"Now the years are rolling by me
they are rocking evenly
and I am older than I once was
younger than I'll be, but that's not unusual
No, it isn't strange,
after changes upon changes we are more or less the same
after changes, we are more or less the same"
-Simon and Garfunkel from "The Boxer", live version
Note: It took me a while to try and organize my thoughts on the camino as a whole, and the entry below still feels incomplete. It's complete in my head, where it matters most, but I doubt I'll ever have the skill to express it fully in writing. But this is as close as I've come yet, and in the interest of wrapping this blog up, it'll have to do.
So, it's done. 51 days after Roncesvalles, I could stop referring to myself as a pilgrim. I think back, and while I still recall the hardships too well to romanticize the experience, the bad things don't seem as bad as they were at the time. And the challenges that once seemed so insurmountable were, in retrospect, very doable. The camino is like life in a compressed timeframe: full of hope and happiness and hardship. Full of hellos, conversations, and goodbyes. Full of inspiration and disappointment. Moments of crushing despair and soaring joy. I've felt it all. And I'm eager for more. They say the real camino starts once you arrive in Santiago. That the real camino is about how you take what you've learned here and apply it to the rest of your life. If so, I've got a lot of lessons to apply. And I can't wait to get started.
The things that really stick out for me now, over a week since I arrived in Santiago are the moments that made me feel good; The moments of simple fun, the moments of revalation, the moments of contemplation, the moments of feeling part of something bigger. Like the time in Grañon, with the prayer service and sing-along after the communal meal. Or that second night in León, which was every bit as fun, if a lot less wholesome. Or the moment on the Alto de Perdón outside of Pamplona where I finally forgave everyone who ever hurt or disappointed me. And that time a week later in Santo Domingo when I finally forgave myself. The endless trails of the meseta, which promised an eternity to think and infinite space to grow. Leaving my piece of home behind at the Cruz del Ferro, and realizing that I too was a pilgrim. Climing the mountain in the fog and walking it's crest in sunshine. All these moments wash over me still, like scenes from a vivid dream I once had. They all seem so distant, and yet so recent. So subtle, and yet so very powerful.
I remember also the wonderful people I met along the way: Jose Luis and Aurora, Cecile, Jessica, the two Francescas, Matias, Stephan, Aussie Mike, Toby, Michael, Sarah and family, and so many more that I couldn't list them, even if I had all the time and space in the world. Each of them enriched my camino in some way, and helped me figure a few things out whether they knew it or not. Though I mostly did my walking alone, partly by circumstance, and partly because I really needed to, the people I met while resting gave me a lot of the strength and determination I needed to move on. Both along the camino and in life. They helped to provide the courage I needed to face down my demons once and for all and finally start healing.
So what have I learned all these days? These days of hardship and happiness? In a nutshell, I think I learned what really mattered. And while very little of it was surprising, they are all hard-learned lessons that I'll always keep with me. So what matters? Forgiveness matters. Both of others and of yourself. Learning to let go of a hurt that had become a source of comfort over the years. That matters. Patience and persistence matter. Pride doesn't. Taking another step when all you want to do is rest. Or helping someone along when you barely have the strength to pick yourself up. That matters. Discovering your limits, physically and mentally, and realizing that they're further than you ever dreamed. That matters. Home matters. Family and friends matter. Learning that you can handle just about anything that's thrown your way. That matters.
And what has been gained? I would love to have said that I had a spiritual re-awakening along the Camino, but I honestly can't say that I did. In the end, unlike the Paolo Cuelhos and Shirley McLaines of the world, the camino wasn't a spiritual experience for me. It was a very human experience. But sometimes, the divine is more evident in a human experience than anywhere else. Through this human experience, I think I regained what I needed: I regained my faith and my hope. Faith in myself, faith in humanity, faith in the kindness of strangers. Faith in whatever makes the universe go around. I found hope in the discovery that even someone as lost as I was could eventually find their way. And in the understanding that, somewhere along the camino that I can't pinpoint, I made my peace with god. And more hope still in feeling at peace with who and what I am for the first time in as long as I can remember.
This is the last entry of my blog. I realize it's filled with contradictions and that it might easily be dismissed as nonsense. I make no apologies for that. It might be that camino experiences are one of those things that only have meaning to the person who experienced it. Maybe that's the point of the entire exercise. Many truths in life are subjective, and there are as many ways to interpret them as there are interpeters.
In any case, I do want to thank everyone who's been following along and leaving comments over the last little while. It meant a lot to me to know that people back home were interested in my comings and goings, even though writing the blog itself was a bit of a pain. I started off this entry by saying that the Camino is life in a compressed timeframe. As such, it's often used as a metaphor for life itself. And it is from that perspective that I wish you all a "buen camino".
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Post Camino, day 1: Santiago de Compostella
"Pass the dutchie up on the left hand side"
-Musical Youth
It's called Ourujo. It's the local tipple here in Galicia. There are two basic kinds, there's the stuff that you can buy in stores, which has been toned down to suit both the tastes of the general public as well as local legislation regarding alcohol content. Then there's Ourujo casero, which is home-made; by people with little regard for such trivialities. Of the two, I only have experience with the latter. This is my story.
Ourujo (casero) is made like grappa; from fermented grape skins. It's an off-white beverage that you'll find hidden underneath bars and shop counters around Galicia. Too far to go to get some? Well, I'm sure that your local jet-propulsion lab can fix you up with something similar. The name Ourujo (oh-rooo-hoh) is clearly derived from the first three sounds your body involuntarily makes every time you taste it. It smells vaguely like tequila, tastes like vodka (with a slight aftertaste of rotting fruit), and burns your insides like kerosene. The alcohol content in this stuff is so high, that a single ounce of it could disinfect Pamela Anderson AND Tommy Lee. The only word I can use to describe it is "monsterous".
Just after my third shot of this brew, I heard a strange sound coming from my gut. "eeeeeEEEEEEEeeeee" it went. Kind of like the sound you hear when you're trying to hold in a fart. Except that I wasn't. I can think of three potential explinations for the strange sound. There's a 7% chance it was just gas, a 5% Chance that it was the stomach bug protesting, and a 88% chance that it was my liver screaming. Now, I know what you're thinking. If this stuff was so bad, why did you have three? I'm working on a system here. I figure, no matter how vile a local foodstuff is, you have to try it three times to truly say you've been open-minded. The first try, I call the "probative" phase; where it's your instinctive gut-reaction: good or bad. The second try, I call the "interrogative": Do you like it any more, and if not, what exactly do you not like? The third try is the "conclusive" phase. Is it so bad that you never want to have it again? Example below, using Ourujo as the subject:
Try 1 (Probative): "Och...rooooo....hooh. This stuff is vile. Give me another."
Try 2 (Interrogative): "ohhhhh...roo...hch. It's still disgusting. I especially dislike the way it burns my mouth, throat and gullet. Also, I don't enjoy the way it makes me feel like I'm going to have a seizure. Give me another.
Try 3: (Conclusive): "oh....roo...oh. That one wasn't so bad. In fact, I think I´ll have...'eeeeeEEEEEEeeeee'....Screw this, I'm done.
So how did all this start? Well, I bumped into a few other pilgrims that I had seen on and off for the last couple of days before arriving in Santiago, and they suggested we all go out for drinks to celebrate. After a drink or two, someone (might have been me) suggested ourujo. The bartender, who is obviously Lucifer in disguise, suggested the casero stuff. The rest of the night lasted about an hour. That is to say, I can only remember enough to account for about an hour's worth of time that night. Here's what I do recall:
There was a discussion, where I was trying to convince my companions that sheep are, in fact, carnivores by preference, and occasionally predetory. Highlights of this conversation include: "why do you think we put those little bells on them? It's so they can't sneak up on us" and "For millenia, shepherds have been arming themselves with long sticks and attack dogs. They know how dangerous sheep can be". That exchange was obviously done in English. I also recall having a discussion with a guy at the bar, where I suggested that FC Barcelona should sell Ronaldinho to Paramount studios, so that he can fulfill his dreams of being an actor. That was in Spanish. I recall the blank looks on the faces of my friends as I elequently described what the camino meant to me, in what might have been Bablylonian. I don't actually understand Bablylonian, so it's kind of hard to tell. I remember inviting everyone back to the hotel for a nightcap, and after leading them 10 blocks south of the bar (most of the way singing, among other things, "mony mony"), and once there, remembering that I had checked out of that hotel the night before, and my new hotel was 2 blocks east-ish of the bar we were at. The mini-bar in my room is intact, so I'm assuming the rest of them didn't make it back with me.
The new hotel, while no Parador, is quite comfortable, although the floors and walls have a disturbing tendency to sway unpredictably. The celing spins too, and I recall wondering whether Aussies and South Africans' whirlies go counter-clockwise.
Anyways, this is obviously not the recap of the camino that I was planning on, but it was still a story that (I hope) was worth telling. Tomorrow should be the camino wrap-up, and then maybe one more entry once I'm back in the good old U.S. of...I mean...Canada. Guess I've gotten too used to being called an "americano".
-Musical Youth
It's called Ourujo. It's the local tipple here in Galicia. There are two basic kinds, there's the stuff that you can buy in stores, which has been toned down to suit both the tastes of the general public as well as local legislation regarding alcohol content. Then there's Ourujo casero, which is home-made; by people with little regard for such trivialities. Of the two, I only have experience with the latter. This is my story.
Ourujo (casero) is made like grappa; from fermented grape skins. It's an off-white beverage that you'll find hidden underneath bars and shop counters around Galicia. Too far to go to get some? Well, I'm sure that your local jet-propulsion lab can fix you up with something similar. The name Ourujo (oh-rooo-hoh) is clearly derived from the first three sounds your body involuntarily makes every time you taste it. It smells vaguely like tequila, tastes like vodka (with a slight aftertaste of rotting fruit), and burns your insides like kerosene. The alcohol content in this stuff is so high, that a single ounce of it could disinfect Pamela Anderson AND Tommy Lee. The only word I can use to describe it is "monsterous".
Just after my third shot of this brew, I heard a strange sound coming from my gut. "eeeeeEEEEEEEeeeee" it went. Kind of like the sound you hear when you're trying to hold in a fart. Except that I wasn't. I can think of three potential explinations for the strange sound. There's a 7% chance it was just gas, a 5% Chance that it was the stomach bug protesting, and a 88% chance that it was my liver screaming. Now, I know what you're thinking. If this stuff was so bad, why did you have three? I'm working on a system here. I figure, no matter how vile a local foodstuff is, you have to try it three times to truly say you've been open-minded. The first try, I call the "probative" phase; where it's your instinctive gut-reaction: good or bad. The second try, I call the "interrogative": Do you like it any more, and if not, what exactly do you not like? The third try is the "conclusive" phase. Is it so bad that you never want to have it again? Example below, using Ourujo as the subject:
Try 1 (Probative): "Och...rooooo....hooh. This stuff is vile. Give me another."
Try 2 (Interrogative): "ohhhhh...roo...hch. It's still disgusting. I especially dislike the way it burns my mouth, throat and gullet. Also, I don't enjoy the way it makes me feel like I'm going to have a seizure. Give me another.
Try 3: (Conclusive): "oh....roo...oh. That one wasn't so bad. In fact, I think I´ll have...'eeeeeEEEEEEeeeee'....Screw this, I'm done.
So how did all this start? Well, I bumped into a few other pilgrims that I had seen on and off for the last couple of days before arriving in Santiago, and they suggested we all go out for drinks to celebrate. After a drink or two, someone (might have been me) suggested ourujo. The bartender, who is obviously Lucifer in disguise, suggested the casero stuff. The rest of the night lasted about an hour. That is to say, I can only remember enough to account for about an hour's worth of time that night. Here's what I do recall:
There was a discussion, where I was trying to convince my companions that sheep are, in fact, carnivores by preference, and occasionally predetory. Highlights of this conversation include: "why do you think we put those little bells on them? It's so they can't sneak up on us" and "For millenia, shepherds have been arming themselves with long sticks and attack dogs. They know how dangerous sheep can be". That exchange was obviously done in English. I also recall having a discussion with a guy at the bar, where I suggested that FC Barcelona should sell Ronaldinho to Paramount studios, so that he can fulfill his dreams of being an actor. That was in Spanish. I recall the blank looks on the faces of my friends as I elequently described what the camino meant to me, in what might have been Bablylonian. I don't actually understand Bablylonian, so it's kind of hard to tell. I remember inviting everyone back to the hotel for a nightcap, and after leading them 10 blocks south of the bar (most of the way singing, among other things, "mony mony"), and once there, remembering that I had checked out of that hotel the night before, and my new hotel was 2 blocks east-ish of the bar we were at. The mini-bar in my room is intact, so I'm assuming the rest of them didn't make it back with me.
The new hotel, while no Parador, is quite comfortable, although the floors and walls have a disturbing tendency to sway unpredictably. The celing spins too, and I recall wondering whether Aussies and South Africans' whirlies go counter-clockwise.
Anyways, this is obviously not the recap of the camino that I was planning on, but it was still a story that (I hope) was worth telling. Tomorrow should be the camino wrap-up, and then maybe one more entry once I'm back in the good old U.S. of...I mean...Canada. Guess I've gotten too used to being called an "americano".
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Day 51: Brea to Santiago de Compostella
"How does it feel like to let forever be"
-Chemical Brothers
Last day. Thank god, this is the last day of walking. Eagerly left Brea at the crack of dawn (which is around 8:30 nowadays), wanting to make tracks into Santiago as soon as possible. The path wound through valleys and forests, and at one point, through the charred remains of a forest. I had heard about the Galician wildfires in August, but I never realized they had come as close as this to the Camino. All around me, tree trunks blackened, some fallen down, and some tree stumps that were little more than charcoal. It seemed ironic, given that from what I've seen, Galicia gets more water each year then, say, Atlantis. Today, it was raining so hard that that my poncho gave up, as if to say "Fine, rain, you can go through. What do I care?". I thought I had been soaked the previous two days, but this time, I was sopping wet. Had to duck into the washroom of a bar 12k in to do a complete change of clothes. Socks, underwear and all.
Just before reaching that bar, I entered the district of Santiago. It's marked by a large-ish rock, carved with the traditional symbols of the pilgramage; a staff, a gourd and a scallop shell. A very low-key and understated way to say "you're going to make it". Seeing it was an emotional experience. All the times I thought I wouldn't make it, including as recently as two days before, came back to me. What I felt as I touched the rock was a mixture of joy and pride and sadness (sadness? what the hell?) that almost got the best of me. I don't know what it is about human beings, that the sense of touch is so important to determining whether an experience is real. But I knew from the moment I saw the marker that I had to put my hand on it. Man, I was going to be a mess at the cathedral.
Walking into Santiago itself was a surreal, indescribable experience. My first views of the city were from the Monte de Gozo, where pilgrims for hundreds of years got their first rapturous glimpse of the cathedral spires. After that, a 5k stroll into the city, which only felt like it took 10 minutes. All the while remembering what it had taken to get there. How much I had put up with and put aside to arrive here. 50 days. 50 wonderful, brutal, revealing, mind-numbing days. So much had happened. So many times when I was sure I'd never see Santiago. By the time I reached the cathedral, I was little more than a shell, full of emotions. The tradition for pilgrims when arriving at the cathedral is to enter through from the Plaza Obradorio, to reach the Portico del Gloria. You're then to place your right hand on the central pillar of the portico and give thanks for your safe journey. This apparently, does not apply to pilgrims arriving after 7:00pm. The doors were locked. I'm glad. If I had gone through with the tradition in the state I was in, I would have lost it right then and there.
Exhausted but happy right now. Still a bundle of frayed emotions which makes it difficult to put my thoughts in order and on paper. Maybe in a couple of days, but not now. Now I just want to enjoy the moment. Now I just want to feel.
-Chemical Brothers
Last day. Thank god, this is the last day of walking. Eagerly left Brea at the crack of dawn (which is around 8:30 nowadays), wanting to make tracks into Santiago as soon as possible. The path wound through valleys and forests, and at one point, through the charred remains of a forest. I had heard about the Galician wildfires in August, but I never realized they had come as close as this to the Camino. All around me, tree trunks blackened, some fallen down, and some tree stumps that were little more than charcoal. It seemed ironic, given that from what I've seen, Galicia gets more water each year then, say, Atlantis. Today, it was raining so hard that that my poncho gave up, as if to say "Fine, rain, you can go through. What do I care?". I thought I had been soaked the previous two days, but this time, I was sopping wet. Had to duck into the washroom of a bar 12k in to do a complete change of clothes. Socks, underwear and all.
Just before reaching that bar, I entered the district of Santiago. It's marked by a large-ish rock, carved with the traditional symbols of the pilgramage; a staff, a gourd and a scallop shell. A very low-key and understated way to say "you're going to make it". Seeing it was an emotional experience. All the times I thought I wouldn't make it, including as recently as two days before, came back to me. What I felt as I touched the rock was a mixture of joy and pride and sadness (sadness? what the hell?) that almost got the best of me. I don't know what it is about human beings, that the sense of touch is so important to determining whether an experience is real. But I knew from the moment I saw the marker that I had to put my hand on it. Man, I was going to be a mess at the cathedral.
Walking into Santiago itself was a surreal, indescribable experience. My first views of the city were from the Monte de Gozo, where pilgrims for hundreds of years got their first rapturous glimpse of the cathedral spires. After that, a 5k stroll into the city, which only felt like it took 10 minutes. All the while remembering what it had taken to get there. How much I had put up with and put aside to arrive here. 50 days. 50 wonderful, brutal, revealing, mind-numbing days. So much had happened. So many times when I was sure I'd never see Santiago. By the time I reached the cathedral, I was little more than a shell, full of emotions. The tradition for pilgrims when arriving at the cathedral is to enter through from the Plaza Obradorio, to reach the Portico del Gloria. You're then to place your right hand on the central pillar of the portico and give thanks for your safe journey. This apparently, does not apply to pilgrims arriving after 7:00pm. The doors were locked. I'm glad. If I had gone through with the tradition in the state I was in, I would have lost it right then and there.
Exhausted but happy right now. Still a bundle of frayed emotions which makes it difficult to put my thoughts in order and on paper. Maybe in a couple of days, but not now. Now I just want to enjoy the moment. Now I just want to feel.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Day 49 to 50: Palas de Rei to Brea
"If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
to serve your term long after they are gone
and so hold on when there is nothing in you
except the will that says to them ´Hold on!´"
-Rudyard Kipling
Ended up staying another night longer in Palas. The nausea had gone, but I still had some lingering digestive problems that made it unwise to stray very far from a toilet. Ended up leaving on the 19th, in the pouring, pouring rain knowing that it was going to be a tough day. Still, fortified by my coffee and orange juice I was on my way. I had 26k I wanted to cover to Santa Irene which would allow me a quiet little 23 and 20k to reach Santiago.
Crossed the border into A Coruña about 9k into the day. A Coruña is the province that Santiago is in, and it's the last one that I'll be walking (or at this rate, swimming) in. At this point, I was wondering whether I'd make it at all. The nausea had returned while I was walking, and I had to stop several times because I thought I was going to lose my non-existent lunch (I hadn't really eaten much of anything since falling ill). In concert with the rain, which was heavy, persistent, and seemed to come at you from every direction, I was miserable, soaked to the bone, and starting to get the shivers again. Thoughts of taking a bus into Santiago kept on popping into my head, but I decided to walk at least until the next "city" before I made that decision.
Somewhere in the 9k between the border and Melide, the next city, my brain ended up just shutting down; for about an hour and a half, I didn't feel wet or cold or happy or annoyed; didn't feel anything, and I can't recall what I was thinking. Just had to keep walking. Just walk to the next kilometer marker and you can rest; just walk around that curve; make it halfway up that hill; and then ultimately, one more step, one more step. By the time I got to Melide, I was gone; finished. The only thing that had kept me going since Ponferrada was the desire to finish what I started. Now, even that didn't seem to matter much anymore. I was hungry and weak, but there was no point in eating, I was soaked and couldn't get dry, I was tired and still had another 50k to go to Santiago. Might has well have been 500k, it was such a low point for me.
Stayed in Melide, only making 18k from Palas. Decided to test my stomach again by trying to have a substantial meal; my first in 4 days. Fortunately, even though it didn't sit quite right in my stomach, it stayed down and I started to feel a bit better. I'd knew I'd probably have a bit of trouble with the next day's walk. Thanks to my short trip to Melide, the next day had to be a very, very long one. 30k or so. I didn't decide to not take the bus until the next morning. For some reason, I decided to keep walking. The weather still wasn't cooperating; raining buckets. It actually had´nt stopped raining since I made my weather prediction in Palas. I don't mean it rained every day since, I mean it had not stopped. It's only really a question of how hard it was raining at any given time. I heard on the news that parts of Santiago had been flooded the night before; sounded like God would rather destory the city than have me go there.
I felt good the first half of the walk to Brea, half-decent for the next quarter and half-dead the last quarter into Brea. If the weather would have cooperated, rather than trying to make Galicia into a lake, it would have been a beautiful walk through fields, forests and countryside. Oh, yeah, and Arzúa, which is another ugly little town. Checked into a hotel in Brea (I've seriously had it with Galician albergues - they've all been soul-crushingly awful), and after a half-hearted attempt to get clean (the purpose of the shower was more to get warm), I promply collapsed into my bed, too tired to do anything else. The next day would be the last, I kept telling myself. I'm getting to Santiago tomorrow. If not on foot, then in a coffin.
to serve your term long after they are gone
and so hold on when there is nothing in you
except the will that says to them ´Hold on!´"
-Rudyard Kipling
Ended up staying another night longer in Palas. The nausea had gone, but I still had some lingering digestive problems that made it unwise to stray very far from a toilet. Ended up leaving on the 19th, in the pouring, pouring rain knowing that it was going to be a tough day. Still, fortified by my coffee and orange juice I was on my way. I had 26k I wanted to cover to Santa Irene which would allow me a quiet little 23 and 20k to reach Santiago.
Crossed the border into A Coruña about 9k into the day. A Coruña is the province that Santiago is in, and it's the last one that I'll be walking (or at this rate, swimming) in. At this point, I was wondering whether I'd make it at all. The nausea had returned while I was walking, and I had to stop several times because I thought I was going to lose my non-existent lunch (I hadn't really eaten much of anything since falling ill). In concert with the rain, which was heavy, persistent, and seemed to come at you from every direction, I was miserable, soaked to the bone, and starting to get the shivers again. Thoughts of taking a bus into Santiago kept on popping into my head, but I decided to walk at least until the next "city" before I made that decision.
Somewhere in the 9k between the border and Melide, the next city, my brain ended up just shutting down; for about an hour and a half, I didn't feel wet or cold or happy or annoyed; didn't feel anything, and I can't recall what I was thinking. Just had to keep walking. Just walk to the next kilometer marker and you can rest; just walk around that curve; make it halfway up that hill; and then ultimately, one more step, one more step. By the time I got to Melide, I was gone; finished. The only thing that had kept me going since Ponferrada was the desire to finish what I started. Now, even that didn't seem to matter much anymore. I was hungry and weak, but there was no point in eating, I was soaked and couldn't get dry, I was tired and still had another 50k to go to Santiago. Might has well have been 500k, it was such a low point for me.
Stayed in Melide, only making 18k from Palas. Decided to test my stomach again by trying to have a substantial meal; my first in 4 days. Fortunately, even though it didn't sit quite right in my stomach, it stayed down and I started to feel a bit better. I'd knew I'd probably have a bit of trouble with the next day's walk. Thanks to my short trip to Melide, the next day had to be a very, very long one. 30k or so. I didn't decide to not take the bus until the next morning. For some reason, I decided to keep walking. The weather still wasn't cooperating; raining buckets. It actually had´nt stopped raining since I made my weather prediction in Palas. I don't mean it rained every day since, I mean it had not stopped. It's only really a question of how hard it was raining at any given time. I heard on the news that parts of Santiago had been flooded the night before; sounded like God would rather destory the city than have me go there.
I felt good the first half of the walk to Brea, half-decent for the next quarter and half-dead the last quarter into Brea. If the weather would have cooperated, rather than trying to make Galicia into a lake, it would have been a beautiful walk through fields, forests and countryside. Oh, yeah, and Arzúa, which is another ugly little town. Checked into a hotel in Brea (I've seriously had it with Galician albergues - they've all been soul-crushingly awful), and after a half-hearted attempt to get clean (the purpose of the shower was more to get warm), I promply collapsed into my bed, too tired to do anything else. The next day would be the last, I kept telling myself. I'm getting to Santiago tomorrow. If not on foot, then in a coffin.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Day 46 to 47: Portomarín to Palas de Rei
"Here comes the rain again,
falling on my head like a tragedy
tearing me apart like a new emotion"
-Eurythmics
Well, my luck with the weather has apparently run out. Galicia gets, on average, one rainy day every three. So far, I've had three sunny days here. Using my advanced weather prediction system, based purely on statistics, I predict rain for the next 9 days. In any case, this kind of thing is to be expected in Galicia, so I can't say I wasn't expecting it at some point. Other than the weather, the first half of today's walk, into Ventas, was pleasant - if a little strenuous. We're just now starting to leave the foothills of the Cordillera Cantabrica, so over the next couple of days, the ups and downs are supposedly going to start getting more gentle and gradual.
Walking to Palas de Rei was pretty much more of the same - through many, many small Gallego villages and farmland. Towards the end of it, I felt myself losing energy fast. I found that odd, since I had only done 22k to that point, but I shrugged it off as just a bad day. I had no idea at that point how bad the day would become. Checked into the albergue in Palas de Rei, which is an ugly little town, at around 4:30. Decided very soon afterwards that I didn't like the vibe of the place, so I found a cheap room in a pensión to crash in. Good thing too - I would have been a huge nuisance at the albergue that night. Tried to take a bit of a siesta when I arrived in the pensión, but for some reason, I couldn't get warm. I had every blanket in the room on me, including 4 flannel blankets, and I was still shivering. Eventually gave up and went downstairs to check on my e-mail. Still freezing, still shivering. Wasn't sure what was going on, since I'm normally not at all sensitive to cold weather. Just as I left the internet café to grab some dinner, I realized something was up; I started getting dizzy and nauseous, and I could barely see straight. Looks like the stomach bug that's been going around the albergues since Sahagún had finally caught up with me.
Spent much of the night rushing back and forth to the toilet, mostly kneeling. Didn't sleep much more than a wink between the stomach cramps and the shivers. By around 5:00am, I started to feel a little better - warmer anyway, and by 8:00 the stomach cramps had mostly subsided. Still, I decided the wise thing to do would be to stay put and rest up; last thing I need would be to start vomiting while on the road to the next town. Checked into a proper hotel this morning, and slept for the majority of the day - only requiring one or two emergency trips to the bathroom early on in the morning. Feeling immensely better now, although still a little weak from lack of nutrition over the past 24 hours. Still, I might hold off on dinner for a bit - at least until I'm positive I can keep it down.
Tomorrow, assuming I'm all better, I'll be doing 26k to Ribadiso del Baixo, then Arca the day after that. After that, a 20k stroll into Santiago de Compostella. Looks like I'm going to make it after all, if only a little worse for the wear.
falling on my head like a tragedy
tearing me apart like a new emotion"
-Eurythmics
Well, my luck with the weather has apparently run out. Galicia gets, on average, one rainy day every three. So far, I've had three sunny days here. Using my advanced weather prediction system, based purely on statistics, I predict rain for the next 9 days. In any case, this kind of thing is to be expected in Galicia, so I can't say I wasn't expecting it at some point. Other than the weather, the first half of today's walk, into Ventas, was pleasant - if a little strenuous. We're just now starting to leave the foothills of the Cordillera Cantabrica, so over the next couple of days, the ups and downs are supposedly going to start getting more gentle and gradual.
Walking to Palas de Rei was pretty much more of the same - through many, many small Gallego villages and farmland. Towards the end of it, I felt myself losing energy fast. I found that odd, since I had only done 22k to that point, but I shrugged it off as just a bad day. I had no idea at that point how bad the day would become. Checked into the albergue in Palas de Rei, which is an ugly little town, at around 4:30. Decided very soon afterwards that I didn't like the vibe of the place, so I found a cheap room in a pensión to crash in. Good thing too - I would have been a huge nuisance at the albergue that night. Tried to take a bit of a siesta when I arrived in the pensión, but for some reason, I couldn't get warm. I had every blanket in the room on me, including 4 flannel blankets, and I was still shivering. Eventually gave up and went downstairs to check on my e-mail. Still freezing, still shivering. Wasn't sure what was going on, since I'm normally not at all sensitive to cold weather. Just as I left the internet café to grab some dinner, I realized something was up; I started getting dizzy and nauseous, and I could barely see straight. Looks like the stomach bug that's been going around the albergues since Sahagún had finally caught up with me.
Spent much of the night rushing back and forth to the toilet, mostly kneeling. Didn't sleep much more than a wink between the stomach cramps and the shivers. By around 5:00am, I started to feel a little better - warmer anyway, and by 8:00 the stomach cramps had mostly subsided. Still, I decided the wise thing to do would be to stay put and rest up; last thing I need would be to start vomiting while on the road to the next town. Checked into a proper hotel this morning, and slept for the majority of the day - only requiring one or two emergency trips to the bathroom early on in the morning. Feeling immensely better now, although still a little weak from lack of nutrition over the past 24 hours. Still, I might hold off on dinner for a bit - at least until I'm positive I can keep it down.
Tomorrow, assuming I'm all better, I'll be doing 26k to Ribadiso del Baixo, then Arca the day after that. After that, a 20k stroll into Santiago de Compostella. Looks like I'm going to make it after all, if only a little worse for the wear.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Day 45: Calvor to Portomarín.
"and all the roads we have to walk are winding
and all the lights that light the way are blinding"
-Oasis
Woke up with the ominous feeling that it was going to be a bad day. My right ankle was still a bit stiff from the day before, but certainly still walkable. About 500m outside the albergue, I somehow managed to twist the other ankle. Yes, yes, I was watching what I was doing, but I was more concerned with not re-twisting my right ankle rather than my left. Anyways, as the pain hit, I had visions of my camino ending right then and there. But almost as quickly as it came, the pain faded. It's still a bit sore, but now that both my ankles are that way, it's kind of corrected my gait so that I'm not limping anymore. So much so, that I made the 9k through Sarria to Barbadelo in amazing time. Barbadello is an interesting village; everything made of stone, including the fences, in the middle of green, green grass and oak trees. It looks less like you would expect from Spain, and more like you would expect from Ireland (minus the burning cars and masked gunmen).
The trail into Portomarín felt longer than I expected, but somewhere along the way, I managed to pass the 100k to Santiago marker. Felt good, after having walked 651 or so. In the homestretch now, and I suspect I'll be there on the morning of the 20th...going to take a couple of "easy" days to finish the camino off.
Portomarín is an interesting city. The old city was flooded back in 1956 to make way for a man-nade lake behind a hydroelectric dam. The church, and some town monuments were moved from the floodplain, but most of the houses, as well as the bridge were left to be consumed by the water. For the most part, it's remained that way for the past 50 years, but with the drought that Spain's been dealing with for the past couple of years, the old town has again resurfaced. Gives the new town a weird sense of displacement; of being far, far too high above the river.
Tomorrow, on to Palas de Rei; a medium-range 24.5k walk. Should be a piece of cake.
and all the lights that light the way are blinding"
-Oasis
Woke up with the ominous feeling that it was going to be a bad day. My right ankle was still a bit stiff from the day before, but certainly still walkable. About 500m outside the albergue, I somehow managed to twist the other ankle. Yes, yes, I was watching what I was doing, but I was more concerned with not re-twisting my right ankle rather than my left. Anyways, as the pain hit, I had visions of my camino ending right then and there. But almost as quickly as it came, the pain faded. It's still a bit sore, but now that both my ankles are that way, it's kind of corrected my gait so that I'm not limping anymore. So much so, that I made the 9k through Sarria to Barbadelo in amazing time. Barbadello is an interesting village; everything made of stone, including the fences, in the middle of green, green grass and oak trees. It looks less like you would expect from Spain, and more like you would expect from Ireland (minus the burning cars and masked gunmen).
The trail into Portomarín felt longer than I expected, but somewhere along the way, I managed to pass the 100k to Santiago marker. Felt good, after having walked 651 or so. In the homestretch now, and I suspect I'll be there on the morning of the 20th...going to take a couple of "easy" days to finish the camino off.
Portomarín is an interesting city. The old city was flooded back in 1956 to make way for a man-nade lake behind a hydroelectric dam. The church, and some town monuments were moved from the floodplain, but most of the houses, as well as the bridge were left to be consumed by the water. For the most part, it's remained that way for the past 50 years, but with the drought that Spain's been dealing with for the past couple of years, the old town has again resurfaced. Gives the new town a weird sense of displacement; of being far, far too high above the river.
Tomorrow, on to Palas de Rei; a medium-range 24.5k walk. Should be a piece of cake.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Day 43 to 44:Villafranca del Bierzo to Calvor
"So may the sunrise bring hope
where it once was forgotten
sons can be birds taken broken
up to the mountain"
-Iron and Wine
Left Jesús' place on a very, very cold morning. I've given up taking my guide's "recommended" shortcuts, so for today, I'm sticking to the road. While I was in Ponferrada, I had bought some knee supports in anticipation of my climb tomorrow. From what I can tell, they're about as useful as a bicycle is to a fish. Despite wearing the damn things all day, my knees were still aching a bit when I was done, and I didn't even do any major climbing or descending. Well, to hell with those. Going to try for O Cebreiro without them.
The next day, from Vega de Valcarce found me unusually energized. I only had 14k scheduled to get to O Cebreiro, since it was a 900m climb to there. Well, I got there just after noon, and decided I had way too much energy to stop. Ended up walking another 12k that day, to end in Fonfria. The views from the top of the pass were amazing, but not even close to the views on the first mountain crossing. Just before I arrived in O Cebreiro, I crossed the last regional border, into Galicia. One more provincial border to go, and I'm all set. The route to Fonfria was pretty much more of the same, not really coming down of the mountain, but more like walking along it's crest.
Compared to the previous day's glory, the day from Fonfria to Calvor can be described in one word. S**t. This section, for some reason was extremely poorly waymarked, and every pilgrim that I've talked to got lost at some point today. With me, it happened about 2k outside of Fonfria, where the camino seemed to follow a stony farm path down to into a valley. Well it didn't. After about an hour of descending, knowing that I was lost, but refusing to backtrack, I found the main road, which I walked along until I found a village. Once I did, they were more than happy to show me the way back to the camino. They're probably sick of being asked by now. Despite the fact that today's path lead steeply downhill along rough paths, my knees didn't seem to be hurting. Of course, that may be because I didn't notice them over the searing pain in my right ankle. Yup...about 10 minutes after I took the wrong path outside of Fonfria, I rolled it good. Was a little worried about taking my boot off, because if my foot decided to swell, I might not be able to get it back on. So...tighten the laces and plod on. And on. And on. 22km of "and on" later, I arrived at Calvor. Exhausted. An absolute wreck. It's one thing to be exhausted from physical exertion, but from having to deal with pain is another thing altogether. Still, after a long, long rest off my feet and a high protein (ie, Spanish) dinner, it's feeling much better. Also, no swelling or bruising thank heavens. Going to try to make Portomarín tomorrow, which will take me within 100km of Compostella. 93 to be exact. But that's 26km away from Calvor, so we'll have to see.
where it once was forgotten
sons can be birds taken broken
up to the mountain"
-Iron and Wine
Left Jesús' place on a very, very cold morning. I've given up taking my guide's "recommended" shortcuts, so for today, I'm sticking to the road. While I was in Ponferrada, I had bought some knee supports in anticipation of my climb tomorrow. From what I can tell, they're about as useful as a bicycle is to a fish. Despite wearing the damn things all day, my knees were still aching a bit when I was done, and I didn't even do any major climbing or descending. Well, to hell with those. Going to try for O Cebreiro without them.
The next day, from Vega de Valcarce found me unusually energized. I only had 14k scheduled to get to O Cebreiro, since it was a 900m climb to there. Well, I got there just after noon, and decided I had way too much energy to stop. Ended up walking another 12k that day, to end in Fonfria. The views from the top of the pass were amazing, but not even close to the views on the first mountain crossing. Just before I arrived in O Cebreiro, I crossed the last regional border, into Galicia. One more provincial border to go, and I'm all set. The route to Fonfria was pretty much more of the same, not really coming down of the mountain, but more like walking along it's crest.
Compared to the previous day's glory, the day from Fonfria to Calvor can be described in one word. S**t. This section, for some reason was extremely poorly waymarked, and every pilgrim that I've talked to got lost at some point today. With me, it happened about 2k outside of Fonfria, where the camino seemed to follow a stony farm path down to into a valley. Well it didn't. After about an hour of descending, knowing that I was lost, but refusing to backtrack, I found the main road, which I walked along until I found a village. Once I did, they were more than happy to show me the way back to the camino. They're probably sick of being asked by now. Despite the fact that today's path lead steeply downhill along rough paths, my knees didn't seem to be hurting. Of course, that may be because I didn't notice them over the searing pain in my right ankle. Yup...about 10 minutes after I took the wrong path outside of Fonfria, I rolled it good. Was a little worried about taking my boot off, because if my foot decided to swell, I might not be able to get it back on. So...tighten the laces and plod on. And on. And on. 22km of "and on" later, I arrived at Calvor. Exhausted. An absolute wreck. It's one thing to be exhausted from physical exertion, but from having to deal with pain is another thing altogether. Still, after a long, long rest off my feet and a high protein (ie, Spanish) dinner, it's feeling much better. Also, no swelling or bruising thank heavens. Going to try to make Portomarín tomorrow, which will take me within 100km of Compostella. 93 to be exact. But that's 26km away from Calvor, so we'll have to see.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Day 40 to 42: Ponferrada to Villafranca del Bierzo
"I´m so tired
I haven't slept a wink"
-The Beatles
As hard as Ponferrada was to get into, it seemed almost impossible to leave. Ended up spending an extra night there due to not getting any sleep at the hotel where I stayed. Don't know what it was, just kept tossing and turning all night. The upshot is that I knew I would'nt make 21km on 2 hours of sleep, so I didn't even try. Next day I changed hotels and essentially spent the entire day sleeping, waking only long enough to take a short walking tour of the templar castle that the town is so proud of. It's pretty cool, but it's a bit misleading when they say it was built in the 9th century, as most of the more dramatic features were added in the 15th and 16th. In any case, despite sleeping through the day, I still had the best sleep ever that night.
Left the hotel just as the city hall clock was striking 9. That's when the problems began. See, Ponferrada is under such heavy development that many camino waymarks are completely obscured or oblitterated. Ended up wasting an hour and 6k trying to find my way back to the camino. Once I did, the rain started to set in. Pouring, driving rain. Made the first 6km into Camponaraya seem twice as long. The sun did eventually make an appearance to dry things off a bit, but it can't restore the energy lost from fighting the rain.
Managed to get a bed in Villafranca in Jesús Jato's albergue. Was a very cool place, but unfortunately, no quiemada ritual that night. Place was very comfortable for an albergue though, and I slept like a log. A very loud log, if my fellow pilgrims are to be believed.
Tomorrow should be a short day; only 16k scheduled. Just need to get to the base of O Cebreiro (the next, and last major mountain pass to cross). After that it's 14k up and over.
I haven't slept a wink"
-The Beatles
As hard as Ponferrada was to get into, it seemed almost impossible to leave. Ended up spending an extra night there due to not getting any sleep at the hotel where I stayed. Don't know what it was, just kept tossing and turning all night. The upshot is that I knew I would'nt make 21km on 2 hours of sleep, so I didn't even try. Next day I changed hotels and essentially spent the entire day sleeping, waking only long enough to take a short walking tour of the templar castle that the town is so proud of. It's pretty cool, but it's a bit misleading when they say it was built in the 9th century, as most of the more dramatic features were added in the 15th and 16th. In any case, despite sleeping through the day, I still had the best sleep ever that night.
Left the hotel just as the city hall clock was striking 9. That's when the problems began. See, Ponferrada is under such heavy development that many camino waymarks are completely obscured or oblitterated. Ended up wasting an hour and 6k trying to find my way back to the camino. Once I did, the rain started to set in. Pouring, driving rain. Made the first 6km into Camponaraya seem twice as long. The sun did eventually make an appearance to dry things off a bit, but it can't restore the energy lost from fighting the rain.
Managed to get a bed in Villafranca in Jesús Jato's albergue. Was a very cool place, but unfortunately, no quiemada ritual that night. Place was very comfortable for an albergue though, and I slept like a log. A very loud log, if my fellow pilgrims are to be believed.
Tomorrow should be a short day; only 16k scheduled. Just need to get to the base of O Cebreiro (the next, and last major mountain pass to cross). After that it's 14k up and over.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Day 39: El Acebo to Ponferrada
"Somebody sail this ship,
Navigate this crowd,
for what I once saw as land,
I see as cloud"
-Tom McRae
The night was defined by a rainstorm that absolutely drenched this side of the mountain. Fortunately, it quit just about an hour before dawn. By the time I got on my way, the skies had cleared, and the sun was starting to peek through. A short walk brought me to the ridge of the mountain, where normally you'd get phenomenal views of Ponferrada and the rest of the El Bierzo valley. On this day though, it was covered in a thick fog, which, from above, looked like a sea of clouds. It was an incredible sight. By the time I got to Riego del Ambros, further down the slope, the fog had receded just enough to make the town look like a port city on the sea of cloud.
The walk into Molinaseca was a bit of a trek. Must have missed a trail marker somewhere, because I wound up walking down a long, winding, mountain road rather than the steep downhill walking path I was expecting. So, there I was, on the shoulder of a mountain road, in the fog, right beside a steep, steep drop to the Rio Bierzo. Nerve racking whenever a car passed. Almost got creamed by a bus at one point. Ok, it wasn't that close, but it felt like it. Molinaseca is a picturesque little village at the base of the mountain, not 8k from Ponferrada. Spent an hour and a half in a bar there, waiting for a couple of other pilgrims to arrive. There was Inge from Germany, who arrived shortly after me, despite her bad ankles and the fact that she took the steep footpath. I waited a bit longer for Debbie, but eventually had to get going. Had to make sure to get to Ponferrada at a decent hour so that I could get a hotel room and call my family for Thanksgiving that night. Missed her by quite a bit anyway, I hear.
Ponferrada is a neat little town. The templar castle is really something to behold. So much so that the camino route made a point of entering the city so that it was one of the first things you'd see. Unfortunately, this meant circling the town from the back to the front, adding a few km to the alleged 16km. Felt more like 21 to me. The roundabout way into town passed through a little city called Campos just outside of Ponferrada. Apparently, in medeival times, this was the city's Jewish quarter. When you think about it, that's a rather odd place for a christian pilgrimage to pass through. The only reason I can think of is spite. I have an image in my head of christian pilgrims passing through town mocking "nyah, nyah, we have a messiah and you don't!" and the jewish residents mocking back "nyah, nyah, you can only afford domestic oxcarts". Apparently things have not changed much in 900 years.
Other than the castle, Ponferrada is a fairly dull place. Getting a hotel room here was surprisingly easy. Didn't realize just how much I needed it too. I enjoy meeting new pilgrims, I enjoy their company and getting to know them, but, being an introvert by nature, I do need some alone time to recharge my batteries.
Tomorrow brings Villafranca del Bierzo where the Albergue Ave Fenix awaits. The hospitalero there, Jesús Jato is a bit of the legend on the camino, having devoted his life to helping pilgrims on their way. He's especially famous for his quiemada rituals; a mystical little song-and-dance involving incantations, alcohol and fire. Sounds like fun (or sunday dinners at Jimi Hendrix´s).
Navigate this crowd,
for what I once saw as land,
I see as cloud"
-Tom McRae
The night was defined by a rainstorm that absolutely drenched this side of the mountain. Fortunately, it quit just about an hour before dawn. By the time I got on my way, the skies had cleared, and the sun was starting to peek through. A short walk brought me to the ridge of the mountain, where normally you'd get phenomenal views of Ponferrada and the rest of the El Bierzo valley. On this day though, it was covered in a thick fog, which, from above, looked like a sea of clouds. It was an incredible sight. By the time I got to Riego del Ambros, further down the slope, the fog had receded just enough to make the town look like a port city on the sea of cloud.
The walk into Molinaseca was a bit of a trek. Must have missed a trail marker somewhere, because I wound up walking down a long, winding, mountain road rather than the steep downhill walking path I was expecting. So, there I was, on the shoulder of a mountain road, in the fog, right beside a steep, steep drop to the Rio Bierzo. Nerve racking whenever a car passed. Almost got creamed by a bus at one point. Ok, it wasn't that close, but it felt like it. Molinaseca is a picturesque little village at the base of the mountain, not 8k from Ponferrada. Spent an hour and a half in a bar there, waiting for a couple of other pilgrims to arrive. There was Inge from Germany, who arrived shortly after me, despite her bad ankles and the fact that she took the steep footpath. I waited a bit longer for Debbie, but eventually had to get going. Had to make sure to get to Ponferrada at a decent hour so that I could get a hotel room and call my family for Thanksgiving that night. Missed her by quite a bit anyway, I hear.
Ponferrada is a neat little town. The templar castle is really something to behold. So much so that the camino route made a point of entering the city so that it was one of the first things you'd see. Unfortunately, this meant circling the town from the back to the front, adding a few km to the alleged 16km. Felt more like 21 to me. The roundabout way into town passed through a little city called Campos just outside of Ponferrada. Apparently, in medeival times, this was the city's Jewish quarter. When you think about it, that's a rather odd place for a christian pilgrimage to pass through. The only reason I can think of is spite. I have an image in my head of christian pilgrims passing through town mocking "nyah, nyah, we have a messiah and you don't!" and the jewish residents mocking back "nyah, nyah, you can only afford domestic oxcarts". Apparently things have not changed much in 900 years.
Other than the castle, Ponferrada is a fairly dull place. Getting a hotel room here was surprisingly easy. Didn't realize just how much I needed it too. I enjoy meeting new pilgrims, I enjoy their company and getting to know them, but, being an introvert by nature, I do need some alone time to recharge my batteries.
Tomorrow brings Villafranca del Bierzo where the Albergue Ave Fenix awaits. The hospitalero there, Jesús Jato is a bit of the legend on the camino, having devoted his life to helping pilgrims on their way. He's especially famous for his quiemada rituals; a mystical little song-and-dance involving incantations, alcohol and fire. Sounds like fun (or sunday dinners at Jimi Hendrix´s).
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Day 38: Rabanal del Camino to El Acebo
"I have climbed highest mountain
I have run through the fields
only to be with you
but I still haven't found what I'm looking for"
-U2
Out by 8:00 in a dense fog. A lousy way to start the day. Todays route passed through Foncebadon and on to the Cruz del Ferro soon afterwards. Foncebadon is essentially a ruined village, just starting to come back to life on the back of the pilgrim trade. It still retains an eerie sense of abandonment, of something that will never be again.
The Cruz del Ferro was an intense experience. Debbie from New Mexico had been looking forward to this moment the whole camino. I walked with her the last few kilometers to the cross, and when we got there, it was obviously a very emotional moment for her. I didn't expect it to be for me, and I was making fun of it as recently as a couple of hours before that. As I walked up the pile to lay my rock down, I realized what the act meant for me. For 550km, I had been carrying this little piece of home with me. The camino asks you to give up a lot. You're comfortable lifestyle, your privacy, your sleep, etc. And here, just as the camino was winding down, it was asking you to let go of your piece of home. As if to make room in our hearts for something new. For a moment, I was acutely aware of how far I was from home, and all at once felt alone and yet connected to the millions of pilgrims before me who had left their piece of home here before me. My link to home now is whatever I can carry in my memory, in my heart and on my back. Home is where the heart is? No, just the opposite. The heart is where home is.
From the cross, the camino went steadily up the mountain slope. And at one point, rather abruptly up. Steepest slope I had ever seen; so much so that if I tried walking up, I'd end up losing ground from my feet slipping a bit. So I tackled it in the stupidest way possible; through a series of 9 or 10 sprints uphill, each lasting 20 seconds or so and another 40 to recover. It was freaking murder. The views at the top were spectacular, but I still have some trouble justifying the climb. Especially since, from the top, you could clearly see an easier way up to where I was. The rest of the road to El Acebo was glorious. Like walking across the roof of the world. I wish I had the words to describe how beautiful the scenery was; green mountains all around me, huge, but so close you'd swear you could touch them. I took lots of pictures, but the pictures will never do it justice. It was magnificent. You can´t help but feel like a king looking at that scene. I did, however, have the unnerving sensation that the family Von Trapp were going to jump out of a bush at any moment and accost me with close-harmony singing.
Tomorrow is another short hop, only 16km into Ponferrada. Happy Thanksgiving everyone back home.
I have run through the fields
only to be with you
but I still haven't found what I'm looking for"
-U2
Out by 8:00 in a dense fog. A lousy way to start the day. Todays route passed through Foncebadon and on to the Cruz del Ferro soon afterwards. Foncebadon is essentially a ruined village, just starting to come back to life on the back of the pilgrim trade. It still retains an eerie sense of abandonment, of something that will never be again.
The Cruz del Ferro was an intense experience. Debbie from New Mexico had been looking forward to this moment the whole camino. I walked with her the last few kilometers to the cross, and when we got there, it was obviously a very emotional moment for her. I didn't expect it to be for me, and I was making fun of it as recently as a couple of hours before that. As I walked up the pile to lay my rock down, I realized what the act meant for me. For 550km, I had been carrying this little piece of home with me. The camino asks you to give up a lot. You're comfortable lifestyle, your privacy, your sleep, etc. And here, just as the camino was winding down, it was asking you to let go of your piece of home. As if to make room in our hearts for something new. For a moment, I was acutely aware of how far I was from home, and all at once felt alone and yet connected to the millions of pilgrims before me who had left their piece of home here before me. My link to home now is whatever I can carry in my memory, in my heart and on my back. Home is where the heart is? No, just the opposite. The heart is where home is.
From the cross, the camino went steadily up the mountain slope. And at one point, rather abruptly up. Steepest slope I had ever seen; so much so that if I tried walking up, I'd end up losing ground from my feet slipping a bit. So I tackled it in the stupidest way possible; through a series of 9 or 10 sprints uphill, each lasting 20 seconds or so and another 40 to recover. It was freaking murder. The views at the top were spectacular, but I still have some trouble justifying the climb. Especially since, from the top, you could clearly see an easier way up to where I was. The rest of the road to El Acebo was glorious. Like walking across the roof of the world. I wish I had the words to describe how beautiful the scenery was; green mountains all around me, huge, but so close you'd swear you could touch them. I took lots of pictures, but the pictures will never do it justice. It was magnificent. You can´t help but feel like a king looking at that scene. I did, however, have the unnerving sensation that the family Von Trapp were going to jump out of a bush at any moment and accost me with close-harmony singing.
Tomorrow is another short hop, only 16km into Ponferrada. Happy Thanksgiving everyone back home.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Day 37: Astorga to Rabanal del Camino
"I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately
To breathe deep and to suck the marrow out of life
to put to rest all that was not life
and not, when I come to die, discover that I had not lived"
-Henry David Thoreau
The camino out of Astorga was a pretty little jaunt into the countryside, going steadily uphill. First stop along the way was Catalina de Somoza. It´s a quiet little Maragato village perched at the top of a hill. The mountains are just a few km away from here, and you can clearly make out the trees, roads, and that it´s going to be a hell of a climb tomorrow. While nominally still in the province of León, this part of it looks nothing like the rest of the province. The architecture is different, the weather and terrain are different, and even the people themselves are different. Astorga was the start of the Maragato region. The Maragatos are a mysterious people who have historically made their living by managing the mule trains that for so long were the only way to transport goods from point A to point B. No-one´s exactly sure where they come from. Some say they're descended from Phoenecian traders. Some say, no, they were descended from Roman slaves brought here to work in the many mines in the region. Still others say that they're the "original" inhabitants of the region. I say that between them, the basques and they gypsies in Andalucia, Spain needs to keep better track of the comings and goings (and stayings) of it's people.
The refugio here in Rabanal is extremely nice, if a bit chilly. The building itself has been around since the XII century, but was recently refurbished. I get the impression that the two volunteer hospitalaros really don´t like each other. Wonder what it would take to get them into an all-out brawl.
Short day tomorrow, only 18k over the mountain into El Acebo. Undoubtedly, the highlight of the trip will be the Cruz del Ferro, where I can (finally) deposit the rock I brought from home. It's a bit of a camino tradition, where pilgrims bring rocks from home to lay on the huge pile beneath the cross. Depending on who you ask, the act is meant to :
A) Bestow a blessing on the pilgrim's home
B) Represent the burden that pilgrims bear
C) Appease the mountain gods that guard the pass
D) See how many people can be fooled into carrying a rock for 550km.
That´s it for now...more updates to come.
To breathe deep and to suck the marrow out of life
to put to rest all that was not life
and not, when I come to die, discover that I had not lived"
-Henry David Thoreau
The camino out of Astorga was a pretty little jaunt into the countryside, going steadily uphill. First stop along the way was Catalina de Somoza. It´s a quiet little Maragato village perched at the top of a hill. The mountains are just a few km away from here, and you can clearly make out the trees, roads, and that it´s going to be a hell of a climb tomorrow. While nominally still in the province of León, this part of it looks nothing like the rest of the province. The architecture is different, the weather and terrain are different, and even the people themselves are different. Astorga was the start of the Maragato region. The Maragatos are a mysterious people who have historically made their living by managing the mule trains that for so long were the only way to transport goods from point A to point B. No-one´s exactly sure where they come from. Some say they're descended from Phoenecian traders. Some say, no, they were descended from Roman slaves brought here to work in the many mines in the region. Still others say that they're the "original" inhabitants of the region. I say that between them, the basques and they gypsies in Andalucia, Spain needs to keep better track of the comings and goings (and stayings) of it's people.
The refugio here in Rabanal is extremely nice, if a bit chilly. The building itself has been around since the XII century, but was recently refurbished. I get the impression that the two volunteer hospitalaros really don´t like each other. Wonder what it would take to get them into an all-out brawl.
Short day tomorrow, only 18k over the mountain into El Acebo. Undoubtedly, the highlight of the trip will be the Cruz del Ferro, where I can (finally) deposit the rock I brought from home. It's a bit of a camino tradition, where pilgrims bring rocks from home to lay on the huge pile beneath the cross. Depending on who you ask, the act is meant to :
A) Bestow a blessing on the pilgrim's home
B) Represent the burden that pilgrims bear
C) Appease the mountain gods that guard the pass
D) See how many people can be fooled into carrying a rock for 550km.
That´s it for now...more updates to come.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Day 36:Villar De Mazarife to Astorga
"There is no road to peace. Peace is the road"
-Mohadas Ghandi
This was going to have to be an early start, Astorga was a good 30.5k from Villar, the longest day of walking yet. Managed to vacate the albergue by 8:00 and skipped town just as the sun was rising. The cool weather and flat paved roads made for easy and quick going. For once today, I was doing the passing rather than being passed. The mountains in front of me are getting closer and closer, revealing more detail as I go. Made the 14.5k into Hospital del Órbigo just before noon, where I stopped for lunch. A big lunch, considering I hadn´t yet eaten that day. Mmmm...fresh trout, eggs and fries. Calorie rush anyone?
In comparison to the morning stroll, the walk into Astorga was simply awful. The camino went right along the side of the N120, a very busy highway. You'd think I'd be used to that shit by now, but I'm not. I'm also still not used to crossing the damn thing, which I had to do no less than 4 times (ok - 2 of those were my stupid fault, but still). Once on the outskirts of Astorga, the yellow arrows that guide pilgrims to thier next destination went bananas. Seemingly pointing in every direction, and guiding me in an unneccesary zigzag direction. If that wasn't bad enough the last 50m was up one of the steepest paved inclines I've ever seen in my life. Made it without my lungs bursting, so that's a plus. Lousy way to end a day's walk though.
The albergue in Astorga was stunningly well maintained. Clean as a whistle and painted in a sterile white throughout. It was like staying in a hospital. One with 10 beds per room. Ok, more like staying in an upscale leper colony. The views from the patio are fantastic, seeing as how the building is perched on the side of the hill that Astorga is built on. Can see for miles around from there.
My arrival in Astorga signifies three endings. The end of the Meseta, the end of a chapter in my guidebook, and the end of the Roman road known as the Via Trajana. None of which I´ll miss in the least. I'm happy to be rid of the god-forsaken, fly-infested wasteland that is the meseta. If the people there weren´t so nice, I'd be tempted to use my favorite curse and say "a pox on it". As for the chapter in my guidebook, it was one full of factual errors and extremely bad advice. The authors of this book apparently have a thing for invisible wildlive, boring scenery and Roman roads. Which brings me to my next goodbye: to the Via Trajana. The Via Trajana was built on the orders of the emperor Trajan (surprise) to connect Bordeaux (or whatever it's roman name was) with Astorga (Asturica Augusta). In it´s day, I'm sure it was a fantastic accomplishment and a pleasure to walk on. The present is not it's day. At it's best, it was a level, raised, gravel road above a marshy bog. This "best" part lasted approximately 500m, and was just outside of Castrojeríz. At it's worst, in the rain, it was a muddy, stony swamp. I walked through about 40k in those conditions on the Trajana. It's neutral state is a dirt road with rocks of all sizes littered about it - some embedded, most not. It's a blister-popping, ankle-twisting, knee-grinding nightmare. A pox on it.
Tomorrow I gently ease into the mountains with a 21k stretch to Rabanal del Camino. I´ve heard good things about the albergue there, so I'm looking forward to it.
-Mohadas Ghandi
This was going to have to be an early start, Astorga was a good 30.5k from Villar, the longest day of walking yet. Managed to vacate the albergue by 8:00 and skipped town just as the sun was rising. The cool weather and flat paved roads made for easy and quick going. For once today, I was doing the passing rather than being passed. The mountains in front of me are getting closer and closer, revealing more detail as I go. Made the 14.5k into Hospital del Órbigo just before noon, where I stopped for lunch. A big lunch, considering I hadn´t yet eaten that day. Mmmm...fresh trout, eggs and fries. Calorie rush anyone?
In comparison to the morning stroll, the walk into Astorga was simply awful. The camino went right along the side of the N120, a very busy highway. You'd think I'd be used to that shit by now, but I'm not. I'm also still not used to crossing the damn thing, which I had to do no less than 4 times (ok - 2 of those were my stupid fault, but still). Once on the outskirts of Astorga, the yellow arrows that guide pilgrims to thier next destination went bananas. Seemingly pointing in every direction, and guiding me in an unneccesary zigzag direction. If that wasn't bad enough the last 50m was up one of the steepest paved inclines I've ever seen in my life. Made it without my lungs bursting, so that's a plus. Lousy way to end a day's walk though.
The albergue in Astorga was stunningly well maintained. Clean as a whistle and painted in a sterile white throughout. It was like staying in a hospital. One with 10 beds per room. Ok, more like staying in an upscale leper colony. The views from the patio are fantastic, seeing as how the building is perched on the side of the hill that Astorga is built on. Can see for miles around from there.
My arrival in Astorga signifies three endings. The end of the Meseta, the end of a chapter in my guidebook, and the end of the Roman road known as the Via Trajana. None of which I´ll miss in the least. I'm happy to be rid of the god-forsaken, fly-infested wasteland that is the meseta. If the people there weren´t so nice, I'd be tempted to use my favorite curse and say "a pox on it". As for the chapter in my guidebook, it was one full of factual errors and extremely bad advice. The authors of this book apparently have a thing for invisible wildlive, boring scenery and Roman roads. Which brings me to my next goodbye: to the Via Trajana. The Via Trajana was built on the orders of the emperor Trajan (surprise) to connect Bordeaux (or whatever it's roman name was) with Astorga (Asturica Augusta). In it´s day, I'm sure it was a fantastic accomplishment and a pleasure to walk on. The present is not it's day. At it's best, it was a level, raised, gravel road above a marshy bog. This "best" part lasted approximately 500m, and was just outside of Castrojeríz. At it's worst, in the rain, it was a muddy, stony swamp. I walked through about 40k in those conditions on the Trajana. It's neutral state is a dirt road with rocks of all sizes littered about it - some embedded, most not. It's a blister-popping, ankle-twisting, knee-grinding nightmare. A pox on it.
Tomorrow I gently ease into the mountains with a 21k stretch to Rabanal del Camino. I´ve heard good things about the albergue there, so I'm looking forward to it.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Day 35: León to Villar de Mazarife
"Speak to me in a language I can hear
humor me before I have to go
deep in thought I forgive everyone
as the troubled streets greet me once again
I know I can´t be late
supper's waiting on the table
Tomorrow's just an excuse away
so I pull my collar up and face the cold
on my own"
-Smashing Pumpkins
León is a great town - it´s a city of open plazas, beautiful monuments, wide pedestrianized streets, and a disproportionate number of incredibly hot women. Needless to say, I stuck around longer than I absolutely had to. On the way out of town, my guidebook warned that there´s a nasty 400m stretch on the shoulder of a busy highway. Wasn´t looking forward to that, but it turned out my fears were unfounded. Just as I approached the stretch, I noticed something was going on...too many flags, too many people, too many oxen. Oxen? What the...turns out that it was the festival of San Froílan, who was once the bishop of León. On this day, there's a parade in a little town called La Virgen del Camino (which was a town I was passing through). In any case, a couple of lanes of the highway were blocked off so that the parade could make it's way into town, so I was spared the fun of being passed by trucks going 120kmh.
Problem was, once I got into La Virgen del Camino, the streets and sidewalks were so packed, I could barely move. I tried getting through for about half an hour, and then I gave up and just watched the parade. Got some really good pictures too, I think. From Virgen del Camino, I walked to Villar de Mazarife through Chozas de Abajo. For once, it was a beautiful and peaceful walk through the meseta. At once point, I turned around to see...mountains. What the hell? where did those come from? Well, the terrain here is slowly changing, the flat as a pancake landscape is becoming slightly more hilly and a lot greener. I can tell the mountains are coming up soon. How? I saw them for the first time in front of me later in the day.
The albergue in Villar was...quirky. It was very atmospheric, but it felt like the floors on the second level were going to break at any time. Super nice people though, and it was run on donations, so I guess I shouldn´t complain. Pilgrims in the albergue are allowed to write anything they want on the walls, and the scrawlings range from some incredible drawings to some really poor poetry. Not that I could do any better. What I wrote wasn't something of my own, but I really like it. So much so that I'm going to use it for the next blog caption. Stay tuned to find out what it is...
humor me before I have to go
deep in thought I forgive everyone
as the troubled streets greet me once again
I know I can´t be late
supper's waiting on the table
Tomorrow's just an excuse away
so I pull my collar up and face the cold
on my own"
-Smashing Pumpkins
León is a great town - it´s a city of open plazas, beautiful monuments, wide pedestrianized streets, and a disproportionate number of incredibly hot women. Needless to say, I stuck around longer than I absolutely had to. On the way out of town, my guidebook warned that there´s a nasty 400m stretch on the shoulder of a busy highway. Wasn´t looking forward to that, but it turned out my fears were unfounded. Just as I approached the stretch, I noticed something was going on...too many flags, too many people, too many oxen. Oxen? What the...turns out that it was the festival of San Froílan, who was once the bishop of León. On this day, there's a parade in a little town called La Virgen del Camino (which was a town I was passing through). In any case, a couple of lanes of the highway were blocked off so that the parade could make it's way into town, so I was spared the fun of being passed by trucks going 120kmh.
Problem was, once I got into La Virgen del Camino, the streets and sidewalks were so packed, I could barely move. I tried getting through for about half an hour, and then I gave up and just watched the parade. Got some really good pictures too, I think. From Virgen del Camino, I walked to Villar de Mazarife through Chozas de Abajo. For once, it was a beautiful and peaceful walk through the meseta. At once point, I turned around to see...mountains. What the hell? where did those come from? Well, the terrain here is slowly changing, the flat as a pancake landscape is becoming slightly more hilly and a lot greener. I can tell the mountains are coming up soon. How? I saw them for the first time in front of me later in the day.
The albergue in Villar was...quirky. It was very atmospheric, but it felt like the floors on the second level were going to break at any time. Super nice people though, and it was run on donations, so I guess I shouldn´t complain. Pilgrims in the albergue are allowed to write anything they want on the walls, and the scrawlings range from some incredible drawings to some really poor poetry. Not that I could do any better. What I wrote wasn't something of my own, but I really like it. So much so that I'm going to use it for the next blog caption. Stay tuned to find out what it is...
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Day 34: Still in León
"When I woke up, my mind was made up
hair was stuck out to the sky
sleep made my arm sleep like the big sleep
that was stuck inside my eyes"
-Boo Radleys
Err...kind of a long night last night that translated into a late morning. Also required some delicate nursing of a very bad headache. So...León's home for one more night. In the mean time, I've managed to add more pictures to the flickr site at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/36308626@N00/sets/
hair was stuck out to the sky
sleep made my arm sleep like the big sleep
that was stuck inside my eyes"
-Boo Radleys
Err...kind of a long night last night that translated into a late morning. Also required some delicate nursing of a very bad headache. So...León's home for one more night. In the mean time, I've managed to add more pictures to the flickr site at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/36308626@N00/sets/
Monday, October 02, 2006
Day 30 to 32: Sahagún to Leon via Calzadilla de los Hermanillos and Mansilla las Mulas
"Hello, Hello
I don't know why you say goodbye I say hello"
-The Beatles
My constant search for the next fix of coffee finally bit me in the ass a couple of days ago. Just outside of Sahagún, the Camino splits. You can take the road route, which is busy but well serviced by towns, albergues and cafes. The other route, which takes you through away from the road has exactly one town over the next 37km. If you want to take the second route, you have to take the path into Calzada de los Cotos, which I did, looking for coffee. What my guidebook failed to mention was that there was no way back to the road route except the way you came (I don't like having to backtrack). Anyways, to make a long story short, I ended up in a little town called Calzadilla de los Hermanillos, rather than El Burgo Ranero, which is the one I wanted to go to. El Burgo Ranero would have set me up for a nice easy 20km day into Mansilla las Mulas through several towns along the road the next day. Hermanillos set me up for a 27km treadmill of a route through farmland, with no shade, no fuentes, no towns, and not so much as a large rock to sit on. Not a pleasant day, but I was happy to arrive in Mansilla las Mulas late in the day.
In Mansilla, I ran into all the people I had been hanging out with in Sahagún, which made for a great night at the bar next to the albergue. First though, there was the business of watching the Real Madrid v Atletico de Madrid game (1-1 draw). Chalk it up to good fortune that we managed to find one of the very few bars in Spain that had a pool table. It was a great time, but given that everyone else had a much shorter day than I did, I had to call it quits early (even by my standards).
The walk into Leon was pretty much the same as every other day on the Meseta; flat, boring, swarming with flies, and shadowing a major highway. At times, in fact, on the shoulder of a major highway. Picture walking on the shoulder of the 401 outside of Toronto, where there are only two lanes in each direction. That's what it was like. Worse yet, we had to cross the damn thing at one point. Not what I would call a safe day of walking.
León is a beautiful city; slightly smaller than Burgos, but so jam packed with historical monuments that it would take a couple of days to see them all. Days which I don't have unfortunately. Going to stick around for one extra day to see what I can and get some shopping done. Also in the meantime, Francesca and Matias are going back home to Hamburg tomorrow, so a few of us are having a goodbye lunch for them. Francesca was the author of one of the funniest moments on the camino thus far. A few nights ago, we were sitting around over a couple of beers with Philip (the english guy) talking about the various trials and tribulations of having to walk every day. I´m writing out the conversation below (as I remember it - which means it´s probably embellished) and my thoughts for posterity.
Francesca (with German accent): Have you heard about those people that are travelling with...um...monkeys?
my thoughts: Monkeys? That's bloody odd. I suppose they're those little organ-grinder type monkeys. Sheesh; takes all kinds
Philip (with a strange expression on his face): Monkeys? Really?
Francesca: Yes, yes...they have children and...
Juan: The monkeys?
Francesca: What?
Juan: The monkeys have children?
Francesca: No, no...the people have children
Philip (turning to me): Why would it matter if the Monkeys had children?
Juan: It doesn't...just trying to visualize this properly. (turns to Francesca) Anyways, the monkeys have children..
Francesca: No, the people have children...the monkeys carry the luggage and one of the children while the parents are walking
my thoughts: OK...these are some big damn monkeys. Or many, many small ones. Either way, what a horrible thing to do to monkeys. When I think about all the stuff that Michael and Sarah have to lug around, I...wait a minute.
Juan: Hold on - do you mean donkeys?
Francesca (laughing): oh, yes - donkeys
Much hilarity ensued. Such are the perils of speaking a foreign language. I'm not immune from it either. In Spanish, the word for "lighter" is "Encendedor", and one word for "bomb" is "Incediario". Fairly easy to confuse the two. Bottom line, don't go to a cigarette store and ask to buy a bomb. Chances are they won't have one (chances are only very slightly better in the Basque country), and they give you the strangest look.
That's it for now. Tackling the first bit of the last third of the Camino starting tomorrow. Two days to Astorga, then the mountains. Next update will probably be in a couple of days.
I don't know why you say goodbye I say hello"
-The Beatles
My constant search for the next fix of coffee finally bit me in the ass a couple of days ago. Just outside of Sahagún, the Camino splits. You can take the road route, which is busy but well serviced by towns, albergues and cafes. The other route, which takes you through away from the road has exactly one town over the next 37km. If you want to take the second route, you have to take the path into Calzada de los Cotos, which I did, looking for coffee. What my guidebook failed to mention was that there was no way back to the road route except the way you came (I don't like having to backtrack). Anyways, to make a long story short, I ended up in a little town called Calzadilla de los Hermanillos, rather than El Burgo Ranero, which is the one I wanted to go to. El Burgo Ranero would have set me up for a nice easy 20km day into Mansilla las Mulas through several towns along the road the next day. Hermanillos set me up for a 27km treadmill of a route through farmland, with no shade, no fuentes, no towns, and not so much as a large rock to sit on. Not a pleasant day, but I was happy to arrive in Mansilla las Mulas late in the day.
In Mansilla, I ran into all the people I had been hanging out with in Sahagún, which made for a great night at the bar next to the albergue. First though, there was the business of watching the Real Madrid v Atletico de Madrid game (1-1 draw). Chalk it up to good fortune that we managed to find one of the very few bars in Spain that had a pool table. It was a great time, but given that everyone else had a much shorter day than I did, I had to call it quits early (even by my standards).
The walk into Leon was pretty much the same as every other day on the Meseta; flat, boring, swarming with flies, and shadowing a major highway. At times, in fact, on the shoulder of a major highway. Picture walking on the shoulder of the 401 outside of Toronto, where there are only two lanes in each direction. That's what it was like. Worse yet, we had to cross the damn thing at one point. Not what I would call a safe day of walking.
León is a beautiful city; slightly smaller than Burgos, but so jam packed with historical monuments that it would take a couple of days to see them all. Days which I don't have unfortunately. Going to stick around for one extra day to see what I can and get some shopping done. Also in the meantime, Francesca and Matias are going back home to Hamburg tomorrow, so a few of us are having a goodbye lunch for them. Francesca was the author of one of the funniest moments on the camino thus far. A few nights ago, we were sitting around over a couple of beers with Philip (the english guy) talking about the various trials and tribulations of having to walk every day. I´m writing out the conversation below (as I remember it - which means it´s probably embellished) and my thoughts for posterity.
Francesca (with German accent): Have you heard about those people that are travelling with...um...monkeys?
my thoughts: Monkeys? That's bloody odd. I suppose they're those little organ-grinder type monkeys. Sheesh; takes all kinds
Philip (with a strange expression on his face): Monkeys? Really?
Francesca: Yes, yes...they have children and...
Juan: The monkeys?
Francesca: What?
Juan: The monkeys have children?
Francesca: No, no...the people have children
Philip (turning to me): Why would it matter if the Monkeys had children?
Juan: It doesn't...just trying to visualize this properly. (turns to Francesca) Anyways, the monkeys have children..
Francesca: No, the people have children...the monkeys carry the luggage and one of the children while the parents are walking
my thoughts: OK...these are some big damn monkeys. Or many, many small ones. Either way, what a horrible thing to do to monkeys. When I think about all the stuff that Michael and Sarah have to lug around, I...wait a minute.
Juan: Hold on - do you mean donkeys?
Francesca (laughing): oh, yes - donkeys
Much hilarity ensued. Such are the perils of speaking a foreign language. I'm not immune from it either. In Spanish, the word for "lighter" is "Encendedor", and one word for "bomb" is "Incediario". Fairly easy to confuse the two. Bottom line, don't go to a cigarette store and ask to buy a bomb. Chances are they won't have one (chances are only very slightly better in the Basque country), and they give you the strangest look.
That's it for now. Tackling the first bit of the last third of the Camino starting tomorrow. Two days to Astorga, then the mountains. Next update will probably be in a couple of days.