to be on your way by 8:00. I have to mop, clean up the kitchen, remake the beds, have time for a paseo [a stroll about town”] before the next group starts to arrive. Kelly looked longingly at the wood stove, but no, no fire was going to be started up until afternoon. We took the “hint,” and set out, Kelly and Maria to bring their packs to my albergue where they would be picked up and brought forward, and me: heading down what would be a very quiet road. (Perhaps you recall: we took the alternate, scenic route; most pilgrims went the most direct way, along the highway.)

What one noticed from the get-go this morning: the sunshine! At first, not a cloud in sight. Rejoicing at this novelty, I was able to once again have my pink bandanna on the outside of my pack within easy reach. And the air was still chilly enough (a “feels-like-32-even-if-it’-actually-a-37-degree morning) to employ the oversized hanky frequently for my leaky nose.

The second thing to notice: that the sun was sparkling on the snow-topped mountains off to my left. I can’t tell you how many time I stopped to retrieve my camera and take both still photos and videos of the impossibly-distant mountain range. Had a perfect view of it and if my neck is sore tomorrow, it will be from spending so much time looking off to my right. More and more mountains came into view as some clouds on the horizon lifted (though enough clouds remained to make the view interesting). It was impossible not to commence with some “praise singing”; it just followed naturally. Again, I hit on a familiar melody that lent itself to countless verses, each with a word or two changed.

The third thing to notice: as that first half hour turned into a second half hour, the wind decided to show its strength. If it could have made its point with just a gust here and a gust there, fine! But no, this wind had something to prove and blew the entire day. Ruthless! Relentless! Non-stop! (Got my point?). Demoralizing! I recalled how in an early stage on the Camino someone passed me and said, “Boy, I’d sure like to be as slight as you–just for the Camino–when trekking up these hills!” I got to thinking how I’d like to have a lot more bulk–just for the Camino on a windy day–so I wouldn’t be blown to Kingdom Come!

And then I noticed the fourth thing: the stones. We were, after all, on the old “Roman Road”; originally built 2000 years ago to get treasures back to Rome, to get pilgrims hither and yon, to conquer the peninsula, to reconquer it. Wouldn’t you think that, with all those centuries of use, the stones would have been pounded down into the earth? Wouldn’t be so loose, so ready to make my feet twist this way and that? Think all you like, but know that it wasn’t so. Tough walking. Had someone brought truckloads of new stones to make the road more “scenic’ and “quaint”? Curse them!

But it was clear that kind of thinking would get me nowhere. Instead, I called forth the song I had “invented” two days ago, the one that redeemed my afternoon and made it memorable. That one and another of the same ilk that I worked on. Like the iconic “spoonful of sugar,” the singing made the medicine of the trail go down so much better.

So did lunch. I spied a picnic table just as my roommate from last night, Victoria, arrived on the scene. She and I got our prepared lunches out of our packs and realized that if I shared my tomato with her and she shared her avocado with me, our sandwiches would be healthier, more colorful, and tastier. Said and done. We stayed at the table a long time, finding out that we had a lot in common (a love for bargains found at Goodwill, interest in long-distance bicycling, and our determination to do everything we could possibly do, always and everywhere, to stay warm). Heading onward was a lot easier from that point forward. Not easy, but easier. Maybe I had just been hungry.

We resumed our solo walks after lunch. As I told Victoria, as bad as my hearing is and as loud as the wind was, it would be an exercise in frustration to walk together. In general, at this point on the Camino, people are mostly walking at their own rhythm, mostly alone. Seems to work best. Sharing is often best done once we have settled into the hostels.

And soon I was settled in mine, the municipal, a bargain at 5 euros. The large group of Asians we encountered a few days ago at the convent are here. Lots of them. With big suitcases! I noticed the tag on several of the bags calling it a “Catholic tour.” Their language skills seem to be limited to …. whatever their native tongue is, so I haven’t learned much about them. The are cooking some pretty good-smelling food though.When I entered the patio of the albergue, there was a big group gathered, one person playing the guitar, some bongos going, many voices. English-language songs. Folk songs. Music from the 60s, mostly (although, what do I know?). I was in need of a shower, but could hear the singing from the shower and I was really enjoying it. I happily found a seat in the sun, post-shower, and enjoyed at least another 40 minutes before the concert was over. So nice!

It only seemed right to express my enjoyment too the guitarist/soloist. Besides, I wanted to hear him speak so as to determine if he was Irish or British. (I was recalling my month in Santander, summer of ’67, when about a dozen Irish seminarians were living in the same dormitory as the group with which I had come to Spain. Every night it was the same thing: gathering in the patio and listening to them play and sing. Was this experience today a kind of book-end to that earlier one?)

So I went up to the fellow, thanked him, and asked: “Have we already met?” “Met? Why we slept together last night,” he responded! “Oh, maybe I should have said that a bit differently: ‘we shared a room last night.’” It was Alan. Alan the snorer. Alan with whom I had stepped out for a trip to the market yesterday afternoon, with whom I had had a cup of coffee (well, “steamed milk” to be precise; he had coffee). I’m bad with both names and faces! It was a funny situation. Embarrassing but humorous, too. I guess Ken need not worry that I am giving undue attention to other men!

And that brings you up to date on today’s details. I’ve been sitting in the patio doing this write-up and the sun is no longer shining on me. Even with my winter coat back on, it is clearly time to head indoors, maybe put the long underwear back on, and then start thinking about where I’ll have dinner. Who knows, this post may get a PS before I sent it off to you.

But the title? That’s for you to come up with. Remember? We were playing “Name that Post!”

Day 19, April 25: Moratinos to Calzadilla de los Hermanillos (23.8 km, 14.8 extremely windy miles!)

I was so excited to have the time and space to catch up on my posts last night and then… then that excitement spilled over into sleep time. Not good. At some point after the midnight hour had struck, I turned on my flashlight and broke a Benadryl in half. Sleep was still slow in coming. But I knew morning would not delay its arrival, and indeed, it did not. I became alert to its arrival when a familiar tone sounded. It took a while for me to figure out why it was familiar: it was my alarm clock. Shoot! The last thing I had done the evening before was make my way down from the bunk and locate my plugged in inverter so I could top off the charge on my phone. I was quite sure I had turned off the alarm as I had no intention of trying to make my way out of a deep sleep, find the bunk’s ladder, negotiate the descent from on high, make my way across the room, and find the stop button on the phone. I figured it best to just cancel the 6:28 call and let the other pilgrims serve as my alarm clock.

Yes, that’s what I decided, but apparently I never carried through with that plan. Buzz! Buzz! Buzz! So down I went, feeling rather sheepish. There were 8 or 9 of us to take turns for the bathroom, but eventually all but the two sisters from Finland were gone. We shared some talk about our children and grandchildren as one of the sisters spoke fairly good English. I learned that the other one was, like me, trying to complete the Camino before her 70th birthday. Another ’49er. We gestured back and forth to indicate how strong and “youthful” we were. A light-hearted start to the day.

By the time I headed to the albergue‘s dining hall/bar, the rain had commenced. Because I had sort of skipped dinner last night, I soon found myself staring at a very filling ham-and-cheese sandwich (the bread being a kind of puff-pastry dough). Tasty! Pilgrims who had begun their day’s trek one town earlier were arriving to warm up, get caffeinated, and escape the rain. One of them brought me the menu and asked me to point out on it just what it was I had ordered. “Didn’t order from the menu,” I replied. “I just saw this on the counter’s display case and asked for it. It’s good!”

I was quite interested in taking the “optional route” on the Roman Way today rather than the standard route along the highway. A rural highway, but still: roadway and cars mean less scenery. Taking the alternative route would mean a two-day commitment through a more remote (read: no bar/coffee shops [which also means no “services”]). “Remote” I like, but what if I were to have problems? Would there be anyone who would come upon me and “rescue me”? When I learned that the Irish couple I met yesterday definitely planned to do the road less traveled, that cinched the decision for me. I called ahead for a reservation to make sure that I’d get a bed at walk’s end. I was thus committed to splitting off the main route a bit more than half way through the day’s route. Consulting the guide book and keeping my eyes open for arrows would be a top priority.

I kept observing the folks arriving in their wet garments, and on the basis of that, I came up with a brilliant idea for not suffering frozen hands again today. Although this albergue had an interior clothesline and heated floors so that most of my wet things had dried, I didn’t want to chance the “waterproof” mittens again. I dug out my lightweight wool ones, then pulled out from my pack a set of bread wrappers (both ends opened) and a pair of elastic bands. I put on the first mitten, secured the bag over it and the lower part of my arm, and twisted the elastic loop in a figure-8 to secure the bag in place. Now… picture me trying to do the same with the second one after the first hand was all “done up.” You’re right: I couldn’t do it. My Portuguese table mate to the rescue. He caught on quickly to my dilemma and got the elastic in place for me. First act of kindness received for the day.

Then, I was off! And, good news: it was no longer raining. The low clouds glided along the horizon, black and gray and white and puffy, allowing the occasional glimpse of sunshine. It was going to be a better day than yesterday, no doubt about it. 37 degrees isn’t so bad when it is not snowing or sleeting or raining. I could handle this! Especially with the warm hands.

Those bundled hands would certainly stay warm, and I could wrap them around the top of my hiking poles, but there was no way I could use them for anything else. Couldn’t access my camera. Couldn’t reach for the bandana for my nose. Or money for… whatever.

Which is why I was met with the day’s second act of kindness when I stepped into a cafe in Sahagún some 10 kilometers later. The sweet lady behind the counter took one look at me, handed me a paper towel, and indicated my nose. “Here, you need this. The air is so frigid today. Come. Sit here,” indicating the bar stool. I must really be a sight, I thought. I worked with the bread wrappers, finally freeing my hands enough to provide some relief to those leaking nostrils. Next order of business: request an orange juice.

And then the third act of kindness for the day. It was my turn to take notice of something. The “thing” was a local lady a few stools down from me. Clearly not well. She had a coffee and a sweet roll, and I could tell that the waitress had also noticed that she was under great stress. “Has she paid yet?” I asked softly, indicating the weary customer as she rubbed her forehead. “If not,” I added, “let me pay for her breakfast as well.” It was appreciated, and so easy to do. Felt natural. I got bits and pieces of the lady’s tale of woe: the four UTIs, the fevers, the exhaustion. She needed some sympathy. We’ve all been there…

I had read that Sahagún was the “geographical center of the Camino”; I had also been told that somewhere at the mid-point of the Camino a pilgrim could get a fancy certificate indicating “half completion.” I set about trying to figure out if Sahagún was the city where such a certificate was issued and just where a pilgrim had to go.

Bingo! A church a few blocks off the Camino, recently (starting in 2004) reconstructed to be a pilgrim information center (as well as a venue for modern art) was the spot I needed to head for.

The Santuario de la Virgen Peregrina was a treasure indeed. I was lucky to find it, lucky it was open.  And it was here that I met up with the fourth random act of kindness for the day.  I’ll explain.  A group of Spanish pilgrims arrived just before me. (Truth was: not many pilgrims seemed to know about the stop and the “half-way certificate,” and so this magnificent place was almost empty.) One of the Spaniards seemed to be in charge of the group. He was dishing out the euros. “¿Quién más necesita entrada?” [“Whose else needs a ticket?”]. I joked with him and said, “Well, I do. But why would you pay for me?” But he did! Just a couple of euros, but… as with me paying for the sick lady’s breakfast, I’m betting that it “felt right” to him. A chance to pay it forward.

So, about 7 of us must have arrived about the same time. The woman behind the desk collected all our credenciales (pilgrims’ passports) and told us to go ahead and enjoy our tour. She would examine our passports and then issue our certificates, each with our name on it, to indicate having walked half the Camino.

The church was a combination of things: a modern art museum, a celebration of the Camino itself, and a tribute to the various art/cultural styles that were discovered when the almost-in-ruins church was renovated. I was fascinated with the displays, with the examples of “moorish-style” wall designs that had been uncovered and restored. Took lots of photos as I found it fascinating to see the kind of architecture I would expect in southern Spain, in Granada or Sevilla or Córdoba, here in the north. A reminder that once upon a time various cultures had coexisted in relative peace and harmony in this area.

And the day continued…

Let’s move on to highlights, as the 10:00 pm lights-out hour approaches all too quickly.

How about this for a gem: as I was leaving Sahagún, I was “behind,” most pilgrims having passed through earlier or having elected to stay in the town. Not many of us on the trail. Not many pilgrims, but suddenly, approaching me rapidly, not pilgrims, but sheep! Many sheep! Like… maybe a hundred? Sheep, sheepdogs, a shepherd, right on my trail. I had just enough time to climb up a little embankment and get my camera out. Got slowed down a little bit when one of my mittens blew away, but I rescued it without being run over and made it back in time to get a great video of the passing flock. I might have expected something similar in the country, but this was just on the outskirts of town. And in an area where we hadn’t seen any 4-legged animals in days and days, but only just acre after acre of wheat or of fields waiting to be planted. I felt so lucky, just as I had been so excited a few days earlier to see the boat going down the canal. Sometimes we are just lucky that way, being in the right place at the right time. (I guess we don’t really realize how many times we aren’t in the right place at the right time, but then, what you don’t know won’t hurt you.)

A few kilometers beyond Sahagún I had to watch very carefully for the start of the alternate route, the one that makes use of some of the remnants of the old Roman Road. I liked the sound of the “wilderness-like” nature of the path. I headed first through a small village where I bought yogurt, an apple, and a tomato for the 8+-kilometer walk into Calzadilla de los Hermanillos. Took a cool picture inside the store of a huge loaf of round bread. It was the top loaf in a large, wide paper bag that stood about 3-feet tall. Golly do they ever eat a lot of bread in this country!

Just past the grocery store I came upon a pilgrim going the same direction. I pointed out the store, thinking he might want to stock up, but that was not the case. This guy was French. Also crazy! Not to imply, of course, that the two things go hand in hand. No. No generalities here. Why crazy? He told me how he had his sleeping pad with him because he has been sleeping out every night. Every night since St. Jean! Without a tent! “N’avait vous froid?” I asked him. “Mais oui!” Hmmm. A 60-something man who does this? Must have something to prove. I could not identify with him. Another minute or so and we realized that he needed the pathway to the left, while I needed the one to the right. 8.4 miles of solitude.

Only not! Along came a Korean I had been seeing on and off but whom I hadn’t formally met. María, she told me, for Mary, mother of Jesus. She explained that she was Catholic, thus the name. María had a story to tell about her day. She had walked 6 miles along the other route, the one that goes along the highway, before realizing that she had missed the turn-off for the route she really wanted. She had someone call a taxi for her, and then she returned to the point where she had missed the turn-off.

María and I walked together at least half of the way to our destination. She said she had hardly talked to anyone since beginning her Camino a day or two before we began. So, about three weeks ago. She didn’t want to speak Korean or identify herself with the Koreans. She was here for her own purposes and didn’t want the distractions. Turns out that María had left a husband and three sons–high school, middle school, and one still in grade school–in order to celebrate her upcoming 50th birthday (May 19). A present to herself. We snapped a few pictures one of the other, enjoyed the scenery together. And then the solitude. She caught up with me a few minutes after I arrived at my albergue, and was very upset to learn that it was full. Maria was exhausted. “No problem,” my innkeeper told her. “The municipal is just down the street.” Hoping she would find a spot there, I proceeded to my room.

A nice one. For the first time on this trip, a bed with top and bottom sheets, a blanket and even a bedspread. A bed you could actually crawl into rather than sleeping on the top of it in my sleeping bag liner. A towel provided for each of us (4 beds in the room). Ample cabinets in which to spread out gear. A shower to die for.

After cleaning up, I went back out to pick up some food for the next day, knowing that I’d be continuing on the “wilderness road” for almost 15 miles before coming upon any place serving food or drink. As I walked past the municipal albergue two figures ran out and called to me. It was María whom I had just met and Kelly who I’ve been seeing in at least every other town I’ve been to for about two weeks.

As it turned out, they had the entire two-story albergue to themselves! This optional way was indeed the road less traveled. I spent a good hour visiting with them in their cozy if humble gathering space where their hospitalero kept feeding the wood-burning stove. Not “fancy” at all like where I was staying, but “cozy”; I found myself wishing I hadn’t made the reservation.

Back at my albergue, I had a great pilgrim’s meal of lentils, roasted lamb stew, and flan. Also gathered round: my two female roommates, a couple from … was it the Czech Republic?… and Mark, someone I had met earlier in the day who told me he was from California, but come to find out he was Hoosier born and bred (Kokomo).

Stomach full, bed waiting, I climbed in to begin the telling of this tale. When I saw that Alan had put down his Kindle and Pia her phone, I put this half-finished post aside… until now (Friday night). I think I’ve brought you much more up to date than you needed to be, but … I’ve preserved some memories for myself. Possibly at your expense. Enough is enough, though, so off this goes, from my fingers to your screen, with all best wishes. Remember: I’m thinking of you and “lifting you up”. And grateful that you are doing the same for me.

Day 15, April 21: Hontanas to Castrojeriz (11.5 km, 7.2 miles)

The final vestiges of daylight are lingering (but not for long; it is 9:27) on Wednesday as I attempt to go back in time and do the promised write-up for Easter Sunday. Because four of my five roommates have settled into their sleeping bags and the fifth is reading with a backlit Kindle, I have turned off the lights in this room and am lighting my keyboard with the headlamp I’ve put around my neck. (Have I told you that sometimes I sleep with it there? It’s the best way to not lose it at night, especially when I’m on a top bunk with no shelf attached to it. Wish I had as easy a solution for my glasses….) But let’s see if I can’t write this up and actually be caught up. Not that I’m obsessed with this project, but it will feel good to be up-to-date. And, this too: Amy has been asking me for weeks where I would celebrate Easter. She wanted the “Easter story” and I want the memories before they fade. And so I continue.)

Hontanas didn’t necessarily roll up its sidewalks early on Saturday evening, but the folks in my albergue certainly did. By the time I returned home from dinner down the street and brought in my laundry, the room was dark. Ditto when my alarm went off in the morning. What? Is that all these people do? Sleep? I dressed silently, my clothes generally at the foot of the bed where, if I’m lucky, I don’t kick them off (as in “down”) during the night, and then slipped out to the kitchen/common area. It was about 6:30. A few pilgrims were in there already, doing their final pack loading by the light in the kitchen so as not to wake their bunkmates. Me? I arrived not with my pack but with my keyboard. I was going to work on the Saturday post until such time as I thought the lights would be on in my room (I can type by flashlight but have no desire to pack my bag with that kind of a focused beam). I was soon on a roll with the writing. Only to remember that at this albergue we left our shoes outside in a covered portion of the patio. I slipped out, stockinged feet, to bring them inside to warm up.

Now what one often hears about is Easter sunrise, I know. But the full moon (“officially” full? I couldn’t say, but big, bright) caught my attention as much as any sunrise might. It’s Easter! The light shines! Hope resumes. Life goes on. Brrr it’s cold out here! Back in I go with the reclaimed shoes. Back to the keyboard.

But then… we were supposed to be out of the rooms by 8:00, so I returned to the room to pack up. Then headed for the hostel’s reception room/breakfast corner. “Yes,” the innkeeper told me, “you can stay here as long as you like. It’s just the dormitories that need to be vacated.” A few pilgrims were in this lobby area trying to figure out how to move forward and wait out their injuries. Others, early risers who had spent the night in a town or two short of Hontanas, began to arrive. Coffee, pastries, tortillas de patatas were served up. I, of course, resumed my narration of the day before, sharing my table and a word here and there with… Grace. I believe it was Grace. (Did I tell you that I met up with–again–both Grace and Kelly in Hontanas, Kelly at a different hostel just down the street. Kind of fun, the Grace & Kelly coincidence…)

It was nice to be relaxed. Having walked an extra long day on Saturday, I had just a bit over 7 miles to cover to arrive in Castrojeriz and meet up wit Ginny. I had alerted her to the existence of a 1:00 mass in Castrojeriz and to the likelihood that I would go straight to the church rather then check in first at the albergue. I calculated the time and felt that if I left Hontanas shortly after 10:00, I would have more than enough time. (I don’t want to keep you on the edge of your seats; relax: I had calculated correctly and did have enough time.)

I set off, finally, trying to focus on Easter. It was a pleasant enough day by mid-morning. Not warm, but pleasant enough. Time to sing some Alleluias. I have a whole collection of songs on my iPod that contain the word, some specifically meant for Easter, some with a more coincidental, general use of the word. Did I want to dig out my headphones? I know where they are, but I haven’t used them yet and kind of like it that way. Do I manage to summon up many of the songs? Not really. Melodies, yes, but pretty weak on the words. Isn’t it the thought that counts?

Chiming right along with me? The darn cuckoo bird. “Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” Over and over. Yes, I know that rising from the dead is pretty preposterous. Yes, of course, it defies reason. It defies nature. And logic. But isn’t that what makes it so wondrous, so astonishing, so worth celebrating? I continue with my alleluias, the cuckoo with its taunt. I didn’t let it shake my mood. I’m celebrating.

I hear a clanking sound. Look around for a lone sheep or cow, the bell around its neck giving a slight vibration. No, it’s the conch shell most pilgrims have fastened to their packs. Mine is clanging against the carabiner-style S hook which sometimes holds one or the other of my jackets. I move on. No animals to photograph this morning.

And then I’m in town–Castrojeriz– studying the map conveniently placed at the entrance to the village, trying to figure out where our hostel is and where the church of San Juan is. The latter, all the way at the other end of the village. Now at the entrance of the town, I continue up the hill towards the center and beyond. Another sound. Drums. Drums? Drums! A procession!

I ask you: what are the chances? I had missed the big processions in Burgos on Holy Thursday and Good Friday. I knew they were going to take place, that they would draw a crowd, just as I knew that the interior of the cathedral would be spectacular, but… I just couldn’t cover all the territory. And now? Now I am getting a chance to witness a procession I didn’t even know would be taking place, and I had arrived with just enough time to dig out my camera and catch a video. A short video. Because here’s the thing: Castrojeriz is a town of 500 souls, half of whom may well travel elsewhere for the holiday. This, however, is what Ilove. The small-town celebration of tradition and faith and culture and custom.

So what all is involved in this tiny procession? Well, a grand total of three floats, one of Jesus, one of Mary…. and…. the third one was pretty small, another Mary I think. There were not huge pasos, not many men required to carry them. There were the flag bearer, two big flags, I think. the priest, the altar girl, a choir consisting of four women who were singing their hearts out, and then the faithful. Or at least the abler-bodied among the faithful. 20, 25 people maybe. I went up to two women at the tail end. “Perdón, señoras, ¿va lejos la procesión?” I asked them. Does it go far? “Well, far enough,” they told me. I considered. I had just trudged up the hill, halfway through the village. I learned that this procession would go down the way I had come, back to the entrance into town, then make a loop that would bring it back to the church of San Juan where I was heading, arriving in time for the 1:00 pm mass.

No, I didn’t have it in me to retrace my steps. I would meet the procession at the church. And Ginny, too, to whom I texted, letting her know that I had arrived and was going to have a bite to eat on the wall in front of the church. If she wanted to see the procession, then hurry on over. She soon joined me and she nibbled at some of my cheese while I ate a good chunk of it as well as an orange and a tomato, leaning over so as not to stain my Easter finery (that is, the same clothes I have worn since April 2!). Meanwhile, one by one those not able to join the actual procession began arriving in the plaza in front of the church, awaiting the procession’s return. We–Ginny and I–attracted a fair bit of attention. First there was the man with a cape. A priest, Ginny thought. But no, it was a cofrade–let’s say something like a Knight of Columbus or a member of the Moose or the Legion–only in this case, someone, as he told us, responsible for setting up the Holy Week processions and making sure that they run smoothly. Proud of his position, for sure. Others came round to speak with us, as if we were curiosity pieces. As far as I could tell, we were the only pilgrims involved in this event, though I might be wrong.

And then the drums, the return of the procession. Either the pace had picked up a bit or I was seeing the procession from a different angle, but here’s what I noticed: as the carriers held on to the handles on the side of the platform on which Jesus stood, his raised right arms jiggled back and forth, as if he were a celebrity waving at the crowd. (Well, after all, wasn’t he?) I found it both comical and sweet. Jesus needed more than the loin cloth that was wrapped around him; it was nippy.

So nippy, in fact, that I also noticed that no one in the congregation was intent on being seen in his or her Easter finery. All were in winter coats, mostly dark in color. They were dressed for the weather. My kind of people! A few minutes into the mass which had started as soon as the three statues were situated at the front of the church, I whispered to Ginny (she was seated in front of me so that we both had an unobstructed view of the altar in spite of the many columns in the church), “Did you notice the altar girl?” “Yes,” she nodded with a grin. The poor little thing: there she was in her cassock with the fur-lined hood of her winter coat sticking up and out. Man, those old churches are cold. And what kind of a fortune would it take to heat them? One that these villages certainly don’t have.

The acoustic system, however, was very modern, and the priest was another one of those real “shepherds.” This was the second church of San Juan in which I had participated in a mass here in Spain, and the only churches where I could both hear and understand the priests, both of whom were full of smiles for their flock (in the case of the other San Juan church, the flock had consisted strictly of pilgrims), spoke powerful messages (I expected applause, bravos, or alleluias at the end of this homily, that’s how good it was IMHO, but there were none), and had a flair for oratory, parallel constructions, dramatic pauses, rhetorical questions, etc. I ate it up and remembered why I always like the Spanish language so much. Like many priests at an Easter service, he remarked on how nice it would be to have such a full house every Sunday and, with a twinkle in his eye, said he’d look forward to seeing them all the next week.

Ginny went over to light a candle at a side altar (have I mentioned that almost without exception the candles in the churches I’ve been to are all battery-operated? Put in half a euro and five or more candles are likely to light up… except when they don’t…). On her way, she was briefly intercepted by a 55 or 60-ish lady who had been sitting close to us. Ginny went on to the candles and the woman turned to me. “She was crying, your friend,” she told me. “You know,” she continued, I’ve been a pilgrim, too. Three times I’ve done the Camino. It brings out the emotions in people.” Yes, indeed!

So there, in a bit more than a nutshell, was my Easter. Loved being in the small-town atmosphere, having some interaction with the locals. It felt right. I was glad I hadn’t thought too long or too hard about where I would be, hadn’t looked for a showy, splashy atmosphere. This was perfect.

A few more things I remember about the day:

• The cofrade was eager to share with us that Castrojeriz was, at 2 kilometers, the longest pueblo [“small town”] on the entire Camino

• Ginny had an Easter gift for me. You remember the bar where we ate almost all our meals in Burgos? Right across from the albergue municipal? Ginny had noticed a single teal hiking pole, identical to mine, just sitting in a corner there, day after day. Until, it wasn’t, because Ginny picked it up to pass along to me. (You may recall that one of mine broke and we found an unclaimed red one that we appropriated.) Now, once again, I have matching poles. We left the red one in Castrojeriz for the next “lame” pilgrim. Once again, the Camino provided. Twice with poles.

• We loved the Albergue Rosalía and spent a good bit of the afternoon hanging in the “honest kitchen” (use what you need, drop some coins in the box to help pay for staples), half listening to various conversations, half attempting to communicate with family, plan Ginny’s next move, do some blog updating. That evening there was a lovely communal dinner for those who wanted it (and wanted to pay the going price which, for most of our full, pilgrim-priced dinners, is 10 euros). I think that was the night with the two chicken legs, the vegetable “pasta paella,” a nice salad with home-made hummus to go with the fresh bread, and a go-down-smooth-and-easy “chocolate heaven” dessert. We were Americans, Australians, Germans, French, Austrians… learning a bit about one another’s spouses, children, reasons for doing the Camino. Nice.

I wasn’t eavesdropping, but whether one knew French or not, the tone was clear (ask Ginny, who knows no French): the icing on the cake this Easter Sunday evening was being present as a pilgrim from France was talking to his family at home, “tucking” in his 8 and 10-year-olds, saying goodnight to his wife. Such sweet tones. He explained, afterwards, that he is accompanying his father on this trip, that he didn’t want to leave his family but that his wife, who had recently lost both parents, told him that he should go, that he might not have many more opportunities to do something this special with his father. The first week, he said, he couldn’t bear to call home, he missed his family so much. It has become easier now. Early on, it broke his heart; now, now he can bear it.

The Camino at work.

Easter at work.

It was a good day.

Alleluia. Go fly a kite, cuckoo bird!