by Eddie Rock
So I very carefully unwrap his bonds and gather him up in my hands, and he flies away to freedom. I feel fantastic all of a sudden. I’ve saved a little life and it’s made my day.
They say a lot of famous people have walked the Camino. Saint Francis was one of them, and he would have been proud of my actions today. Anthony Quinn, the actor, walked the Camino, as did actress Shirley MacLaine, and the Scottish pop group the Proclaimers wrote a song about it called “500 Miles.” I also heard tell that criminals were made to walk the Camino, carrying the body of their victim strapped to their backs as a medieval measure to prevent the murder of fat bishops.
I heard it said by a stout Englishman that the Devil will try to trick you three times while on the Camino.
It feels like he tricks me every day.
It’s a pleasant and peaceful morning walking beside the old canal. I take out my harmonica and play the classic song “Dirty Old Town,” an all-time Irish classic made popular by the Dubliners and the Pogues.
I met my love by the gas works wall
Dreamed a dream, by the old canal.
I kissed a girl by the factory wall
Dirty old town, dirty old town.
After a good-old bout of harmonica, I rest awhile beside the lock on the edge of town and read another story from my guidebook.
Frómista is the home town of San Telmo, or in English Saint Elmo, the patron saint of sailors and famous for Saint Elmo’s fire. I wonder what kind of torment that was. Hopefully, not one to add to my own growing list of afflictions. “St. Elmo’s Fire” was also an eighties pop song by mulleted fop John Parr, as I seem to remember. My olden days pilgrim buddy Aymeric says this about Frómista:
It is a land full of treasure, of gold and silver, rich in wool and strong horses and abounding in bread, wine, meat, fish, milk and honey. However there are few trees and the place is full of evil, bad men.
So, with Aymeric’s words fresh in my head, I book into the modern hostel on the lookout for evil, bad men. Tucker arrives.
“What’s up, dude? How’s your bellend?” He laughs
“Jesus, Tucker, I thought you’d be in Santiago by now.”
Tucker explains that for three nights he never got a wink of sleep due to people snoring, so he bit the bullet and stayed in a quiet pension and slept from 7:00 p.m. to lunchtime the next day. It’s good to see him again, and he wants to know about Cocker and Belen. Did they or didn’t they commit the original sin? Even Tucker agrees, it’s highly unlikely Cocker got anywhere near her bodily treasures.
I invite him for a beer and we head into town to find a very seedy-looking bar, full of the unworked, unwashed, and probably direct descendants of those bad and evil men from Aymeric’s days. They sit noisily playing cards and dominoes while smoking Ducados and small cigars with glasses of brandy or red wine. Even the barman looks like a dirty Mexican bandit, with sweat gleaming on his dark skin with a glint in his eye. All he needs is a sombrero and a few belts of ammo strapped around him and we’re there. Due to the substandard hygiene of the establishment, we opt for bottled lagers and stare at the television screen. The Spanish news is in full swing with images of war-torn Iraq and al-Qaeda video footage of roadside bombs blowing up US Humvees. Bloodied children lie uncared for in filthy hospitals while greasy-looking politicians happily lie to us about the numbers of civilian casualties.
“God damn! Look at these guys!” says my American friend.
Now sinister bearded men spit venomous words to crowds of hate-filled people, burning flags, chanting and wanting to chop off our infidel heads.
“Dude, those guys should be nuked,” says my Yankee pal.
“I met a hate-filled preacher once,” I tell Tucker, and begin my story.
A week after al-Qaeda brought down the Twin Towers, my short-fused friend Gilbert and I and his long-suffering hippie girlfriend, Danni, were sitting on the terrace of the Engels bar at Rotterdam’s Central Station, waiting for some money to arrive via wire transfer. Gilbert was foul, and to add to his mood, Danni was hassling him about all the money he owed everyone, how much he was spending on drugs and alcohol, and how much she was taking off him each week to pay the bills.
Now, why a hate-filled preacher should choose to stand next to our table and chant to the bemused citizens of Rotterdam is quite beyond me.
“Death to all infidels!” he shouts and screams.
Gilbert’s eyes roll back in his head, and I feel a pressure shift in the earth’s atmosphere. In one ear, Danni twists his melon about cocaine and violence, and in the other ear, hate-filled Harry and holy war.
Gilbert takes a deep breath, and Danni knows what’s coming, so she wraps her body around his arm in an attempt to stop the bloodshed.
“Please, Gilly, no!” she screams.
“Fuck off, woman!” he shouts, easily shaking her free.
Danni wails and sobs into the table as Gilbert stands before the hate-filled cleric, face-to-face, nose-to-nose. This doesn’t stop the radical ranting as Gilbert smirks menacingly. He wrenches the book out of his hate-filled hand and follows it up with an equally hate-filled, high-velocity Mancunian punch, making bone-crushing contact with the radical preacher’s features. The erbert hits the pavement with a sickening thud as Danni wails louder into the table, crying the old chestnut, “Why does he have to be like this?” and I think to myself, If I had a euro for every time I heard that this year, I’d have a private jet on twenty-four-hour standby at Schiphol airport.
Gilbert turns to sit down but notices he’s still holding the book. So in a grand finale, he throws the book into the air and boots it in a perfect arc onto the roof of Rotterdam’s Central Station to a small round of applause from a few good citizens.
Gilbert sits back down at the table with his eyes twinkling, delighted with himself. However, a five-strong troop of heavily built, heavily tattooed Feyenoord skinheads enter the terrace heading straight for us! “Oh fuck!” My arse cheeks nip tight and my heart rate doubles as they swarm over our table, but instead of kicks and punches, it’s smiles and laughter as they congratulate the unlikely hero, kissing his bald head and shaking our hands—all except Danni, who looks up for a split second, then throws her head back into her arms in a flood of tears.
“Yeehar!” shouts Tucker.
I shall have to give Gilbert a ring at some point and see if he’s still alive.
FRÓMISTA TO CALZADILLA DE LA CUEZA
THE LAST POST
THE MORNING STROLL OUT OF FRÓMISTA begins with good omens and I’m making great progress, so I sit for a while beside the river and read a little.
A thousand years ago this area was controlled by the Moors and on every market day the region had to supply 100 virgins to replenish their Harems. This all ended with the battle of Clavijo. When St. James appeared on a big white charger dressed as a pilgrim and slew 40,000 Moors.
“Jesus, it’s no wonder they call him the Moor slayer!”
The American Ned Flanders sound-a-like approaches with his baseball cap on back to front, looking like some kind of idiotic hip-hop DJ with his two expressionless cronies either side, creating a double misery effect of their presence.
“Everything OK, brother?” shouts Flanders.
“Yes, thank you!”
“Hey!” he shouts. “Hey!” Now he’s standing right next to me.
I eventually look up from my book.
“Yes? Can I help you?”
“Hey, buddy, are you from the Confraternity of Saint James?”
“No!” I say sharply, praying he will go away.
“Okily dokily, brother, just thought I’d ask.”
“Buen camino,” they all say together.
“God loves you, pilgrim!” shouts Flanders.
“He’s got a funny way of showing it!” I shout back.
Confraternity of Saint James! Sounds a bit dodgy to me.
* * * *
It’s too early to stop in Carrión de los Condes, so I pass straight through and manag
e to dodge the unfortunate trio who I spot loitering around a lovely old monastery. It’s another windless scorcher of a day as my feet drag up the dusty track, and the only thing keeping me going is a barrage of lines from more crazy songs:
Catch me if you can, me name is Dan, sure I’m your man.
And I’m off to Lisdoonvarna at the end of the year.
I’m off for the bit of cráic, the women and the beer.
I’m awful shifty for a man of fifty.
Catch me if you can, me name is Dan, sure I’m yer man.
The Brendan Shine classic keeps playing around my head like a stuck record, reminding me of a fella called Big Dan who drank in Tom Kiely’s bar in Trim, where my father came from. Big Dan used to go AWOL from his isolated farm and go on the beer for weeks and weeks at a time, and that song would be playing on the jukebox constantly.
There’s nothing to see for miles around, and I begin to fear I might have gone totally the wrong way, as I haven’t seen an arrow since I got on this track. I seem to be passing the same poppy over and over again. For hours time stands still in this air-less vacuum, and over every small brow I long to see the familiar sight of a church spire, but each time nothing, endless nothing. I try to focus through the shimmering heat and begin to limp as a new addition to my never-ending set of problems begins to rear its ugly head directly in the heel of my left boot. I slowly enter the strange village of Calzadilla de la Cueza and find the pilgrims’ hostel. Many pilgrims lay bedridden with bandages on their heads, shoulders, knees, and toes, lying exhausted and motionless in the heat. Flies crawl all over my face and hands, driving me totally insane. I quickly check in and seek the blood of the pilgrim immediately.
In the nearby hotel I meet Günter, a German pilgrim and soft-metal enthusiast with monotone voice and lank, greasy hair. His boring conversation slowly drains me of positive energy like an emptying bath, making me feel almost suicidal. Günter is also bandaged up to the eyeballs, and he tells me he fell down a rocky hillside. Or was he pushed, I wonder? Thankfully he’s staying at the plush hotel and not the asylum, or I’d have slept in one of the caves just to get away from him. Yet again another Jonah to steer clear of.
It’s still light when I get back to the invalids’ ward, and now the world’s most sunburnt German has arrived on the scene. Concerned pilgrims chase him around the room like a scene from Benny Hill with bottles of sun cream and after-sun as his skin peels off his face like grated cheese, all over the collars of his jacket, his beard, and his mustache.
But being the kind of man who would probably refuse to call the fire brigade if his house were burning down, I watch in disbelief as the sunburnt martyr rudely refuses all help, then lies down defiantly, fully clothed, hugging his pack and staring that thousand-yard pilgrim stare.
“What a douche nozzle”
CALZADILLA DEL CUEZA TO EL BURGO RANERO
ACHTUNG! HEIL SHITLER!
AS THE LIGHTS GO on, the German is up and out the door like a rocket and I’m not far behind him.
“Hola, buen camino,” I hear from the road.
I look up as two cyclists zoom past, waving not at me but at the sunburnt German, who’s crouched in the oilseed rape with his trousers around his ankles. His right arm is extended in classic Nazi salute, and he shouts “¡Buen camino!” while flourishing a piece of toilet paper at the two cyclists, who, to make matters worse, continue happily waving back at him!
ACHTUNG! HEIL SHITLER!
On a desolate track with a million croaking frogs all around, I stop at a memorial for yet another German man whose pilgrimage ended right here. I guess a lot of people never make it to Santiago, for one reason or another. With that in mind I sit eating my bocadillo at the side of the field, not noticing at first a dangerous, rabid-looking dog with demonic yellow eyes sitting at the side of the path.
He bares his horrible teeth and growls without sound. He looks frighteningly ill, so I throw him some bread and chorizo, but he just looks straight into my eyes, unmoving, unblinking.
I finish my sandwich slowly and carefully while hypnotized by the hell-bound yellow eyes of the devil dog. Then I back away from him a safe distance and hit the road. After a few hundred meters I look back, but he’s thankfully nowhere to be seen. The sun has got his hat on again, and I arrive dazed and confused in the town of El Burgo Ranero.
* * * *
The supposedly helpful picture in the hostel toilet is the funniest thing I’ve seen so far since Cocker’s sandals. It’s been altered slightly by a naughty pilgrim with a very childish sense of humor. Ten out of ten.
In the guestbook I see that none other than Cocker stayed here two nights ago. I wonder if I can catch up to him. . . but then again with my new injury, I’m not sure.
Back in the bedroom I gradually work up enough courage to operate on my painful heel. First, I sterilize my knife with my lighter, then wipe away the soot and prepare for the first incision. I take a deep breath and start cutting through layers of hard skin to get to the source of the pain. Eventually a mixture of agony and ecstasy floods from my heel, and I tidy the area, cutting away the dead flesh and plugging the hole with iodine-soaked gauze to prevent infection. Now all I need is the blood of the pilgrim for express pain relief and I’m all set.
Alyssa turns up, saying she’s seen Eva earlier today and more than likely she will be staying here this evening. Three jolly Brazilian guys arrive with whom I’m sharing a room. One of them is wearing a “Jesus Saves” T-shirt, with Jesus’s compassionate face on the front. I have a similar T-shirt but with a comedy goal-keeping Jesus diving through the air to catch a football. I put it on after my shower and we take some photos outside the hostel. They are a friendly bunch of guys, and I nickname them “the Three Amigos.”
Their names are Ze, who speaks very good English; Rodrigo, who speaks a little English; and Ricardo, with not many words.
Ze tells us that he and Ricardo are teachers and Rodrigo is a medic.
It is the second time they are walking the Camino together.
At mealtime, the amigos and I throw all our food together and soon have a meal fit for a German queen, with salads, pasta, cheeses, ham, and fresh bread from the bakery. As I open the first bottle of wine, Eva arrives and I invite her and Alyssa to join us for dinner.
Our joviality around the table causes concern from the hostelero, who warns us all not to get drunk.
After dinner Alyssa goes onto the grass for a bit of yoga, giving me food for thought for some exiting new sexual positions, should I ever be lucky enough to find a flexible girlfriend. Eva appears, wearing tight blue velour shorts and a skimpy bikini top.
We end the night in the bar across the road for a few well needed beers
The barman can’t take his eyes off Eva and neither can I, for that matter. She looks great, all tanned and healthy, and I love it when she laughs her naughty laugh. It really turns me on. I tell her about the little bird tied up with grass, and she tells me a similar story about frightening a cat, whose mouth opened in shock, releasing a little bird. “So we have both saved a little soul.” She laughs, putting her hand on mine.
EL BURGO RANERO TO MANSILLA DE LAS MULAS
BUENAS NOCHES, SENORITA
MY FIRST IMAGE THIS MORNING upon opening my eyes is the bare bottom of an old lady from the bunk above me. Wildly balancing on one leg while pulling on a large pair of pants, she makes me feel strangely aroused, as I imagine that she would have been quite a looker in her days.
I arrive in Mansilla de las Mulas just before lunchtime and immediately get lost at an important junction. I once again follow my nose and eventually spot the usual bunch of misérables and a few friendly faces waiting outside the hostel. As luck would have it, there’s a really good bar directly across the road, so I grab a quick beer to pass the time. Theo, Eric, and Swiss John reappear, as do the rude Frenchmen and English Mike, the Road Runner. They all join me happily at the table for wine and beer. The French guys don’t seem too bad after all, as the
y get stuck into pints and large glasses of wine. One of them shows me his pilgrim’s credentials with stamps all the way back from Le Puy in the garden of France. Viking Yannick arrives with a beer, and we all toast to our future and to the start of a great afternoon. After a couple of wines, I find I’m becoming more multilingual, remembering things in French I learned at school.
I laugh and joke with Theo, using the Dutch I picked up in Holland.
By the time Eva gets here, I will be speaking fluent German at this rate. Our group waits for the misérables to get inside, and then, one by one, they finish their drinks and check in.
I have a peaceful, easy feeling going on, and sure enough, playing in the background is that very song by the Eagles, so I wait until it’s finished and go and check in myself
The hostel doesn’t look much from the street, but once I’m inside it turns into a large courtyard with a balcony and a beautiful tree growing in the middle. There are loads of hanging baskets and potted plants hung all over the walls, and it is obvious that someone takes a great pride in this place. The hostel has a really positive feel to it. After a nice lukewarm shower, I feel like a new man. I get a top bunk in a nice clean upstairs room, and the newly arrived Three Amigos invite me for dinner. So I buy wine and mineral water for the meal and chance upon another little bar near the shop to enjoy tapas and vino served by a busty maiden, just like in the olden days.
Back in the foyer I meet an Austrian doctor by the name of Andreas and his good wife, Greta, who are talking about visiting a tenth-century church and would I, “Eduardo,” like to join them. There is space in the taxi for a few more, if I know of anyone else who’d like to go.
I can’t believe my luck.
Ten minutes later we are heading away from Mansilla in a big taxi with Dr. Andreas and Greta, Swiss John, and the Three Amigos.
The taxi driver and the amigos understand each other pretty well, so I ask about the large dinosaur nests that I’ve seen.
