On our slow walk through the plaza we see our Canadian buddies. We tell them we are changing albergue and that we also plan to spend the next day in Astorga. They need to head off to make sure they reach Santiago in time to catch their plane. I feel a sense of loss when I hear they will be moving on ahead of us. This sense of loss is possibly heightened because I am still feeling raw from the exchange in the bunkroom. I suspect we will not see Wendy, Dafydd, or Wanda again on the Camino. It is also likely we will not meet Emma and Ben again. With spending the day in Astorga, we will not catch up with either the Canadians or the Germans.
As we walk through this ancient town we see Easter floats similar to the three we had seen in León. Perhaps we will see a parade here in Astorga. There is a float with an empty cross, another with Jesus on the cross and a third which has Jesus being removed from the cross by John and another disciple. Mary is standing close by. The floats are all decked with flowers. So much work and attention to detail.
We head west, following the yellow arrows, dodging the people milling about the plazas, either entering or exiting the many restaurants. We learn that Astorga is famous for its Good Friday parades and many Spanish families come as tourists to Astorga to watch the floats. And I was upset about missing the parade in León. This is the place to be on Good Friday. Wonderful. The Camino continues to provide.
I cannot locate the albergue. Bruce stops and asks a man, but he is a visitor to town as well. After a short while he runs after us. He found a local and asked him for directions: so kind of him to go to that bother on our behalf. We follow the instructions as best we can and then realise we have once again lost the trail. Bruce then asks a frenetic waiter the way. The waiter, despite his hurry with all tables full, stops to answer Bruce. He replies in Spanish and I understand. His hand and arm gestures are exceedingly explicit.
The albergue is wonderful. It is a large ancient stone building with walls at least one foot thick and has a central courtyard with a fountain. There is Presence in this place and we love it. However, I am feeling frustrated at the ‘waste of our rest time.’ If we had come here directly, I could have had the chores done and be sitting down with a cool glass of red wine; enjoying this ancient building. Instead we must retrace our steps to retrieve our packs. I conveniently forget it was my suggestion to come without our packs. Do I need to realise I have made a slipup for the cords of mistakes to be loosened?
Paul, the Korean iPad instructor, is at this charming albergue and greets us warmly. We have friends here too. I cheer up a little. He takes us upstairs (he is doing a spot of volunteering in exchange for board) and we have a large room to ourselves, with wooden, sturdy looking bunks and a window, the recess of which is at least seventy centimetres deep. The window looks down onto a narrow street. I selfishly hope that no further pilgrims arrive to share the room with us. The other rooms are full and we just happen to be the overflow and score a pilgrim free room. The cathedral is just around the corner. Good decision Bruce.
As we walk back to the municipal albergue I ask Bruce what he thinks we should say about our leaving. He doesn’t want us to say anything. Bruce just wants to leave the albergue without any more drama. The bunkroom is empty much to my relief. We don’t have to explain our leaving to the young couple. Bruce then decides to take a shower and my frustration grows at yet another delay before I can sit down and rest.
In all the to-ing and fro-ing, I forget to stretch. I have been very disciplined about stretching each evening since beginning the walk. My body will remind me of my oversight in the morning.
As we exit the municipal albergue, I decide I will not leave without letting reception know. I don’t want to just walk out. Besides, should there be a fire during the night, they must account for all pilgrims signed in. Bruce is annoyed with me. “We agreed to walk out and not say anything.” “No, that was your idea and I feel bad about just leaving.” There is more dialogue not conducive to a harmonious relationship and certainly not worth repeating here. As we walk and observe the people around us celebrating being together, we agree to ‘drop it’ and go in search of a quick meal.
Loose the cords of mistakes binding us,
As we release the strands we hold of others’ faults
There are still a lot of people about eating at bars or restaurants. I am worried there will be no shops open in the morning as it will be Good Friday and we have heard that all shops close over Easter weekend. By the time we have eaten dinner, all shops are closed except for the ones selling chocolate. If chocolate is all that is available, then that is what we will eat on Good Friday. At home, I refuse to eat chocolate Easter eggs until Sunday for that’s when they should be eaten. Hot cross buns get eaten on Good Friday. Not in Astorga it seems.
It’s time for sleep at last. It is now 11 p.m. At midnight, we hear drums and voices coming from the direction of the cathedral, but we choose not to leave the albergue to go and investigate. Our beds are not easily deserted after our long walk in the hot sun. We need not have worried about missing out. The drums continue and at 3 a.m. the drums and voices pass beneath our window. We desert our beds and look down. We see a large wooden cross being carried by black hooded and robed figures. I breathe my thanks that I had made my acquaintance with these hooded robes back in León and was not seeing them for the first time, below my window, in the black of the night.
Astorga to Santa
Catalina de Somoza
10 kms (6.2 ml)
264.1 kms (164.1 ml) to Santiago
The universe is transformative;
Our life is what we make it.
Marcus Aurelius (121-180)
April 18, Day 28, Good Friday
AFTER THE LONG WALK ON Maundy Thursday and having had interrupted sleep due to the drums which passed under our window several times between 3 a.m. and dawn, we wake later than usual. It is nearly 8 a.m. and we need to be out of the albergue. I go hurriedly downstairs to collect my iPad which is charging in the lounge as there are no electric sockets in the bunkrooms. To my utter dismay the iPad is gone. I need my iPad for my connection with home, keeping my blog and doing my banking. All my photos are on the iPad. The list goes on. The custodian comes into the lounge with my iPad. A pilgrim had walked in off the street, picked up the iPad and a few other items, and walked out the door. As he exited the building a police officer just happened to be outside and stopped him. My iPad was returned.
“Thank you, Sustainer of light and life.”
We eat a hurried breakfast consisting of day-old bread (the long bread rolls are made to be eaten on the day of baking) heated a little in the microwave, topped with our precious olive oil of which we still have a little, followed by a hot chocolate drink without milk. Just as we are about to leave, Gwen, one of the three Australians we had met on our first night at Valcarlos and who had walked on ahead at Pamplona, comes into the dining room.
Gwen had arrived at the door of the albergue some weeks earlier, where she collapsed. She then spent some time in hospital. Gwen had had inadequate wet weather gear in the cold and snow and consequently the exposure had taken its toll on her health. She had nowhere to go upon her discharge from hospital as she was initially too unwell to consider flying home to Australia, so returned to the albergue where the staff took care of her. Gwen is extremely grateful to them and is now working as a volunteer to repay their kindness. She asks the manager if we can stay later than 8 a.m., but he is firm. The rules must be applied. We are sorry to have seen her for such a brief time. We leave the albergue a few minutes after 8 a.m.
We plan to spend the day in Astorga and then walk just eight kilometres to the next village. We sit on a bench outside the cathedral and wait for the parade to start. It is an opportunity to take off our packs and rest. Bruce chats with a fellow pilgrim. People begin to line the street, so we join them and the parade begins. First comes a band with drums and a few brass instruments. The musicians march in time in
their black and gold braided uniforms. Solemn black hooded and robed figures, girded about with a white corded belt, come after the band. The first float follows them – it represents Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemane. The scene looks harmless enough as it cannot portray the agony and torture which make Jesus sweat blood. I cringe at the float which depicts Jesus being whipped. I also shrink back from the float which shows the nails being driven into the palms of Jesus’ hands by a hammer wielding centurion.
The largest floats require about forty-four people (men?) to carry each one. In front of the float, the bearers are four deep and at the rear, they are six deep. The float bearers are in a single line down each side. The float sits on timber beams which rest upon the shoulders of the float carriers. One gloved hand steadies the weight while the other is placed upon the person immediately in front. Most side bearers’ feet are shod, but some choose to carry their burden barefooted. These feet look young, perhaps young men in their twenties. I am very moved when I notice the bare feet. This is indeed dedication. I don’t necessarily agree with the theology of voluntary self-inflicted suffering, but I can still appreciate the fervour and commitment. (I do realise the irony of my walking nine hundred kilometres which some would consider to be self-inflicted pain.) The flagstones must be hard and hot. The float bearers, front and back, out of necessity wear shoes. A walker out the front beats a drum and the float bearers walk with a rocking rhythm to this beat. Another robed figure carries a bell and when the bell rings, the men lower the float onto pole rests and they take a break beside their burden. The bell rings again to signal it is time to move on.
Other floats pass by and the robes of the people who walk in front of these floats are green, red, or purple. Bruce’s video camera battery goes flat as he walks up and down the street getting as close as he possibly can. He is in his element waving to the robed children taking part in the parade.
We take a break and find a café for a second breakfast. This time we partake of fresh napolitana and coffee. I am hot. I am wearing my boots again, for after three days of walking in sandals, both ankles are feeling the strain. After our second breakfast, I see a fruit shop has opened despite it being Good Friday. I am relieved at the thought of not having to eat chocolate all day. We buy water, oranges, bananas and the plumpest dates I have ever seen.
It is time to walk to the cathedral as a service is about to begin. The cathedral is impressive. Construction began in 1471 and building must have continued for a great number of years, for architecturally, the cathedral is a combination of Gothic, Renaissance and Baroque styles. We notice a sculpture of St James above the door facing the courtyard closest to our albergue. Where are our personal Italian guides? Quite possibly still sitting on the terrace where we left them.
We enter the cathedral and pass an area looking much like a funeral parlour. There are a few people seated quietly, contemplating the altar smothered with flowers. There are no lights on in this parlour. There is also no coffin so I take the funereal space to be a place of mediation on the death of Christ. We take a seat in the cathedral and another pilgrim slips in beside us. After the service, Bruce comments, “That wasn’t much of a service.” Bruce has become a connoisseur of Spanish church services and much prefers the intimacy of the smaller churches to the grand spaces of the cathedrals. He possibly also did not follow the pathos of the Good Friday vigil.
I want to find an ATM. The villages in the mountains ahead of us, the Maragateria, have tiny populations, with the smallest being recorded as ‘one.’ I cannot rely on the Canadians or Australians being around if I run out of cash again. Bruce wants us to first visit the Episcopal Palace designed and begun by Antonio Gaudí, but completed by Ricardo Guereta. The bishop never did reside there; the building became a museum, De los Caminos. Bruce is uninspired by Gaudí’s design. I, on the other hand, am fascinated by the twists, turns and supporting pillars in places I least expect. “It’s not practical,” he says. “Does something always have to be practical? Can’t it be surprising and fun and still be utilised?” Just as well we went to the museum first, for it closed at 2 p.m. and if I had allowed my fear of running out of money to dominate, we would have missed an interesting museum.
We find an ATM. I push the wrong button. The words and buttons all light up and the machine begins to communicate with me in Portuguese. I contain my panic and eventually get money. With worry behind me, we take a walk around the ancient town within its city walls. Peering down over the wall, we see more floats, at rest now, but they are obviously making their way up the steep hill to enter the old city via a gate in the medieval wall.
Our eyes are drawn back to the floats as the bell signals it is time to move on. A large float, with an exceptionally tall cross on top, comes to an overhead bridge. The cross is higher than the bridge. The bell rings and as one, the float bearers bend their knees and walk under the bridge with their heavy load. The strain on their backs, knees and thighs must be tremendous. The onlookers clap as the float bearers bend their knees to take the float under the bridge and there is more applause when the float clears the bridge. It is now very hot and the float bearers must be sweltering underneath their full garb.
It is time to leave Astorga. We pass yet more restaurants advertising a drink called Limonado. I want to know what this drink is and what’s so special about it. We stop for an orange juice and a small salad and are served by the kind waiter who helped us last night. I learn that Limonado is an Easter only drink. It is like a cold mulled wine. Was this the drink I had over consumed during the wine production lecture? It is delicious, but not recommended as a thirst quencher when there are many kilometres to walk.
Bruce desperately needs a sleep and on leaving the old part of the town we see an enclosed garden. It is similar to the one by the post office in León, but much smaller and doesn’t have a water feature. It does, however, have tall evergreen trees, grass and some flower beds. It is all we need: grass to lie down upon and tall trees to shade us from the hot sun. I would never be able to walk the Camino in the heat of July and August.
It is quieter in this part of town. There were so many people in the town centre. Bruce lies down on the grass and is immediately asleep. I doze for a couple of minutes. That’s all I can manage. I am too ill at ease with the world and myself to write up my notes on our time in Astorga. I think longingly of our getaway place on the Coromandel Peninsula and the peace and rest I find there. Astorga locals look at us (and smile) from the other side of the hedge. They possibly notice us because they hear Bruce’s snoring. I can’t be bothered giving him a jab in the ribs to hush him up. Besides he needs the rest and sleep to be able to walk the eight kilometres we have planned. I eat chocolate while he sleeps. I have the energy, just, to eat sugar and fat. So much for not eating chocolate on Good Friday.
Bruce wakes and we begin to walk. We are doing a very slow three kilometres per hour, for it is still hot. We eventually arrive at Murias de Rechivaldo, our planned destination, but there are only top bunks left in the albergue. What shall we do? We do not want to continue our current route and stop at the next village just a few kilometres on, for it has been restored as an ‘original’ medieval village and is now a tourist destination. Even from where we are standing we can see, across the kilometres, several large buses in the car park. There is however, an alternative option. “It’s only five kilometres to the next village if we take this other route,” I offer. We reject the model village and after a banana head for Santa Catalina de Somoza. The day is cooler now. I am happy we have renewed energy and can keep walking. We are walking under apple trees still in blossom. I love apple blossom, possibly a legacy from hearing my mother play the piano piece Apple Blossom when I was young. The local community has planted the trees for the pilgrims’ benefit. We are impressed and grateful for the care shown to pilgrims.
After just two kilometres we stop and sit companionably on a stone wall, eat an apple followed by chocolate and a drink
of water. Two cyclists ride past. It is good to be back on The Way again. We have had enough of being tourists in town. The village is visible up ahead. There is an attractive path leading into the village, just two metres wide and lined by old stone walls. The green of spring is all around. Trees are in blossom and I breathe in the fresh, cooler air with gratitude.
The next section of the walk has the reputation for being one of the most picturesque on the Camino. There will be fewer villages and bars ahead of us and the highest point of the Camino is coming up. Ahead is also the feared village of Foncebadón where pilgrims have written of meeting wild, ferocious dogs. Now that we have left the Meseta, we are back among houses and churches built of stone flecked with the colours of autumn. The stone contrasts agreeably with the greens of spring. The villages we pass through now will be at an advantage in our memory given we are seeing them in spring. The earlier villages will be remembered as stark in their late winter bareness.
The albergue is painted a mid-yellow like the mustard fields we have been passing through. It has a courtyard complete with fountain in the centre. The fountain has three levels of flower garden encircling it. I am enchanted. Ferns are thriving, kept moist by the overspill from the fountain. At the back of the courtyard and semidetached from the main building, is an old stable which may sometimes still shelter a horse or two.
The tiled bunkroom smells clean and there are clothes washing facilities. It is only five euros each for a bottom bunk, so I splash out and pay to use a washing machine and clothes dryer. This is exciting after weeks of hand washing clothes. The albergue has a large bar and a dining room. We are joined at our dinner table by a French woman. She is a school teacher back home in France. We enjoy another meal in agreeable company. Bruce and I hope we will meet her again, but we do not.
Santa Catalina de Somoza
Kiwi on the Camino Page 20
