Day 17, April 23: Frómista to Carrión de los Condes (22.6 km, 14 miles)

I could hardly wait to get on the road today if only because I loved the idea that, as the post title suggests, I would be “carrying on to “Carri… on” (the Spanish pronunciation doesn’t exactly support the word play, but I get a kick out of it nevertheless…)

But the post didn’t happen, did it? Instead you got “a lick and a promise.” Now, as evening descends on Wednesday, I’m trying to deliver on the promise, and fortunately I have some notes from yesterday to help jog my memory. Necessary because, believe me, it is so easy to have the days blend into one another and to forget the details. (I have to say: I got a very positive response from the short “lick and a promise note,” no doubt heartfelt appreciation for the short post and a desire that I produce more of same: short, sweet, to the point. An update without the details…. But, recall, I’m doing this blog as much as anything to keep my memories live. Thank you for “dealing with it”!)

So, then, back to Frómista, the town along the canal, the town with the locks, the albergue I barely managed to get back to, my left-over dinner in a bag, before the front doors were locked, the long blog post that kept me up past midnight. We continue, then, from that point:

It was a surprise when the lights came on in the morning to find that Nadine and Françoise, the two French ladies whom I had introduced, were in my room, Nadine directly under me (I had suspected when I saw the napping figure under me in the afternoon that it was Nadine, but I hadn’t had a chance to confirm that; it had been a busy afternoon). It was funny about the bunk beds in that room. Whenever Nadine had turned over in the night, my top bunk jiggled around. The first time it happened I must have been asleep and for a brief time I thought it was Ken turning over next to me…. but wait a minute, that can’t be! Then I figured it out. From then on, I tried to turn very carefully so as not to give Nadine the same eerie experience.

I was the first one up in our section of the sleeping quarters, but the very last walker out of the hostel in the morning, maybe around 8:20. (Another woman was leaving just a few minutes after me, but she was planning on calling a taxi to take her somewhere or other). My late delay was due to spending a bit of extra time treating my feet. Having bought some made-in-house “snake oil” and a scissors at the pharmacy, I was going to try a new technique with a couple of blisters. (Not bad, mind you, but hoping to avoid something worse.). The other reason for my delay: I had the yummy leftovers of risotto and tripe in the refrigerator. Plate-licking good!

I’d been told at dinner the night before that I had missed a treasure by failing to at least walk by the church of San Martín the day before. I quote from my guidebook: “consecrated in 1066 and reputedly one of the finest examples of pure Romanesque in Spain.” The book warns that it has lost some of its charm because now it has become a national monument, a “must-see” tourist site with “endless coach parties” arriving to visit. Believe me, there were no coach parties at 8:30 am. I had the (exterior of) the church to myself. I concur: it was beautifully proportioned. As I think I’ve mentioned, I prefer the Romanesque style to Gothic and Baroque. Keep it simple, no?

And finally, I’m on my way out of town, meeting up almost immediately with Arancha and Iván, a young Spanish pareja (“no, no,” they assured me, “not a matrimonio,” as if being married was a fate to avoid at all costs). They do a holiday every year on one or another stretch of the Camino. Eventually they will make it to Santiago.

The forecast called for rain. While not a terribly cold day, neither was it very warm. I was content with my wool shirt, my Polartec vest, and my winter jacket. I hung my rain jacket on the outside of my pack for easy access. The sky (all day) looked like rain would begin at any moment. The joke was actually on the people who left at 7:00 or even earlier, trying to get ahead of the rain. They got wet. I got the merest bit of spit mid-morning, but that was it. I wasn’t upset….

For once I had paid some attention to the maps in my guidebook (contrary to the day before when coming upon the Canal de Castilla took me totally by surprise; a pleasant surprise). I saw that the main route followed the highway all day, whereas there was an alternate route that went along a river. Duh! The alternate only added .9 km. Who wouldn’t choose it? Most people, apparently. Whether from not noticing that there were yellow arrows at the same junction pointing in two different directions, or whether due to a preference for moving along more quickly without fear of muddy pathways, or whether because of a preference for passing two additional towns if one continued along the path that paralleled the highway (thus, bathrooms and the possibility of food and drink), I know not. Whatever, I had the path, which met up with the river after a kilometer or two, practically to myself.

Was I making a mistake? Just on the outskirts of the village, I spotted a local. “You don’t want this way,” he tells me. “Everyone goes the other way. There aren’t any services along here.” “Yes, but no traffic either,” I responded. After the breakfast I had had, who needed “services”? The man was accompanied by two greyhounds. “Do you race them?” His face lit up as he nodded. I’m neither a fan of greyhounds nor of the notion of having them race each other, but I have to say: they were beautiful dogs. The one, 5 years old, slowing down a lot; the other, at age 2, in her prime.

Such interactions are a joy for me. Just a little snippet of conversation, a bit of curiosity on the native’s part about my castellano, and then onward. The town I had just left has a population of 150, but at least two of the gents there liked to walk. I soon met up with another fellow, 60ish. He was out for his daily constitutional. “10 kilometers, most days,” he told me. Sometimes alone, sometimes with friends. “Ventajas y descventajas,” he commented. Yes, I knew what he meant. Sometimes one likes the conversations one has with oneself, sometimes others can be good company, make the time go faster. “But it’s good to go each one at his own ritmo.”  Again, I concur.

As I was conversing with this gentleman, a few pilgrims came along. Irish. “No hablo inglés,” he tells me. “Just one thing,” and he goes on to tell me what that is: “I don’ know.” “I’ll teach you another,” I said. “Repeat after me: ‘I don’ speak English’.” He was at first puzzled, then caught on and repeated as requested. I was able to congratulate him and then… then it was time for him to turn to the right and head off on a ploughed path to complete his 10-k loop. More power to him. He and I both agreed that the world would be a better place–and a healthier one!–if everybody did what he did. (I had asked him if he ever had done the Camino. He laughed as if to say: “10 kilometers is a worthy goal; the entire Camino an estupidez!” To each his own.

Soon afterwards I arrived at the point where the path follows along the River Ucieza (say that with the proper Castilian pronunciation and you’ll have a real tongue-twister going!). It was lovely. The river sometimes had a decent flow to it, sometimes was more like a creek, even like a somewhat dry creek. And then again soon, more water. Surrounded on both sides by tall waving “grasses.” I found myself picturing Moses floating by among the bulrushes. Beyond the river, to my right, views of the meseta. Very peaceful. Enjoyable. Far to my left, for a while, I could discern the pilgrims following the highway, the bright colors from their rain ponchos and pack covers making them a highly visible, even cheerful sight. Still, I was glad to have found, again, the road less traveled for about 8 kilometers or so until the “river way” met up again with the main route. For company, I heard the cuckoo and the dove competing with each other and with the wind to see who was most important for the morning’s symphony. To my mind it was a toss-up between the cuckoo and the wind.

The two routes merged at Villalcázar de Sirga, a town dominated by the fortress-like 13th-century church of Santa María la Virgen Blanca which houses a revered statue of the same name. I picked up a brochure which brought back to me having read some medieval poetry by Alfonso el Sabio (Alphonse the Wise) back in graduate school days in which he praised the virgin for the miracles she wrought. It was a very pretty church and more than worth the 1 euro “pilgrim priced” entry fee.

And, in the plaza right in front of the church, one of the finest desserts I’ve ever had: kind of a cross between sugar-cream pie and very nice custard, topped with glazed apples. It went so much better with the coffee I had ordered than the “potato omelette” I had planned to order. No apologies for my sweet tooth on this day. I ate my pie at a table with two new-to-me Irishmen. One I had seen in the church lighting candles and offering some prayers. The other one, the one who lingered at the table, was more of a sceptic. H wasn’t quite sure about “all this Camino business,” and felt sure that this one go-’round on it was all he fancied. “Too much myth, too many tears and emotions. None o’ that for me. I don’t really see what all the fuss is about.” To each his own. I had only sat down at the table with him because I mistook him for my English photographer friend whom I had also seen in the church and with whom I had a lot more in common. Oh well….

I arrived at journey’s end about 3:00, and once Sister had efficiently explained the rules–no wasted time for her!–and had found me a bed, I located Ginny down in the dining room and was delighted to indulge in the soup she had prepared.

That soup: let me just say that the Camino continued to provide. Earlier that morning one of the sisters in charge, having learned that Ginny had cleaned up the entire kitchen–dishes, counters, stove top–and had wiped down all the tables, gave a nod to Ginny about using up any food she found around. Don’t suggest it twice, sister! Soon Ginny was at work, boiling beans and letting them rest, cutting up left-over meats and vegetables, tomatoes… She headed to a panadería for fresh-baked bread to accompany her “stone soup,” then went about the business of sharing it. A bowl for Irish Teresa whose husband Vincent had taken ill and who, like Ginny, had been allowed to remain a second night at the hostel, a bowl for me, one for Nadine who had arrived a bit after me. Ginny’s work was therapeutic for her and certainly tasty and nutritious and very welcome.

The rest of the day went by in a blur: some massage time on Ginny’s cranky knee administered by the none-too-professional-but-very-willing cousin, lots of consulting back and forth about Ginny’s next move which will be to the large–130,000–city of León.  That’s a four-stage jump down the Camino; she’ll spend three nights at an Airbnb until I catch up with her on Saturday evening at an albergue.

Speaking of catching up, that’s you, all caught up on Tuesday’s adventures up to the point where I chimed in with that “lick and a promise” post. And now, I’ve delivered; you got the whole meal only hinted at by last night’s lick.

Whether you wanted it or not….

PS. Many thanks to Regina who has better internet with which to upload some photos. Would love to be sharing a great many more, but that’s one challenge that I’m not meeting very well. So be it.

Day 18, Wednesday, April 24: Carrión de los Condes to Moratinos (30 km, 18.6 miles)

[Editor’s note: Shortly after posting this entry I heard from Barb. I think you’ll enjoy the comments she makes about her day; I’ve added them as a postscript, so you’ll find them below. My editorial comment: “You gotta love the Camino!”]

Quick follow up from the mini-post I published before bedtime last night. I believe I began that quick post at 9:21 pm and finished it at 9:30, at which time I entered the kitchen to see what I could scrounge up quickly from the little shopping trip Ginny had done the day before. What I noticed upon entering the kitchen was that lights were to be off in the kitchen at 21:30 (9:30 pm) sharp. Oops! But surely they (the nuns) wouldn’t let me starve! I didn’t even take the time to sit. I peeled two hard boiled eggs, located a bit of salt on the counter, and woofed down the eggs and some little chunks of bread also left out on the counter. Whew! Made it! It wouldn’t be hunger keeping me awake then.

Actually, nothing was going to keep me awake. The night called for a Benadryl to assure that I wasn’t disturbed by anything or anyone. (I thought Benadryl would be my nightly friend, but actually I had only taken it maybe three times prior.) The tuck-us-in sister caught me still brushing my teeth about 10:10, but she was sweet enough as she wished me a “Buenas noches. ¡Que duermas bien!” No detention, then, or kitchen clean-up duties. I got away scott-free in spite of bending the rules, and I slept like a baby under the warmth of a heavy wool blanket, snuggled like a little sardine between two gentlemen who were kind enough not to snore or mistake me for someone with whom to get cozy. (What? That old lady?) One of them had left the hostel by the time I got back from a quick morning trip to the bathroom. I guess he was anxious to hit the road, though, really, there was no way that anyone was going to get ahead of today’s weather!

(Sidenote: the Espíritu Santo albergue where we were staying had a huge influx of Asian pilgrims. Chinese, I think. None of whom seemed to know any English. They were quite a sight to see this morning, having a seriousness and an intensity about them as they rushed around which made intense little me look like I didn’t have an anxious bone in me. They were rolling large suitcases to a general gathering room and I couldn’t help but wonder what their story was. I was not destined to know it, however. I did see a lot of them on the trail today. [I’m assuming, anyway; the way we were all so bundled up with ponchos and the like, it was hard to even find the face inside the gear…] Chinese faces can look at miserable as anyone else’s. A miserable face needs no translation! Which brings me to the first of my “installments” for today.)

Not even with rose-colored glasses…

Today’s weather presented, for me, the first really major challenge of “my Camino.” Oh, sure, there have been long hills, long days, long-lasting cold, my big splat on the highway 9 miles into the Camino. There have been frustrations with technology, with inadequate vocabulary, but for every frustration, something good to offset it. There have been worries about Ginny and other friends we have met along the way, doubts about the best way to proceed, decisions that have been hard to make. Prior to today, however, there has not been a truly difficult weather situation to have to deal with.

“Snow”? We dared to laugh the night before. “It’s not going to snow! Come on! How is it going to snow when the low is going to be about 36. And it’s going to get up to about 50. The day will require “dressing for,” but it shouldn’t be a problem.

I set out rather optimistically, ready for the challenge. In a drizzle, but I can handle a drizzle, right? No other pilgrims in the immediate vicinity to follow, but I headed on with confidence. I would see the next arrow when I came upon it. Or not. Carrión was not a large town, but… I did a bit of wandering before I saw a stream of pilgrims off to the left. Ok, on track. An adventure. Until it wasn’t!

So… here’s how I spent a good bit of the morning: in dreaming up names for this blog post. Of course, it was too wet to be tempted to get out the phone to jot down the names that occurred to me, but here’s a small sampling:

• Exactly why did I want to do this?
• What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger….
• Taxi, anyone? (And actually, as I later learned, the bus that passed through Carrión did a bustling business this morning bringing people forward, some of whom started out walking and turned back to find the bus station)
• Why me?
• I thought these clothes were waterproof

And more of the same ilk, as well as the one I settled on: the one about the rose-colored glasses.  Because, frankly, not even a die-hard optimist with the rosiest of colored glasses could find the merits of this day.

Although some tried! Some! I passed a few folks–or they me–who with a shrug of the shoulders still managed (early on) a smile which told of a certain determination to make the best of the situation.

But the situation got markedly worse. I struck up a conversation with Toni from South Africa. She is walking the Camino with her sister Colleen (whom we left in the dust as we walked and talked). She told me of her husband’s diagnosis of liver cancer, of his death a year ago at age 52, of how she had planned to do a two-week trip on the Camino in 2017 before his diagnosis but how now… well, now the whole thing. A chance to get away from the empty space next to her in bed, the vacant chair at the dinner table. We distracted each other for a while, making the time go a bit faster. By now, though, the snow had begun, not the beautiful snow that fell so softly and gently back in Roncevalles on our second day out. That snow was magical! Memorable for all the right reasons. This snow was nothing if not a complete misery, blowing sideways, cutting our faces, building up on our jackets/ponchos, soaking our mittens. Fingers got stiffer and stiffer as we walked. Toni removed her gloves, tucked her poles beside her pack, freeing up her hands to place them under her poncho in hopes of warming them a bit.

I haven’t mentioned: the first 17 kilometers of our trek today had no towns whatsoever. There was no place to stop to warm up. At some point we spied a van parked along the trail (a gravel two-track, actually). “I wonder if they have coffee,” Toni remarked. They did. I forged onward. She hoped to grab some coffee and watch for her sister to come along.  I found myself alone again.

It would have been a bit rewarding at least to take a few photos. You know, to share with you all. To elicit some compassion. To prove that, yes, the snow was accumulating on sleeves if not (much) on the fields lining the route. But who’s kidding who? Who has any feeling left in his/her fingers to be able to open a fanny pack, take out the camera, unlock it, snap a photo? Not yours truly. You’ll just have to take my word for it.

But then… the realization that one–that’s me!–was not going to be able to make it easily–if at all!–to that town still 5 or 6 kilometers down the road for the bathroom. But one must, right? With frozen fingers, how was I going to be able to peel down the rain pants, the regular pants, the long underwear, then the undies, to do what needed to be done, all out in the open? Maybe I should just “let it happen”; maybe the warmth of the descending urine might even feel good…. But, really, I knew better.

Then up ahead I saw a “pilgrim rest area” consisting of a few benches lining a wall about 12′ high, with a bit of a roof over the benches below. The wall. Something to stand behind to take care of business. Still, there was that matter of getting the pants down…. and then back up. A Chinese couple huddled miserably on one of the benches under the narrow roof. I join them. Attempt to get my pack off. Necessary first step to get to the other layers. Attempt some more. Keep at it, attempting to release the sternum and waist buckles. I can’t feel my fingers. The “waterproof gloves” have proved to be far from waterproof. And then, here’s my angelito, an Asian one. The Chinese man, his arms and torso covered in two layers of plastic, stands up and comes over to me. He begins to wriggle his arms out from under the plastic and he unsnaps my pack! I bow and thank him. We are each others’ keepers. I was so grateful.

Yes, I managed the rest behind the wall. With difficulty, but the pants somehow got pulled down and then pulled back up again. (Just so you know: I did not leave any tell-tale paper behind, though I assure you there was plenty of it left from previous desperate people.) I spent a good ten minutes more under the little roof/overhang, trying to bring some circulation back into my fingers. Mostly unsuccessfully. I wrung all sorts of water out of my “waterproof” mittens–which had served me so well every day up until now–and put them away. I had a pair of thin wool mittens in reserve inside my pack. Got them out. Headed off again.

Mostly the line of pilgrims was single file. We would pass or be passed. It seemed almost an insult to call out “Buen camino,” like saying to a dying person “Have a good life,” or, as in the epistle–was it in one of the letters of James, Santiago himself?–that warns us not to tell someone “stay warm,” etc., and do nothing to alleviate the person’s problem. So there were few “Buen caminos” along the way. A few “Buena suertes” (good luck). Mostly we didn’t look at one another, but rather just trudged on, hoping that the town we were approaching would have a bar or two, coffee, a chair to settle into while we warmed up. Maybe this is where we’d settle for the night, even if we arrived before noon….

No, not even I came find those rose-colored glasses. Sorry!

And then! Oh, and then!

I arrived at Calzadilla de la Cueza (population: 60), 17.3 kilometers into the day. 11:15. I passed up the first bar. Was stubborn enough to think that maybe I’d just keep going. Get this day over with. In 8.5 kilometers I could put this misery behind me and get to the business of thawing.

But then I saw arrows leading to the second bar. Maybe I’d have a stop after all.

And that made all the difference. The stop. The cappuccino (“grande, por favor. Y, ¿tendrá sopa? [Might you have any soup?], the garbanzo/chick pea soup. An empty table next to, of all things, a radiator! A warm radiator! Two pair of gloves quickly set on top of it. This bar was a good idea!

I was soon joined by Geraldine and Desmond (“Des, for short,” he told me). A couple from Ireland. They were rosy-cheeked, shivering. By now my coffee was a fait accompli, but drinking it had warmed my hands a bit, and the soup was doing the same for my innards. Life was looking better. God love the Irish! (God love all humanity!) We were soon laughing. A lot. Their soup arrived, but try as he did, Des couldn’t get the spoon to his mouth for all the trembling of his cold hands. Still, he appreciated my tongue-in-cheek offer to spoon feed him. They say “misery loves company.” I’m not sure I know what that actually means, but we shared our thoughts about the day and laughed as we did so.

A trip to a real-deal bathroom and I was on my way, one pair of sodden mittens back in the back and one pair of warmed woolen ones helping to preserve the heat that the fingers had acquired during my stopover. I was so much happier.

And so, I thought, I’ll sing. 12:00 pm. No Angelus for me, but I attempted some of the tried and true “faith songs” that have kept me going in the past. I found myself singing “Rejoice in the Lord always, again I say rejoice…” Hmmm. Then this: “Rejoice always, pray constantly, give thanks in all circumstances…” Didn’t cut it. There are circumstances and there are circumstances. Yes, I was grateful to be warmer, but I needed something different, more appropriate. I fell into another song. This one I’ve taught to others, even to Ginny a few weeks ago, as we sang it as a “round.” I like the lyrics and, besides, it has a tune and a range that my pitiful voice can handle quite adequately, thank you very much. Goes like this:

Love, love, love, love

Christians this is your [something or other, something that I could easily come up with at the time, but which eludes me now because one of my French-speaking neighbors is crooning (?) something that sounds like death has come ‘a calling! Oh, he shut up. Is he dead? So I’ve got it! “Christians, this is your CALL”]

Love your neighbor as yourself

for God loves us all

And that worked for me for a couple of minutes. Singing aloud. Over and over. Must be about 12:10, 12:15 by now. My pace was steady, strong. Singing about love. Why not? It’ll help pass the time. I thought about the Chinaman who had unsnapped the fastener on my pack so I could remove it. Love. The “call” is certainly not exclusive to Christians; it’s a call we’re all supposed to hear.

And then. Then I started playing with the lyrics. I had a lot of people I wanted to pray for. Fellow pilgrims with (and without) their packs. Family. Many who had asked for prayers. I was reminded of the proposed theme of my Camino: “walking the Camino; touching the world.” I changed a word here, a word there, and then I had it. Same tune as the “love song” above, but deeply moving for me; satisfying and appropriate. I couldn’t think of a single person for whom this prayer song could not be a perfect fit. If you happen to know the melody for the first version I gave up above, then, if you’re inclined, try this one out:

Grace, grace, give them grace

Grace to bear the burdens they carry

Give them hope and give them peace

For you love them all

12:20? Sounds about right. And then I sang and sang and sang and sang some more. Two hours and then some. Loudly. There was no one to hear me. Sometimes the wind was so fierce that I couldn’t hear myself, but I knew that sound was coming out. I’d call to mind one person and keep on singing. Call to mind another. Over and over again. Half an hour of using the pronoun “them”; half an hour of replacing “them” with “us.” It was so healing. It felt so right. If felt right even knowing that some of the people I was praying for might balk at the “God” part, be uncomfortable with it. “But,” I told myself, “it works for anyone, really, who senses a force for good in the world. Who could, really, take offense by it? Who can object to “grace” (think: strength for the journey we are on)? I sang louder. I sang passed the town I had planned to stay in. I sang through the driving wind and the on-again, off-again driving rain.

I sang my way to Moratinos (population: 50) and walked into one of the two albergues here. Nine beds. There was one for me.

It was time-consuming hanging up all my wet gear and my clothes. For 8 euros I could have had them washed and dried for me. Nah! Just to get wet and dirty tomorrow? I did pay an extra 1.5 euros for a blanket. I think I deserve one! There’s dinner served in the bar area and I might shell out the money for that, if it’s not raining. (It would involve a brief jog from one building to another, and I have a sandwich and two hard-boiled eggs that I didn’t eat for lunch since I found that soup…)

I’m showered and clean. I’ve completed one blog post. I have an evening on which to work on the two promised posts that I haven’t delivered yet. I’m indoors on a top bunk where from windows at the head of my bed and to the side of it I can look out over the for-the-most-part greening fields where the sun has actually held sway for at least a minute during the course of this writing. (And I assure you that the dark, moisture-filled clouds that rush by are quite attractive from my inside perch.)

Color me happy. I found those rose-colored glasses after all. And I brought all of you along for the last 15 or so kilometers of my day. You were great company. Hope you feel the effects of the grace, the hope, and the peace I asked for, for you/for us!

PS: These two notes just in from Barb who is about 9 days ahead of me:

Oh Happy days. I will lay it out as it occurred, not necessarily in order of most miserable. U can decide. Light rain, mud, sucking mud, wind (possible gale force?) sleet, icy snowy slush and snow. High lights of day. Young Spanish man ahead of me in shorts, rain poncho and wooden walking stick singing at the top of his lungs, trees with diameters of 4 ft. or more, wild flowers, vistas, cow bells, 2 cafes with delicious food (one vegetarian), 3 young Spanish men playing and singing in cafe, lovely women from the Netherlands and indulging and treating my self to a hotel (think double bed to self, own bath and hopefully a warm shower before bed). While my hands and feet may be wet and cold my heart is warm. Few pictures of the day due to weather conditions. Haven’t looked at forecast. Do I dare? Arrived around 3 and took 2 hour nap.

….

And, in reply to my response to her, her second note:

I have decent WiFi so will read ur blog. My indulgence was more out of convience than anything else. It was the first spot. I tried to find the Albergue but after slipping through 1″ slush and watching a man shovel snow I gave up and turned around. I did look at forecast and 90% chance of snow. Room has radiator so clothes r dry but shoes not. But from forecast probably won’t make a lot of difference. Having dinner now and may have a second glass of wine. Buen Camino.

Dragging my feet!

If that is what you think, you are so, so, so very wrong. I’ve been picking them up with energy and enthusiasm. I swear! No dragging (yet)! But what I’m not doing is finding the time to catch up on blog posts. I’ve made brief starts on both Easter Sunday and today, and I have some good notes. What I don’t have is… time!

It’s 9:21. Haven’t had dinner yet. Haven’t showered (who cares!). Haven’t even taken off the clothes I muddied today on my walk. Haven’t … well, you get the picture. But not the full picture, because you probably don’t know that the nuns will be coming by our rooms to turn out the lights by 10:00 and the posted signs say that we must be in and stay in our rooms after that. (Or else, right?)

So…. no burning of the midnight oil tonight like last night. Have to get a good sleep so that we can face the expected snow from 8:00 until 12:00, then the expected rain. Uh, should I still be saying “alleluias” or agree with the cuckoo bird who has been following me for days with his message regarding my folly?

Don’t worry, I’ll show him yet! I’m showing him all along.

Long day tomorrow, and a shower will be in order as well as some clothes washing when I arrive at my destination. But still I have hopes of catching up. Just wait and see.

Night night. Sleep tight. Don’t let the …. oh, I’d better not even mention them lest I accidentally summon them.

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

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

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

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

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

Solitude? What solitude?

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

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

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

Emmaus?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there were these scenes

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

Quite the day!

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

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

Mais oui, bien sûre!

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

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

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

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

Lunch and the meseta

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

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

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

More special sights or thoughts on this full, long day

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

Home for the night

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

April 18-19: “bumming around Burgos”

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

Relaxing with the locals

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

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

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

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

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

Planning ahead

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

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

Burgos my way: the 4-hour version

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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