Kiwi on the Camino

by Vivianne Flintoff

  Back at the albergue we see pilgrims we have met before. One is the young German who had kindly made sure my boots dried during our stay in Zubiri. He has made the hard decision to end his Camino for the present. The injury he sustained going via the Napoléon Pass in the snowstorm has not improved and he cannot continue. I am very sorry to hear of his plight and wish him Buen Camino for his return home. Another reunion is with a woman who told us of her scare when in Pamplona just two days after we had left that city. She had seen a group of youths, all dressed in black, overturning a car. The police arrived very quickly in full riot gear with batons. She said if she had made a wrong turn she would, “have been done for.” I am concerned to hear her story and see her distress. I realise that we too could have been there.

  There is a pilgrim in the kitchen I have not met before, Peter, from Britain. I am not sure what to make of him. I choose to leave his company, return to our bunks and ask Bruce what he thinks of Peter. “He’s okay. He’s been around a bit. Fought a lot of battles. He used to be in the French Foreign Legion.” The only thing I know about the French Foreign Legion is based on the musical The Desert Song seen in Suva when I was a young adolescent. I crooned “My desert is waiting…” for many days afterwards as I was out and about on my horse. I even learnt to play the song on the piano. I sleep soundly after access to pain killers and a day’s rest.

  Burgos to Hornillos del Camino

  21 kms (13ml)

  501.2 kms (311.4ml) to Santiago

  When you rise in the morning

  give thanks for the morning light.

  Give thanks for your life and strength.

  Give thanks for your food,

  And give thanks for the joy of living.

  And if perchance you see no reason to give thanks,

  Rest assured the fault is in yourself.

  1st Nation People, North American saying.

  April 6, Day 16

  BURGOS IS SITUATED AT THE edge of the Iberian central plateau - the Meseta - where the actress Shirley McLean had some rather startling experiences. We are now heading for this same Meseta. The Meseta covers about 40% of Spain’s landmass and ranges from 400 to 1,000 metres above sea level. I have read different pilgrim accounts where the Meseta was described as: “Boring, not worth walking, better to catch a bus and skip the Meseta.” Others had written, “The head high grain drove me nuts and I got so sick of not seeing anything but green grain,” and so on. Rana and Cheryl had planned to bus the Meseta section because of time constraints. I am intrigued and am looking forward to my response to the Meseta. Bruce’s sister had very much enjoyed walking the plateau. I recall she also walked the Camino in spring, so didn’t have to deal with head high green crops stretching as far as the horizon.

  I am disappointed we have not caught up with the three Canadians to whom we still owe fifty euros. We heard from other pilgrims, that Wendy, Dafydd and Wanda were expecting to be in Burgos at the same time as Bruce and me. (We are later to learn they were in Burgos, but had booked into a hotel for some luxury and the need to attend to bodies and gear.)

  We leave Burgos early, but my blistered right foot is demanding most of my attention and I am feeling miserable. I now have the fourth and fifth toes on my right foot covered in plaster because of blisters and the blister on my right heel is enormous. I had no idea a blister could grow to be so large. Bruce, too, is walking with blisters. He has one small blister on the back of his right foot. A blister on the small toe of his left foot, which had become infected, is now healing. His first blister has healed.

  I look around as I walk and notice we are surrounded by crop fields, but I don’t have the stomach or will to admire the beauty around me. As we approach Tardajos, we spot the 18th century iron cross marking the site of the former pilgrim hospital. I am not in need of a hospital, but my feet are very sore and I am feeling sorry for myself. The walk so far today has not been difficult either, with only a very slight drop in elevation from Burgos to Tardajos.

  At Tardajos, to my infinite relief, an enterprising family has set up a blue plastic shade with plastic tables and chairs beneath - just the thing for foot-weary pilgrims. The shop owners are happy to see us. I order a freshly squeezed orange juice for myself and a hot chocolate for Bruce. I then break the rules and take off my boots. Once my feet are a little rested I put on my walking shoes which I had packed for wearing while crossing the Meseta.

  My tramping boots are now strapped to the outside of Bruce’s pack. I am desperately hoping I will experience less pain from the blisters by wearing my shoes. This means, however, that my re-injured ankle must now carry the burden of my body and pack weight, without the protection of a tramping boot. My blistered heel is much more comfortable in the shoe. What a relief. Once again, I realise that although top of the range when purchased, my old boots have long been superseded by non-leather, light weight boots. Perhaps I should purchase new boots in León and post my old ones’ home? I do not want to dump the old boots because they have lots of wear left in them and will make good bush work boots on our getaway place on the Coromandel Peninsula.

  After a short walk, we are up on that glorious Meseta. We are on high ground beneath an enormous sky, with wheat only about six centimetres high all around. The birds, in full song mode, are as delighted as we are with the blue sky undergirded by soft white threads of cloud, the morning sun and gentle, warm breeze.

  Bruce suggests we walk to the wind turbines for lunch. I know I will need to stop sooner. We never do reach those turbines. Up on the Meseta distances are deceptive. We come to a part of the track where pilgrims, over many years, have built personal stone altars - piedras santos. I want to stop and take a photo. Bruce wants to keep walking and says there will be more further on. We never do see the same number all in one spot, again. We are now at 950 metres above sea level, with the plains we have traversed way below to the east and to the west is, well more Meseta. The hills of chalk beckon us on.

  We come across a low stone wall where we can eat our lunch with our backs supported. Removing our footwear is a priority as soon as we are seated. After taking off our footwear and socks, we lay them out to air. Bruce decides to hoist his socks on top of his walking pole to dry a little more quickly in the warm breeze. The stones are warm and soothing at our backs. I lay out the picnic lunch with our preferred lunch ingredients of fresh bread, olive oil, cheese, ham for Bruce and thinly sliced chorizo for me, all purchased from that welcome shop at Tardajos. Having eaten our fill, we lie on our backs, faces to the sun, with our heads on our packs. “Look Bruce, those turbines are still a long way off. I am glad we didn’t keep trying to reach them.” “Humph.” We both doze contentedly. I could get used to this Spanish siesta ritual. It is making more sense to me as the temperatures are now rising in the middle of the day. Two Italians walk past. One breaks into full throated song after declaring, to his companion and us, how beautiful it all is. And it is. Stunningly so.

  A couple walk past us going the ‘wrong way.’ They, like the man with his dog, are walking a reverse Camino. I am perplexed, but too dozy to ask about this strange phenomenon. Addressing me they comment, “For the past ten minutes, we could see just your bare feet wriggling up and down. The rest of you was hidden by that small bush. We are glad to see that your feet are attached after all.” The tractors are up here too and we are gently showered with chemical fertilizer as we pack up.

  Walking on we meet three young Spanish women who have stopped. One has blisters and is not at all happy. We greet them and walk by. “The others don’t seem very happy with having to stop and wait for their friend,” says Bruce once we are out of earshot. It is a challenge of the Camino.

  We are coming to a steep decline even though it looks flat ahead. The guidebook says the descent is called, Mule-killer, Cuesta Matamulas. I am in for a disappointment. When we reach the road that runs down into the valley it is no longer a rutted, steep winding tra
ck, but a white, evenly cambered though unsealed, narrow road. Nor is it even that steep. My dodgy ankle does not complain.

  The old pilgrim hospital still stands at the entrance to the village of Hornillos del Camino watching out for weary pilgrims, but it can no longer offer succour. However, there is refreshment available from the fountain with a scallop shell motif in front of the large Gothic church. The ancient Camino village feels very old. The houses are constructed with stone. There are no earth coloured houses here. The architecture and building materials are changing with the unfolding of new landscapes and construction materials.

  The albergue has been renovated. It has a pleasant bathroom. The stone external walls remain, but there are now brick internal walls. We are the first pilgrims to arrive. The others ahead of us have walked on, so we choose which of the three bunkrooms we want to sleep in. Once a pilgrim has chosen a bunk, where there is more than one bunkroom, most albergue staff will want later pilgrims to use the same bunkroom. It makes it easier to clean up later.

  The room is soon full. Bruce sleeps and I have a shower, wash my clothes then walk to the only shop to buy our breakfast staples of fruit and yoghurt. I also buy one small tube of toothpaste. We can now clean our teeth again. The shop, though very small, is well stocked with pilgrims in mind. The cans and tubes are small and of a convenient size and light weight. They will not demand a lot of pack space nor overly burden shoulder muscles.

  I return to the albergue. Bruce wakes, showers and then we set off for the one bar in town. On my walk to the shop, I had looked for this bar and read the note on the door which promised that the chef would open at 6 p.m. to cook a pilgrim dinner. I hope the promise will eventuate, otherwise it will be back down to the shop to find something to see us through the night. The chef keeps his word and I order the haricot beans with chorizo sausage. Bruce orders salad.

  On returning to the albergue we talk with two pilgrims eating muesli for their dinner, before playing cards and drinking a lot of tea out of collapsible cups. I had seen these collapsible cups and plates back in New Zealand, but had taken the chance of not needing such items. We have had to purchase two spoons and two non-collapsible bowls.

  As other pilgrims drift in we talk of our journey thus far and of many other things. One man is from Belgium and is a restorer of gold leaf in churches. We listen to his stories about his art and work, then move into a conversation about which architectural form we prefer: Gothic, Romanesque, or Pre-Romanesque. I am currently leaning in favour of the Gothic.

  An Italian woman and I share laughter about the delights and trials of married life. I am loving the cross-cultural exchanges and am so very appreciative of others’ multilingualism. I think it a little ironic that one of the benefits I gain from British Imperialism, is that so many people I meet can speak a level of English. Unlike the Frenchman, Bruce and I do not need to worry about becoming isolated in the language sea.

  Hornillos del Camino

  to Castrojeriz

  20.2 kms (12.6ml)

  480.3 kms (298.4ml) to Santiago

  In solitude we give passionate attention to

  our lives, to our memories, to the details around us.

  Virginia Woolf (1882-1941)

  April 7, Day 17

  WE ARE TRULY ON THE Meseta now and love it. This plateau feels remote enough to give me a sense of being away from civilization even though the evidence of people’s use of the land is all around. We walk for hours without seeing another human being, but it is not silent up here. The birds sing, insects buzz, and in the distance, there is often the noise of a tractor. Our early morning start means we are viewing this expanse of green in the changing light of early day. The young spring crops are deep green and provide a ground cover the height of a recently mowed lawn. There is a feeling of vigorous lavishness all around. It is so impressive, this richness of spring. Even the pylons in the distance fail to disturb my enjoyment of this expansive space.

  When walking on the Meseta it looks flat, but is not. We abruptly come to an edge of the tableland and below us, a wide valley opens with a small village sheltering in its depth. The valleys are so deep that the church steeples and grain silos are not visible above the table edge. In and around the houses, silos and churches, there are trees. The entire valley scene is the antithesis to what we experience on top. The villages are safe from the wind, which must be sometimes strong given the existence of so many wind turbines - these stand as lords over the tableland. Today, these lords are having to make use of the mild breeze as best they can.

  I feel blessed by the benign weather. In summer, I would find it difficult to be walking the tablelands of the Meseta. There is no shelter, just a few stunted shrubs, the odd low stone wall and no trees. During the height of summer, even with the head high crops, there would still be no shelter from the relentless sun. In winter, it would be difficult because of bitterly cold winds. In summer, a pilgrim would bake: in winter, freeze. All this verdant green around us will be hard baked earth after harvest.

  We come to an unexpected edge, and there tucked in the valley below, lies the village of Hontanas. One of the two bars is open and we gratefully stagger up the three steps into a small welcoming space. The tables only seat two or three comfortably, but the three pilgrims seated at one table invite us to share their table. After ordering lunch, Peter, whom we had met in Burgos, appears. He is so fit and carries an enormous pack. (Some days later I try to lift it off the ground. I cannot.) He announces, “Dafydd has asked me to collect the fifty euros you still owe him.” I don’t know what to say in response. Is Peter serious? Has Dafydd really sent a debt collector after us? Or does Peter know I borrowed the money and is now trying to con us? I am very uneasy. In the end, I decide to treat the request as one of Dafydd’s jokes and do not hand over the money. I now have the cash and do not want to risk it going astray. I have no way of knowing when I will see another ATM. There is still a chance we will see the Canadians within the next few days and then I will personally repay them.

  Back on the path again, we see away in the distance, time-worn buildings. It is the ruin of the Hospital of San Antón, built by the French order of the Antónines in 1146. Our eyes are drawn to the high stone arch under which the road passes. I love it. The ruins are impressive, towering high. Its roof-less state hastens the disintegration of what must have been an inspiring creation. The still standing walls with their sand coloured blocks of stone blend into the warmth of the landscape. To our left, in what must have been the main chapel and hospital, is the great double door, locked now to keep out would be vandals and pilgrims seeking souvenirs. On the right are two small, sealed off openings, where monks and others so munificently inclined, would leave food for pilgrims.

  I am soon distracted from these ancient buildings which still remind us of the generosity and care of the Antónines. It is my bladder again. As I start to consider where would be the best spot to restore calm to my body, a car stops and two women hop out: a mother and daughter from France. The daughter, possibly in her forties, is very excited to meet two people from New Zealand. “All this way from New Zealand.” I stop paying a lot of attention to our conversation as I am now approaching the place of body desperation. I want to be polite so I remain talking for a short while and then begin to walk around the back of the monastery as that promises to provide the most privacy. Privacy is not to be had. My excited and charming companion follows me around the back no doubt assuming I want to have a very thorough look at this monument to her country’s liberality. What am I to do?

  I have long been very self-conscious about the need to deal with the effects on the body post eating and drinking. I really think the whole business is tedious, and downright embarrassing. At one of our camp sites in Nepal, the toilets were placed at one end of the two rows of tents. Very inconveniently placed I thought. I would be in full view of everyone when I headed in that direction. It was excruciatingly painful, that first
walk to the toilet in that camp. I was rewarded though with stunning views of the mountains opposite the campsite and the noisy, pale blue river coursing so rapidly through the ravine one kilometre below. I did not allow myself to dwell on where, what I left behind after each visit, would be discharged.

  Outside this ruin of the hospital I cannot bring myself to say, “S’il vous plait Madame, I need to be left alone as I have very personal business to which I need to immediately attend.” I walk around the building to the roadside again and bid a fond adieu to these women who have been so interested in us and our lives. I will have to start walking in the hope they will drive on. After all they have nothing to worry about. It is only a short drive, three kilometres to Castrojeriz, five minutes maximum by car, where they can quickly find a bar, order their coffee and then find a rest room if needed. I, on the other hand, am going to take at least forty minutes to walk that distance.

  They drive off with a flourish of arms out the window and are gone. The road ahead is lined with trees, with very little leaf cover, but at least with the potential for some privacy. I wait until a pilgrim has passed. Relief at last. I can now enjoy the view ahead: the town of Castrojeriz and the ruins of the castle, Alcazar, on the hill above the small town.

  There are some themes running through this tale – such as fun, friendship, companionship, joy, and conviviality. There are other themes as well - one is ‘the ankle,’ another the cold, a third the trial of blisters and a fourth, that of bodily functions. As far as I am concerned, it is not food or beds that are a major concern when travelling. The food does need to be free of contamination of course and the beds bug free. I can survive in fairly basic environments. What is very difficult is not finding a place, a private place, in which to attend to body functions. If I don’t go, I cannot survive. We will see just two public restrooms in the eight hundred kilometres between St-Jean-Pied-de-Port and Santiago. I should have bought a peewee after all. Despite the large bowl of these curiosities sitting on the counter at the tramping shop, I couldn’t bring myself to say, “I’ll take one of those,” pointing with my finger, whilst simultaneously looking up at the ceiling. The embarrassment.