I have a little spare time before dinner. (Our hosts are feeding us early as they know pilgrims cannot wait until 10 p.m.) I want to buy postcards to send to our six grandchildren. When Bruce and I looked around the Plaza Mayor I noticed a very small, narrow shop selling a variety of things, including postcards. I purchase and write up the postcards. After consulting my English/Spanish dictionary, I choose two young women who are walking towards me, to ask my question. I think I ask, in Spanish, “Could you please direct me to the post office?” One of the women replies, “Can you please speak to us in English.” So very deflating. I should also have asked the way, in English, to the ATM, for my need of cash is more pressing than my need for stamps, but I forget this fact.
The albergue family, warmly hospitable, feed us well with good wholesome, exceedingly tasty food. This is a truly memorable meal. We each begin with a very appetizing mixed salad (at last some green vegetables), followed by a whole leg of chicken baked on scalloped potatoes with red peppers, all drowned in white wine. I eat the lot and then demolish the vanilla custard to follow. The first mouthful of custard sends all my taste buds dancing. And no surprise here, there is an abundance of chilled red wine.
After dinner, Bruce and I discuss our plan to walk twenty-four kilometres tomorrow – the dinner has energized us – with the knowledge we have the option of stopping at Villafranca, twelve kilometres into our day’s journey, if the weather deteriorates. There will be no shelter after Villafranca until we reach San Juan de Ortega some thirteen kilometres further on.
Belorado to San
Juan de Ortega.
24 kms (15ml)
551.1 kms (342.4ml) to Santiago
Where there is rest and meditation
There is neither anxiety nor restlessness.
St Francis of Assisi (1181-1226)
April 3, Day 13
IN THE MORNING, WE CHANGE our minds about taking three days to walk to Burgos and plan to walk it in two so that we can be at Rabanal del Camino on Easter Saturday. This will mean longer days of walking than the more comfortable twenty kilometres we have begun to aim for. Today, we have three hills to look forward to with a steep descent between the first two. As we are a bit worried about the walk ahead, we leave early. The sun is warm, the sky a pale blue with a dusting of cloud. The wind is soft against our skin. We walk relatively fast for us and soon need to stop to take off layers of clothing as the day heats up.
Once again, we find ourselves walking through rural undulating crop lands. It is so restful. Other pilgrims are behind, but gradually pass. I remind myself I am not competing in a race, even though there seems to be a bit of one-upmanship happening as pilgrims share whether they walked thirty or forty kilometres that day. Bruce and I indulge ourselves in a little inverse pride. “We managed a bare 18 kilometres today.”
I wonder when it was that I first began to love the green of pasture land. When we had first moved to the Waikato (a major dairy farming area of New Zealand) I felt claustrophobic for many years, when heading south from the largest city, Auckland, after crossing the Bombay hills and looking down on the undulating farmland of the Waikato. Back then, I missed living by the sea. Now here I am, day after day, a long way from the sea and loving the restfulness of the many greens.
I need to halt for a comfort stop and with the number of pilgrims behind us and the open nature of the countryside, I determine to wait until the next village. We pass through two villages, but nothing is open. Finally, a relatively quiet space and all is well with my body again. There has been just one public restroom during this first two hundred kilometres of walking. We have to buy coffee (or some other beverage) to use the bar restrooms which rather defeats the purpose of the stop. After a cold, wet walk, one morning, I really did not want to drink more coffee so asked if I could just pay to use the restroom facilities. The woman was quite cross with me. We had to purchase and consume coffee and food to use the facilities. Times are hard in some of these very small communities.
Twenty minutes after my outdoor comfort stop we reach the tiny village of Epinosoa del Camino. This village has one bar and it is open. We have hot chocolate drinks and a pastry. This delicacy has a chocolate slab base, a creamy custard centre and a slab of pastry on top. My pleasure in the delicacy is short lived as I remember, not only had we not seen an open bar in the previous villages, neither had there been any ATM machines. There isn’t one in this village either. I do not have enough cash on me to pay for our tonight’s accommodation, let alone dinner or breakfast. I have just enough money to pay for our morning tea and then the purse will be empty. Panic!
I look at the guidebook and realise that there is no population size recorded for Epinosoa or the villages we have just passed through. Some of the smaller villages are recorded as having twenty, sixty or eighty residents, but not these three. I had told Bruce at Belorado I needed a bank, but hadn’t explained how little cash we had. “It’s okay we will stop on the way.” I allowed myself to be persuaded. I now know that villages too small to have recorded populations in the guidebook do not possess ATM machines.
Then the camino knights arrive. Or rather it is our part-time Aussie cum Canadian mates. I had thought we would be well ahead of them, but they have made fast time. I am genuinely pleased to see them and very relieved, for they may be able to help our cashless state. We join them at their table and they too order the pastry after listening to us extol its delicacy and scrumptiousness. I then ask, “Can you help out please?” They laugh at our plight and one of them hands over fifty euros. It would have been more in keeping with Camino tradition to put out my scallop shell to receive the money, but I just extend my hand in gratitude and relief. Perhaps if I had held out the shell, I might have foiled Dafydd’s wry, tongue-in-check comment. Dafydd, in his inimitable manner jokes, “We’ll never see our money again now that a Kiwi has it.” I ignore him and give Wendy my email address in the hope they will let us know when they are in Burgos so I can repay them. San Juan de Ortega, just fifteen kilometres ahead of us, has a population of twenty. I now know it will not have an ATM machine.
With the Canadians’ money in my wallet, we thank them and move on. During the next part of the walk my inner critic has a go at me. “What would you have done if the Canadians hadn’t arrived? You need to plan better than that.” The meditation helps me to let go the self-censure.
Loose the cords of mistakes binding us
The Camino has provided for our needs and I have learnt where I will and will not find ATM machines.
Bruce and I meet up with the Canadians again at Villafranca Montes De Orca at the bread shop. The five of us talk of the steep climb ahead. The weather app shows deterioration during the afternoon, so the three Canadians decide to stop in the village for the night. Bruce and I keep walking because of my wish to stay at St Juan de Ortega. After-all, the guidebook promised a classic pilgrim halt for medieval and modern pilgrims alike.
We wave goodbye to our Canadian bankers and start to climb. The wind is now at its predicted twenty-five kilometres per hour, is head on and the temperature is dropping. After a climb of three kilometres – not so hard after all – we stop at the Monumento de los Caídos, a monument to those slain in the Spanish Civil War. I read the plaque aloud. In silence, I remember our sister-in-law’s (Julia’s) grandfather, shot dead by a member of the Guardia Civil on the family finca (farm) when he requested they leave some food for his family.
There is a wooden picnic table near the monument. I enjoy the backdrop of ancient oaks and pine trees with wind turbines glancing at us from behind them. The N-120 is not far away, but as it is below and screened from our view, we can ignore it. I lay out our creamy green extra virgin olive oil, our decanted red wine in a plastic water bottle, bread fresh from the last village bakery, cheese and tomatoes, to be followed with fresh dates. A veritable feast on a hilltop. I am well fortified to tackle the next two climbs.
The midd
le hill is a short grunt of a mere eight minutes and then we are walking along a flat ridge on a wider path. Is it an unsealed logging road? We compare notes and agree that the hill climbs are usually gradual, with a few short grunty ones. We remember the day we walked up to Namche Bazaar in Nepal, where it felt like one of the stone staircases was almost vertical. We had just crossed the longest suspended wire bridge, then looked up to view the staircase. At the low end of the spectrum we could imagine a spinal injury threatening fall. At the high end, a fall would lead to death, with one’s body left at the bottom of the ravine for vultures to clean up. However, that climb up the stone staircase rewarded us with our first glimpse of Sagarmāthā (Everest). Today’s two climbs have been more like a walk down the back of the farm in comparison.
Our path now takes us through a stunted oak forest. These oaks look more familiar to us than the holm oaks we have seen previously. We enter an area of planted pine forest. The wind is now bitterly cold and coming straight at us from those same snow-capped mountains on our right flank. Prior to our Camino, I had not known that the Pyrenees extend into Spain, nor that it is the second most mountainous country in Europe.
I have a sore hot spot on my right heel and tell Bruce I need to stop. Should I put some Vaseline on my feet? Others had told us this would help prevent blisters. I had been aware of the hot spot since our lunch stop, but had ignored it, even though I know that disregarding hot spots while wearing tramping boots is foolhardy. I am still subscribing to the belief that my feet do not get blisters forgetting that this walk is extra-ordinary in its length. I find a large blister on my right heel and it is tender. This means my injured left ankle must now take the brunt of my body and pack weight so I can take the pressure off the blister. The inner critic is still walking this Camino with us. “So dumb to ignore that hot spot.” I choose to let go the self-deprecation as I breathe my meditation.
Loose the cords of mistakes binding us
The extra-ordinary circumstances are allowing the former habit of self-criticism to re-surface. I am surprised at my vulnerability. Over the past years, I have learnt to (mostly) ignore the inner critical voice and have grown into a positive, confident and outgoing woman. On my Camino, I am consciously having to draw upon the meditation of ‘loosening the cords of mistakes binding us’ so I am not caught by old thought patterns.
The temperature drops again and I grow colder. The pine trees start to bore me. Bruce cannot believe I feel bored, so I change my wording to, “The pine trees are starting to get to me, closing in on me.” Finally, we are out of this unnatural forest and the village of San Juan de Ortega lies down the grassy hill before us. Have we missed the third hill? Have we climbed it so gradually that we didn’t notice the incline, or has the path been re-routed since the writing of the guidebook? We do not know.
It starts to rain as we walk down to the large 12th century church, la Iglesia de San Martín. There is an enormous crane (not a bird) behind the monastery and it is obvious that Restoration, begun in 1694, is still ongoing. We walk into the ancient building and smell dust. The bunkroom is very spartan and unappealing. Bruce worries about bed bugs, but I do not want to walk on. I have two sore feet now. Besides, the guidebook had mentioned traditional bread and garlic soup after the Pilgrims’ Mass. What better food after a cold walk with two painful feet?
More importantly, the parish church is of historical significance for the Camino. St Juan, as a disciple of Santo Domingo, was very involved in maintaining Camino paths, building bridges and generally providing shelter for the many pilgrims who were preyed upon by bandits who used to hide in the hills we have just traversed. We visit the extravagant Gothic mausoleum housing the tomb of San Juan. Scenes from his life are illustrated on the sides. He is seen to be welcoming pilgrims - very suitable for one known to shelter pilgrims.
I want to look at the celebrated 16th century courtyard. It is dusty and worn looking. The floor is tiled and there is a mezzanine walkway above. As I crane my neck to study the large space, birds fly out from their nests in the roof. The courtyard investigated, I make a foray down into the kitchen in the hope of smelling soup. Instead of soup, I find two grumpy custodians and very limited kitchen facilities. I am not at all welcome in the kitchen. We will need to dine at the one and only local bar which opens at 7 p.m. There is no Pilgrims’ Mass.
The women’s bathroom has been recently renovated and males also must use the female one as theirs is still being refurbished. Perhaps I will get used to unisex bathrooms. After a blissfully hot shower I crawl into my sleeping bag to escape the cold and await dinner.
As soon as it is 7 p.m. we brace ourselves for the walk to the bar in freezing conditions. There is a large roaring fire and we sit at the table closest to it. Bruce takes off his boots to try and warm his feet, but receives an instant rebuke from the owner. It is not permissible to take one’s boots off in the restaurant. Other bars have had notices forbidding pilgrims to remove their footwear. I do appreciate the health and safety aspect of the rule, but the temptation to rest one’s feet, whenever the weight is off them, sometimes becomes irresistible. The prospect of rested, warm feet on such a cold night is doubly so.
Dinner is passable. Bruce orders the Spanish version of black pudding which I try without knowing what it is and find it very flavoursome. I am appalled when he tells me what I have just eaten. I cannot cope with the knowledge I have just consumed blood.
We sleep well after our twenty-four kilometre walk with its two, or maybe three hills. I have an abundance of blankets taken from unoccupied bunks. There are only six of us in this large bunkroom. Other pilgrims had walked on, not liking the look of the monastery bunkroom. Mercifully, we are bed bug bite free in the morning.
Bruce has worried about bed bugs since the conception of our Camino planning. I had wanted to walk the Camino in the autumn. I liked the thought of walking through Rioja at harvest time and seeing the wine festivals. Bruce was adamant. He wanted to begin walking before the season opened to avoid the bed bugs. It is the pilgrims who bring bed bugs into albergues we are informed by those who know these things. In the height of the season these little creepy-crawlies can cause misery for some pilgrims and acute sickness for a few.
A few days after leaving San Juan we meet a young woman who had stayed at the monastery the night after us. She was not as fortunate as us and had a bad dose of bed bug bites. She was not happy. The manager of the current albergue phoned the San Juan albergue to report the bites. The manager at San Juan was not interested and not at all prepared to take preventative measures. There was a heated exchange with the warning that the San Juan albergue would be reported to the authorities. Bed bugs are the bane of both albergues and pilgrims.
San Juan de Ortega to Burgos
25.6 kms (16.2 ml)
526.8 kms (327.3 ml) to Santiago
A turning point: when we stop struggling
and start accepting the differences between us.
Rhonda Pritchard
April 4, Day 14
WE HAVE A LONG WALK ahead of us - long for us anyway. Our current elevation is 1,080 metres above sea level and we start off in the fog predictable in this area. It is very dense so we are wearing our wet weather gear. Despite the damp, we agree it is a good morning to be walking. We find ourselves in a natural oak forest. The oaks are much smaller than the ones we see in New Zealand, and because they grow so closely together, are reaching to the light in a very spindly fashion. Whenever one oak manages to grow apart from its neighbour, we see the characteristic spread of branches with which we are more familiar.
The views all around are limited, but we notice that stock graze the forest. We walk over another cattle stop and I see a stone labyrinth laid out in a gap among the oaks. I am intrigued, but never find out who created it and who now uses it. My emotions are gradually settling after the encounters with the grumpy monastery custodians. Our first stop in the province of Burgos has n
ot provided the hospitality to which we have become accustomed.
The small village of Ages is a welcome sight. We need breakfast as I did not have the courage to venture down to that inhospitable kitchen at the albergue. We chance upon a little, very cute tienda (shop) housed in an old crooked building. The shop is dim inside, but cosy, with low beams and a tiled floor. The shelves are well stocked. Such a relief. We buy our supplies and have a friendly conversation with the vendor. They have rooms to let to pilgrims on the first floor. We are disappointed not to have walked on yesterday and found this warm, inviting place.
We head for the village of Atapuerca. Walking on a long, flat, straight country road with grassy fields on both sides, we spot a large building to our right. It is a UNESCO World Heritage site celebrating archaeological excavations where a spectacular fossil was unearthed and subsequently named, “Atapuerca Man,” after the mountains in which the bones were found. The bones have been dated as the earliest known in Western Europe. These mountains are ahead of us beyond the village of Atapuerca.
Once we reach the village fountain we stop for water and a snack. We both appreciate that many of the villages have at least one well in the central plaza with potable water. (Some of the wells also have drinking troughs beside them for horses, should a horse and rider roam through the village.) We gratefully refill our water bottles at these wells. The wells mean we do not buy water and therefore are not sending plastic to a nearby landfill. The frequent wells also save us having to carry a lot of water. Water is heavy when you start needing to carry it by the litre. Two one litre bottles each have been meeting our needs, as villages and therefore wells, are so close together.
Kiwi on the Camino Page 11
