Post Camino wrap-up

"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".

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".

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

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...

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/

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.

Day 27 to 29 Fromista to Sahagún via Carrión de los Condes and Lédigos

"into the great wide open..."
-Tom Petty

I have to admit, the meseta is nothing like I thought it would be, but everything like I read. Big skies, wide open spaces, long distances between population centres, and completely devoid of anything interesting. I haven't even taken many pictures over the last couple of days because I thought that a dozen pictures or so of flatness was enough to bore anyone. Although the people who live in the towns and villages along the way are really nice and very friendly, the meseta itself is essentially a long, straight, boring slog. I need a city. I need one soon. Fortunately, one is coming up soon - León is only two or three days away. If I can get there by Sunday, I will have covered close to 180km in 7 days. I passed the halfway point of my camino today, in terms of kilometers. In terms of days, I suspect I passed that a week or so ago. Given the pace I´ve been on for the last few days, I can't see myself arriving in Santiago any later than the 19th or 20th (barring any disaster befalling me).

If it weren't for some of the people that I met over the past week, the meseta surely would have driven me mad by now. There's the two Francescas (one from Italy and one from Hamburg), Matias (also from Hamburg and a friend of the second Francesca), Gert (must have a pint of phlem in your throat to pronunce that properly) from the Netherlands. Super nice people who I´ve kept pace with this past week or so. Then there's Theresa from Vancouver and Philip from London...didn't spend much time with them, but what a time it was. Philip is an IT consultant, and an ardent atheist. Theresa is a retired nun and a theology major. Me: somewhere in between but with enough philosophy classes under my belt to really stir shit up in that crowd. We all got a lot excited (and a little drunk) as the converstion meandred from the nature of belief, the essense of faith, and ultimately to cognitive dissonance. May sound like dry stuff, but I ate it up like popcorn. I think we all quite enjoyed ourselves; we were all still on speaking terms in the morning, so that's a positive sign.

On a completely different note, I've been going through my previous blog entries, and I realize that I've been a little harsh on other pilgrims in general. Thing is, now that the race-walkers are far, far in front of me (by my calculations, they're somewhere over the mid-atlantic about now), I've met some teriffic people along the way. It's funny how different cultures handle foreign (for them) languages. On that front, the Germans come out way, way on top...most of the ones I´ve met here speak English very well, and do a very passable French. Brits try very, very hard, so points for that. Americans try slightly less hard, but are smart enough to hang around the Germans. The French, I'm sorry to say rank dead last. Every time you speak to them in any language, they respond in French. Blows my mind. Still trying to rank South Africans...most speak at least a couple of languages, and one guy, Stephan...I´d swear he speaks every language. I think I caught him having a long discourse with a sparrow yesterday, but I can't be sure.

Anyways, this is turning into a novel. Should be in León in the next couple of days, and in Astorga soon after. Then come the mountains. Big ones. Oh, well...not like they just popped up from nowhere - I knew they were there when I started this whole trip. So, until León...take care.

Day 23 to 26: Burgos to Frómista via Hornillos and Castrojeriz

"eat a live toad first thing in the morning and nothing worse will happen to you all day"
-Anonymous

My live toad this morning came in the form of a large, large hill just outside of Castrojeriz. Took two hours to climb it, through a fog so thick you couldn't see more than a few feet in front of you. Getting to the top was quite the experience though. It was a flat-topped hill, which would have had views for miles around were it not for the morning fog. It cleared a little just as I reached the top, but the endless vistas I was hoping for were unfortunately still hidden by the fog.

Rewind a bit...The road from Burgos to Hornillos can be described in one word: Wet. If I were to use more than one, they´d be wet, cold, gloomy, muddy, windy as hell and utterly miserable. I was supposed to have made it into Hontanas that day, but decided for the sake of my health and sanity that I should stay in Hornillos, some 10k short. No biggie; I had planned a short 10k walk into Castrojeriz the next day. During the second downpour and windstorm, my cheap-ass poncho decided it had had enough and tore itself to shreds right before my eyes. Pain in the butt - now I had to walk without any real cover from the rain. Made it though, and managed to dry my clothes a fair bit by morning.

The walk into Castrojeriz was much more pleasant. It started off windy and cold, but turned into a gorgeous fall day by early afternoon. Castrojeriz is the friendliest cities I've come to on the camino. No, make that any city I've ever been to. Scratch that, it's the friendliest city in the world. Everyone there just seems to be in a good mood all the time, and they'll smile at you and chat you up for no reason whatsoever. Really enjoyed the few hours I spent there. Even the restaurant down the street opened especially for me this morning. It was closed, but the owner saw me peering into the window, and he let me in and treated me to a coffee on the house. Great, great city Castrojeriz. I also managed to replace my poncho with something a little more substantial (ie, it won't shred, even during a nuclear strike.)

so...back to today. Despite the fact that I wasn't late enough to catch the restaurant being open, I actually did get a very late start this morning. I was supposed to get to Frómista today, but when I realized the time when I was having the coffee, I knew that wouldn't happen. When it took me 2 hours to climb that damn mountain, I was positive I'd have to stop at the town just before Frómista. After I (slightly) twisted my ankle with 15k to go, I knew I'd never get there today. Well, I did. Took me 10 hours, but I did finally manage to haul my butt into town. It's a nice enough city...much bigger than Castrojeriz, but still small enough to maintain it's rural quaintness. Surprisingly, despite my late arrival, I managed to get a bed at the albergue, and I'm just about ready to crash. 25k in one day, including a giant hill and a gimpy ankle will do that to ya.

On to Carrion de los Condes tomorrow, which, after today, is a laughable 18.5k (ha ha). More pictures coming soon, including some spectacular ones taken from various high points on the Meseta. There's even one with me wrestling a very rare feral Spanish panda. Stay tuned...

Day 23: Burgos

"Come clean, come good,
repeat with me the punch-line 'Just Like Blood'
when those at the back rush forward to say
how a little love goes a long long long way. "
-Simon Armitage from "I say, I say, I say"

Morcillas...I had been told back in Grañon to try Morcillas when I get to Burgos. It's a local specialty apparently. Now, I'm no neophyte when it comes to Spanish food; I knew perfectly well what morcillas are...they're sausages made from a bit of onion, a bit of pork, and a lot of blood. When he told me that I had to try them, I nodded so as to humor him, but I never had any intention of trying it. Well, after my second night in Burgos, fresh from taking stock of the condition of my feet (they're fine, but they won't be winning any beauty contests anytime soon), the thought of foodstuffs made from blood sounded much less disgusting. So I headed down to my favorite bar and ordered me up some. Realistically, they eat so much meat here in Burgos, I probably could have picked up morcillas from a fruit stand, but I wanted the real experience. So there I was, on the terrace of the bar in Burgos' Plaza Mayor with a plate of blood sausage in front of me, thinking "well, this is it - if I eat this, I'll never be able to become a vegetarian. Just as well". I'm a little embarrased to say that they were absolutely delicious. Spectacular. Had some more for lunch today. Washed it down that night with a Pastel de San Marcos (the local specialty cake), which was freakin' sublime. Small meal, but unbelievably satisfying, although it did give me a bit of stomach trouble later. Might have just been my mind saying "do you realize what you just ate???".

Went to see the cathedral and the castle on top of this city today. The cathedral was stunning...it's the medeival version of shock and awe. I can just imagine medieval peasants walking in there for the first time. Would have been the acid trip of the era. The thing about the cathedral is that from the outside, it's impossible to take it all in. The city is built so tightly around it that you can only see bits of it at a time. Shame, 'cause it would be that much more spectacular if you could take it in as a whole. The castle was cool, but not overwhelming...kind of boring actually. Nice views of the city, but otherwise nothing special. Then again, I suppose not every city can have an Alhambra. And let's face it, you probably can't get very good morcillas in Granada. My overall impression of Burgos is that this city rocks.

That being said, I'm heading out first thing-ish tomorrow, and will try to make the 28km into Hontanas before I drop. Broke down and bought a walking stick today; so many people say it makes a world of difference. Just guessing, but I'm pretty sure that I'll be using it as much for practicing my kung-fu as I will for walking (have to imagine Neo from 'The Matrix: Reloaded' for that to be funny. Too difficult? Well, then imagine Chris Farley from 'American Ninja').

That's just about enough for now. Must go out and see what else they can make from blood around here.

Day 19 to 22: Belorado to Burgos

(Via Villafraca Montes de Oca and Cardeñales Riopico)

"How many corners do I have to turn
How many times do I have to learn
All the love I have is in my mind
Well I´m a lucky man...."
-Verve

Ever since Santo Domingo and Grañon, I´ve been in an obscenely good mood. Walking down rural roads at a fast pace with a song in my head, and sometimes even whistling. Repugnant. If I had bumped into another walker like me a week ago, he´d be pushing up grapevines from the red soil of La Rioja right now.

The walk from Grañon to Belorado was uneventful, but I did bump into Michael, Sarah and family once there. We were in different albergues though, so no concert that night. Their Albergue was modern, with all the amenities a pilgrim could ask for. Mine was in the converted rectory attached to a 14th century church. But, there were very few pilgrims, very soft beds, and it was as cold as a witches tit. In other words, perfect sleeping conditions for me. I slept like a log, only awakening briefly at 6:00am to the sound of people speaking German (or Dutch...can´t tell them apart). Happens every morning on the Camino that you wake up to the sound of a foreign language, and yet never feels any less creepy. I shrugged it off, went back to sleep and was awoken at around 7:45am by the guy who runs the albergue telling me to get the hell out (we´re only allowed to stay until 8:00 at most of these places). "¡Ultreia!" he urged me, which is supposed to mean "onward", but I suspect it really means "get off my property you dirty, fat pilgrim".

Belorado to Villafranca was an easy walk through level farmland and along the side of a highway. I was going to go further, but one look at the big-ass hill outside of town changed my mind for me. So I hunkered down for the night. While I was napping in the mid-afternoon, who should check in but Sarah and Michael. Cool - I had thought they were going on to San Juan de Ortega today. Around this time, I realized that I needed to get to a bank machine and soon. I usually keep a €100 reserve in ******** (edited out for security reasons), but it was gone when I checked. Thought for a second that I had been robbed, but then remembered "oh, yeah...the hotel in Logroño. I wasn´t robbed, just ripped off". So, for the first time in 20 days, I had to take a bus. Backwards, to Belorado to get some funds. Taking a bus was a weird and humbling experience. All that day´s sweating, aching, and marching boiled down to a 9 minute bus ride and €0.98. Watching the landscape zipping by the window though, I´m glad I walked it. I´d have missed too much if I had taken a bus. While In Belorado, I decided I felt like cooking that night, so I picked up all the fixings for my pasta carbonara. When I got back to Belorado, I cooked it up for myself and Sarah and Michael´s family. I for one ate like a pig...minus the trough. It was awesome if I do say so myself, and the feeling of being full is a rare one on the camino.

My good mood was interrupted briefly the next morning by the walk from Villafranca to Agés. There was nothing wrong with the walk itself, nor with the monster hill I had to climb, nor with the scenery I was passing through. The problem was I couldn´t get a coffee that morning, and I was out of smokes. Spent the first 12km in serious withdrawal from both my drugs of choice, and the next 4 after that desperately looking for a cigarette vending machine. Once I found one, the day turned out quite nice. Between Villafranca and Cardeñales (last stop before Burgos) is the last big hill before the Meseta. You have to climb for what seems like an hour or so to get to the top. Once there, the top of the hill is level and littered with little white stones (no doubt the remains of the roman road that passed through here). Oh, yeah, it also had some stunning views of Burgos and the Meseta beyond. A cross marked the highest point on the hill, where the views were at their best, and someone had generously donated two sofas for people to sit on and enjoy the view. Waiting for Neo and Morpheus no doubt. How in the hell they got the sofas up there is anyone´s guess. I´m guessing they had help from an advanced alien race. Using the rocks that were strewn about, people had spelled out messages to their friends, family and themselves. Not wanting to be left out, I arranged some rocks into a little message for all of you. You´ll have to check the pictures to see it though.

Spent that night in Cardeñuela Riopico, which is a tiny little village just 15km from Burgos city limits. Guess who showed shortly afterwards. Yup. Again, it was good to see them. The morning´s walk into Burgos was fairly easy, although exeptionally ugly. Slogging through 8km of industrial sprawl is a lousy way to start a morning. Nonetheless, I arrived in Burgos at around 11:30am, and managed to get myself a tiny little room at the Hotel Norte y Londres. It´s about as basic as you can get (complete with rotary-dial phone), but it´s cheap, it´s comfortable, and it´s mine, all mine. Have been wandering the city a bit, deliberately avoiding the main monuments. That´s tomorrow´s job. Today I need to take care of a few things, like getting a haircut, going shopping for clothes and supplies (three guesses where I´m going. Amalia only gets one...answer below). I actually quite like Burgos - I was expecting the same kind of dickhead attitude I found in Logroño, but I´m finding the people here very nice and very accomodating. The city itself is nice, but no great shakes, the old part of town isn´t as old as I thought, and the newer part of town is filthy. Maybe my opinion will change once I´ve seen the cathedral and the castle the looms above the city.

Staying put until Sunday, when I´m going to try to get to Hontanas (I think). New pictures should be available at http://www.flickr.com/photos/36308626@N00/sets/. Enjoy.

Answer: El Corte Ingles. Congratulations Amalia!

Day 16 through 18: Santo Domingo to Belorado via Grañon

"I don´t care if it hurts
I wanna have control
I want a perfect body
I want a perfect soul"
-Radiohead

Warning: Don´t bother commenting on this entry...I got things figured out.

Okay...bit of a downer last time. I woke up the next morning after that blog entry sick as the proverbial dog, and far, far too late to actually walk anywhere. It really bugged me that yet another goal and timeline had to slip again. The morning after that (Sunday), I still wasn´t feeling up to walking, but I made myself a deal that if I felt a bit better by noon, I´d at least try and get to the next town. For two hours I sat in a café across from the cathedral in Santo Domingo drinking coffee, wondering why I can´t seem to get this camino on track. Why I can´t seem to hit my goals here with any kind of regularity. Had a bit of an epiphany - I don´t have to. I can´t expect to be perfect every day, and I can´t keep beating myself up when I´m not.

It occured to me that this is how I´ve lived my life to this point. Trying to be the perfect everything everyday. And every time I fell short, I´d tell myself that I didn´t deserve my successes, or my freinds, or any love offered to me, etc.. Even though it may seem obvious to the rest of the world, I understand now that I can´t be perfect at everything all the time. That does´nt make me a failure; I´ve come to understand now that though perfection may be the goal, it´s not the yardstick. And I understand now that I do deserve my success, my friendships, your love, their love, her love...not because I´ll ever be perfect, but because I wake up every morning and try to be.

I feel good. Yeah, that´s what it is. I feel good. Lighter than I´ve felt in years. Better than you would expect a man to feel after he discovers and accepts that he´s fundamentally flawed. I don´t want to forget this lesson, and I never want to lose this feeling.

I walked out of Santo Domingo at 1:3opm or so and arrived in Grañon about an hour and a half later. Probably could´ve gone further, but I decided to call it a day there. Good decision. The albergue was in the converted bell tower of a church...what it lacked in facilities, it made up for in atmosphere. Met a whole bunch of great people there (lots of Canadians, strangely enough). In particular there is this one family from Quebec who have been doing the camino (with 3 kids and 2 donkeys) since July. They started in Le Puy, France, and have already gone something like 900km. They´re an altogether remarkable family, and they put on the most wonderful musical show in Grañon. The father, Michael plays guitar and Mandolin (no, not at the same time, stupid). The mother, Sarah, and the kids all play violin). It made for a very memorable evening, and I really hope I´ll be seeing them again. You tend to know when you´ve just met special people, and every one of them is just that.

Made the 14km into Belorado in short order this morning, and will try for San Juan de Ortega tormorrow (might make it, might not, might get distracted by a shiny object on the side of the road). I can honestly say that things are going well now. No quitting now or ever. After all, this is a cumulative thing, and even if I can´t be perfect every day...it´s still just a matter of time.

Take care...will update soon.

Day 15: Nájera to Santo Domingo de la Calzada

"I have become comfortably numb..."
-Pink Floyd

Unfortunately, not in the way that I´m accustomed to becoming numb. After the rainstorm the other day, the weather changed dramatically. Whereas last week it was sunny and in the low-to-mid 30´s, the next few days are going be overcast and windy with highs in the low to mid teens. Nájera was a very nice little town, with the old section of the city tucked up against a sheer cliff face. Like everything else in La Rioja (the soil, the rocks, etc.), the cliffs were a deep reddish-brown. The old city looked very picturesque framed in that way.

Left Nájera at 7:00 in the morning or so, and it felt like the temperature was in the single digits. Normally not too bad, but given last week´s temperatures it was a bit of a shock. None of my rain-soaked clothes managed to dry (even a little) overnight, so I had to pack them wet. I don´t mind packing wet clothes...it´s the extra weight that gets me. Anyways, the hike out of Nájera was an initially pleasant one, through a little pass in the cliffs and out into the open countryside. That´s when the wind started up - sucks when you´ve worked up a bit of a sweat and you have a cold wind blowing at you from (it seems) every direction. It sucks the energy right out of you. Maybe if I could´ve worn my long-sleeved shirt (it was packed away and sopping wet), it might have been better. But anyway, on I went, through the wind, with the occasional rain shower to punctuate the misery. Arrived in Santo Domingo at 3:00pm or so to discover that all the refuguios were full up. Got a hotel instead, which suits me just fine. Maybe I can finally get a full night's sleep. Think I feel a bit of a cold coming on...when it rains, it pours. Literally and figuratively.

Sorry if this entry seems like a bit of a downer, but I´m seriously short of energy right now. Ever since the rains started up, I've just felt exhausted beyond belief. Even caught myself thinking about calling it quits for the first time today. That's one urge I don't want to give in to. Fortunately, I'm an accomplished procrastinator, so I've deffered that decision until I get to Burgos and (knowing me), will probably push the decision back even further.

Take care everyone back home - miss you all to varying degrees.

Day 14: Logroño to Nájera

"I´m out here a thousand miles from my home
Walking a road other men have gone down
I´m seeing your world of people and things
of paupers and poets and princes and kings

Hey, hey, Woody Guthrie I wrote you a song
´bout a funny old world that´s a-coming along
seems sick and it´s hungry, it´s tired and it´s torn
it looks like it´s a-dying and it´s hardly been born"
-Bob Dylan

30km. I didn´t think I could do it, not on a train, not on a plane, not in a box, not with a fox. But I did. In the pouring rain no less. The path from Logroño to here passes through many a-vineyard, which are very fine and pretty in the sunshine, very scenic under cloudy skies, and a veritable swamp when it´s raining. The mud sticks to the boots like glue, which slips off the mud on the ground like grease. Half the time I was fighting to stay on my feet, never mind moving forward. I actually stopped to laugh later on in the day at the sheer idiocy of my situation (well, I stopped for a smoke and ended up laughing - semantics) : out in the middle of nowhere, soaked to the bone, trying to get from point A to point B the hard way. Not to mention the fact that with my tan pants, blue shirt, white hat and rain poncho, I was the very image of Juan Valdez. Still, it´s something I was almost certain I couldn´t pull off, and I did. Tomorrow´s a much lighter day, with only 22km seperating me and Santo Domingo de la Calzada. Should be a cakewalk after today.

A word about why I chose to do 30km today. Bottom line is that I wanted to put as much distance between myself and Logroño as possible. My first impression of Logroño was that it was a miserable little town inhabited by miserable people. After a bit of a rest, I deceided that I hadn´t been fair. I was a miserable sod when I walked into town so that probably colored my impressions. After a day or so, I decided that no, I was right - these were, in fact, miserable people. Didn´t enjoy the town or the people in the least. I don´t know; Maybe they´re tired of dealing with brown people (which, admittedly they had more of then say, Pamplona), maybe I caught them on a bad week, or (my favorite theory) maybe they´re just dicks. It happens. They seemed to brighten up a bit towards the end of my stay there when the rain started falling. But that could have just been me enjoying watching them get rained on. Either way, my last hours in Logroño were my favorite.

I'm on schedule to hit Burgos in a couple of days. Burgos is the convenient delination point between this hilly wine country and the part of Spain known as the Meseta - which is flat as a pancake, and from what I hear, about as interesting. It´s the kind of landscape where you could open your back door and watch for three days as the dog runs away. 300km or so of that, which shouldn´t be too too bad, considering the Camino through there is flat, straight, and reasonably well maintained. After that, the Cordillera Cantabrica looms. That´ll be the real test. But that´s not for a couple of weeks yet.

Later all,
-Juan O.

Day 10: Viana to Logroño

"Bail out, bail out...the skin is shed"
-Auteurs

First off, new pictures are available at http://www.flickr.com/photos/36308626@N00/sets/

Shit, what a night, and what a day. When I turned in to sleep (which usually takes me a while), I discovered I was surrounded by the most ruthless snorers on the planet. I mean ridiculous snoring; so much so that it could have been a parody. Bach´s concierto in "Zzz". The two soloists were particularly adept at switching duties throughout the night. One would do his 30 minute solo, stop, and then the second would start in on his. It was like some twisted whale-song. So much so that I entertained thoughts of dunking them both in a large tank of water and holding them down so that I could hear it as it was intended. And so I could hear how it ends.

Anyways, after two hours of this, I decided enough was enough, and I grabbed my stuff and left just as the third movement was starting. I ended up sleeping in the garden of the albergue, where I could finally get (and ruin) some peace. Seriously, now that I fully understand how obnoxious loud snoring can be, I´m going to see if I can have mine fixed up once I get home.

I awoke to find my toes in even worse shape than the night before. I knew then that I wouldn´t be able to walk to Logroño. I did manage to stay around long enough to watch the running of the bulls though. No pictures, as it would be difficult to catch the action. Besides, I was too morbidly fascinated with the scene in front of me to think of pictures. Freaking nuts. It´s bad enough that there´s a drunken mob running from angry, (essentially) wild animals, that are drugged up to the eyeballs, but it seems that´s not enough to satiate the local need for insanity. People were tossing little firecrackers into the street as the toro´s passed, scaring the holy living shit out of the bulls, the runners, and at least one spectator (when a firecracker went off in front of me and caught the attention of a bull).

Having finished with that madness, I headed back to the albergue to figure out how I could get to Logroño. Three calls to the cab company later, and I gave up on trying to get a taxi. Went the the local bus stop to see if I could catch a bus to the city...busses didn´t run on Sunday. Oh well. No choice now. Managed to walk the 12km into Logrono, and crossed my first provincial border here. I had walked the length of Navarra (150km or so). Knowing that I really shouldn´t push it with my feet, I checked into a hotel here for a couple of days to see if I can heal up a bit. Seems to be helping. Next stage, whenever that is, will be to either Nájera or Ventosa.

Day 9: Los Arcos to Viana

"Sunshine; been keeping me up for days"
-Elliott Smith

Compared to yesterday´s trudge through a shadeless hell, today´s walk was almost pleasant. My feet are still protesting the whole idea of walking 20km a day, but I´ve learned to ignore them when I´m walking and pay attention to them when I´m not. I might need to stay an extra day in Logroño to really hear them out and make sure they´re ok with the rest of this little trek.

The walk from Los Arcos started early; at about 6:30am, just before the sun rose. As a result, it was nice and cool, and very comfortable (weather-wise) to walk in. Throughout the rest of the day, it did warm up, but while the trail went through lots of farmland and wineries, there always seemed to be a bit of shade when most needed. Just before noon, I crossed over the hill between Los Arcos and Logroño and...I could see everything for miles. Funny how it energizes you to be able to see your goal, even though it still may be in the far distance. I estimated an hour and a half to get to Viana, based on where it looked like it was. It wasn´t until three hours later that I got there. Not that I was poised to set any land speed records in the first place, but my injured feet are really slowing me down. That being said, there were plenty of beds left in the albergue - a really nice one too. It´s built on the side of the ruined cathedral of San Pedro, and is an old, old building with triple bunks (fortunately, I only got stuck on the 2nd level).

Walking into town, it was pretty obvious that something was up. Too many people in clean white clothes and red hankerchiefs around their necks for this to be just a regular day. Turns out, there was a fiesta going on; the fiesta de los santos patronales. The entire little town was abuzz with activity, and it was just as well that I got a bed in the albergue, ´cause there wasn´t a hotel room to be had in the entire city. Later, while having dinner outside a little bar, we (myself and the four English and americans I was having dinner with) found ourselves in the middle of a parade route. Was quite funny watching these immense paper-maché statues lumber down the street, preceeded by a giant-headed honor guard with foam sticks which they´d use to ritualistically smack children with (not joking). After the parade passed us by, the owner of the bar treated us all to a glass of pacharán, the local drink in Navarra. It was pinkish, sweet, and tasted very slightly of anise. It wasn´t until I had my third that I realized that it also had quite a bit of alcohol in it. Between that and the three beers and two wines I had over dinner, it´s a wonder I made it back to the albergue at all. Drinking lots of water right now so I don´t feel it as much tomorrow.

Hoping my feet heal up a bit tonight...I´m walking with a pronounced limp, and it´s starting to affect my knees and ankles. If it´s this bad tomorrow, I might have to find alternative transportation into Logroño, and then back again once I´m better (so I can still say I walked the entire way). Either way, I´ll be there tomorrow and will hopefully be able to update this blog then.

Day 8: Estella to Los Arcos

"everybody hurts sometimes"
-REM

Ouch. Today was defined by a lot of foot pain and a great deal of walking in the sun. Not really remarkable for the sights, sounds, only for it´s length. See, between Estella and Los Arcos, there´s a little town called Villamayor. It´s about 9km from Estella. After Villamayor, there´s about 12km of...nothing. No hills, no valleys, no clouds, no shade, no water, no animals, no people, no cigarettes, no hope. Altogether unremarkable except for it´s length, and it´s lack of anything worth remarking about.

My feet, for the most part are holding up well, with the big exception of both my little toes. The left one can´t seem to decide whether it wants to look like a grape or a chunk of ground beef, and the right one decided it didn´t really need that toenail after all. Sorry ´bout that - I´ll keep the details to myself next time.

To make up for that last bit, here, for your amuesement is scene 1 from an instructional play based on a real life story. It´s called "How to not make friends", by yours truly:

Cast of characters: Miriam (Irish), Jean-Philippe (French), Juan (idiot)

Scene 1: A pilgrim refuge, around the kitchen table; lots of activity about, Miriam, Jean-Philippe and Juan talking over the din about travel destinations

Miriam: Well, I don´t know...there´s really not much to see in Ireland. If you have other places you want to see, I´d put Ireland pretty far down on the list. Look at him (points to Jean-Pierre) nothing to see in Canada, nothing to see in Ireland, look at him just swell up with pride.
(the three laugh)
Jean-Philippe: Eez funny you know...everyone has zere idea of how countries should look. For example, when I seenk of Canada, I seenk of forests and mountayns. When I seenk of Ireland I seenk of, uh...
Juan: Burning cars and masked gunmen?
Miriam: ...
Jean-Philippe: ...
Juan: Holy shit, did I say that out loud?

Undoubtedly to be continued...

Day 7:Lorca to Estella

Fairly easy walk today. The heat finally broke, and we´re under overcast skies for once. 11:00am, and I´ve already made the 9km into Estella. It´s a pretty little town dominated by it´s two churches and huge castle up on the hill. It´s market day today, so the plaza in the city centre is a madhouse of people buying fruit, fish and veggies. Smells to high heaven too.

Going to try to make it to Los Arcos tomorrow, then Viana and Logroño after that. That means only two more days or so of Navarra, and soon to be in La Rioja. Mmmm....Rioja. Gotta run.

Day 6: Puente la Reina to Lorca

"on the road again..."
-Willie Nelson

Somewhat disappointed with my progress today; guess I overextended myself on the walk from Pamplona. After yesterday´s glorious 26km trek, I could barely make it 13km today. My feet were killing me the whole way; seems I got some pretty bad blisters the last bit of walking yesterday. Also did a very stupid thing and skipped breakfast this morning. One of the first things they tell you on the Camino is to drink even when you´re not thirsty. Eating even when you´re not hungry is just as important. I absolutely ran out of gas halfway to Lorca, and there wasn´t a cafe in sight. It was all I could do to drag my ass into town and get to the refugio. Learned my lesson, I won´t be doing that again.

The heat wave is supposed to break tomorrow, so that should be a relief. In any case, I´m only going as far as Estella tomorrow (which was today´s objective). Want to stay at least half a day there, as the town shares it´s name with my mother´s family. Should be fun. Weird how the various waves of pilgrims come through here. First few days it was mostly Spanish Pilgrims, then French for the next couple. For the last couple of days, it´s been German pilgrims. Every time I´m walking on the road I hear people speaking in German somewhere behind me. In any case, they´re all very nice, and with a few exeptions speak English reasonably well.

Day 5: Pamplona to Puente La Reina

"Have you come here for forgiveness
have you come to raise the dead?
have you come here to play Jesus
to the lepers in your head?"
-U2

The Alto del Perdón..."the peak of forgiveness" was the name of the mountain outside Pamplona that I was dreading. As it turns out, the crossing was rough, but not especially difficult by my new standards. Fantastic views from up there - on one side, the valley that Pamplona´s in, and on the other, another valley showing the next few cities that were on the agenda. On the way down from the peak, I ran into two young kids; couldn´t have been more than 14 on bicycles, crouching in the shade. Turns out that they were both from Pamplona, but one of them had done an excange program in Orangeville (poor kid). Anyways, we chatted for a bit before I went on my way. As I was leaving, he called out "Excuse me...why are you doing this, the camino?". From the mouths of babes...I had to admit that I had no idea why I was doing the camino, and that I was hoping I´d figure that out on the way. It got me thinking though...what´s the deal? Why am I doing this? So many possibilities...to forget or to remember; to forgive or find forgiveness; to lose myself or to find my way. No easy answers unfortunately, but I´m hoping I´ll know the questions by the time I´m done here.

The deeply forested mountains of the Basque country are gradually spreading out, leaving wide undulating valleys of vineyards and farmland. It´s quite beautiful in a pastoral kind of way, although the stretches of farmland leave shade at a premium. And it´s been hot...apparently, the hottest September so far on record in Navarra. Got up to 36 today, and that is murder when you´re walking in the sun during mid-day. Took a detour to a little church in the middle of nowhere called "La Virgen de Eunate". The church was built in the 12th century, but no-one seems to be sure by whom. Knights Templars, the local populace, aliens...who knows? It was very beautiful though, if a little remote.

Covered 26 km today...by the end of it, I was wiped and checked into an albergue just outside of Puente la Reina. It´s a bit of a dive, but it does the trick. Bumped into Cecile from France, who I met in Trinidad de Arre. Only reason I caught up with her is because she was sidelined with a case of tendinitis in her knee. Anyways, bought her a beer, shared a smoke, and talked for a bit before we both had to get to sleep. She´s staying another night in Puente la Reina. I´m hoping to run into her again, she was a lot of fun to talk to.

Recieved some sad news later this night night. One of my uncles passed away while I was in Pamplona. I´ll always remember my Tio Iñaki as a kind and gentle man, who always seemed to be smiling, and just on the verge of bursting out in laughter. I remember visiting him in Vancouver several years ago, and how he doted on his kids and his grandchildren. Above all, he was a good man, and one who will be missed terribly. The world of all our family were enriched by his life, and everything seems a little grayer and duller with his passing. My thoughts wander to his wife and his children even as I walk. If I make it to Santiago, it´ll be for him and for them.

Buén Camino, Tito Iñaki.

Pictures

One more thing...pictures are available now on Flickr...address is:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/36308626@N00/albums/72157633958957054

Day 3: Trinidad del Arre to Pamplona

"Climbed out the window and stared at the stars
but the moment I wanted had already passed"
-Neil Halstead

Too damn easy. Level, paved roads and sidewalks all the way. Left the refugio at 7:45 and got into town just after 9:00. Most of the pilgrims were up at 6:30, rummaging about, determined to make the camino a substitute for their regular rat-race. Not me. Since I couldn´t sleep with all their bloody noise, I went into the garden for a coffee and a smoke (3 each, actually) under the stars, and watched the sun rise over the mountains. Incredibly peaceful way to start the day. People should do that kind of thing more often.

In Pamplona now in my little room in the Hotel Europa. Arrived a couple of hours ago and had breakfast in the Plaza del Castillo. Pamplona´s really starting to grow on me. It´s a small enough city that people are still friendly and helpful, yet large enough to have all the big-city amenities like taxis, cafes, a public transit system, a tourist infrastructure and crazy people. Their system of crazy people (heretofore referred to as "locos") is particularly impressive. It´s very complex, but from what I can determine, each loco is responsible for wandering (quite randomly) around an approximately 3-block radius hurling abuse at anyone who should happen to pass by. In addition, there are a couple of stationary locos (or Loco Stations...take your pick), in the Plaza del Castillo and the Plaza San Fransico; presumably for people who want their abuse now, and can´t wait for the next roaming loco to get it.

Heading out to Puente la Reina tomorrow. Hopefully. There´s a big-ass mountain just outside of Pamplona that fills me with dread. But, just like before, one step at a time.

Funny how time passes on the Camino. Bilbao and London seem a lifetime away, even though it was less than a week ago that I left London. By the time I finished the Camino, it will have felt like years. At this rate, it might very well be years.

Also noticed an interesting phenomenon. My clothes appear to be growing. I´ve considered other possibilities, but this is the only explination that makes sense. This will require more study....

Day 2: Zubiri to Trinidad del Arre

"De colores,
de colores me gustan los campos en la primavera"
Joan Baez (I think)

11:00 am: After the brutality of yesterday´s climbing, today comes as a somewhat welcome relief. My guidebook says that it should be a level track from here to Pamplona, and so far it´s not too bad. Some hills, certainly, but not nearly as relentless as yesterday´s grind. Had to be out of the refugio by 08:00 today, and headed out just before that. Second night in a row that I´ve had little sleep. When I get to Pamplona, I´ll see if I can get a small hotel room and stay an extra night. If I get there, I´ll have earned it.
2:00pm: I´m very disappointed with the accuracy of my guidebook. Almost immediately after the last entry, the path started a steep ascent that seemed to never end. Strangely, even though the hills are just as steep and long, and my backpack is even heavier today (more water), I´m managing a lot better today. Amazing how quickly the human body adapts to abuse. Ran into José Luis and Aurora by an idyllic little spot by the river Arre. From the sounds of it, most of the peregrinos are staying in Trinidad de Arre tonight. Sounds like a plan...Pamplona is an additional 5.5km further on, and I doubt my feet will get me there tonight.
5:00pm: The refugio in Arre is fantastic. It´s a converted building that appears to have been the rectory of the church it´s attached to. Inside is clean, comfortable and a little crowded (in a good way). It also has a closed off section specifically for snorers. Reluctantly, I fessed up to my propensity to snore, and I was promptly banished there. In an upper bunk no less. Now I have to deal with snorers and acrophobia in order to sleep. Still, I´d rather be in this spot than the poor lady in the bunk beneath me...waiting for the bed frame to collapse on her. A modern day rendition of Damocles. Between the church and the refugio there´s a garden that´s walled off from the outside for the use of the refugio. It´s a tiny green paradise in the middle of a hot and dusty Camino. Great place to hang about and socialize. In fact, I think I´ll do that now.
9:00pm: Just about to crash for the night. Tomorrow, I´m going as far as Pamplona, and then taking time to enjoy the city. Also have stuff to do there, like cash my travellers cheques, and mail forward some items from my backpack. It´s too heavy - I realize that now. Met a number of interesting people in the Refugio today from many different backgrounds. There´s Cecile from France, but currently working in Vancouver. Osa, from Norway who´s only on the Camino for a week and doesn´t speak a word of Spanish (didn´t have the heart to tell her that her name translates to She-Bear in Spanish). Jorge, also from Segovia, who seems nice - if a little strange. A whole cartload of Quebeçois who all snore (and hence share my gulag), and a young family from Barcelona who are only doing the camino for a few days. Interesting bunch. I wonder which ones I´ll be seeing again once I spend the extra day in Pamplona. Short hike tomorrow; should be a welcome respite.

Day 1: Roncesvalles to Zubiri

"To everything there is a season
a time for every purpose under the sky"
Ecclesiastes 3:1

8:00 am: Just about to head out; the bus here was packed, and predictably, so was the refugio in Roncesvalles. Went to the traditional pilgrim´s mass last night at 8:00, and the communal dinner afterwards, where I did manage to meet a few people. Liane and Laura from Sydney, Derek and Andy from Brisbane. We talked about meeting up this morning to head out together, but so far no sign of them. Might as well get started. Didn´t sleep last night, partly because of the anticipation, and partly because of the snoring (for once, not mine). Anyways, here goes nothing...
9:30 am: Unreal...two hours so far before I had my first coffee. That sets a new personal record for me. Ended up bumping into the aussies in Espinal, which is the first little village outside of Roncesvalles. Walked for a bit together, but they all walked too fast for my comfort level. I´ll meet up with them (or not) later, I´m sure.
1:15 pm: Ouch. This is not easy. I think I did the right thing by starting in Roncesvalles. As up and down as the road from here is, it´s prevailing direction is down. You really feel the "up" parts though. Crossing the Pyranees would have done me in for sure. As it is, the road to Zubiri goes directly over the top of one of these mountains, and it´s positively killing me. Every time you think the road can´t possibly go any higher, you turn a corner and it does. All this in 33 degree heat. It´s tough to even stop in the shady spots, ´cause the flies swarm you as soon as you do. It´s almost as if they´re asking "Are you dead yet? Can we lay our eggs now? How about now, are you dead yet?". Sheesh.
2:15 pm: Reached the top. One foot in front of the other...rest often...drink often. That´s 16 brutal km down, and 4 more to go. Rest is downhill to Zubiri, so at least I´ll have gravity on my side.
3:45 pm: Gravity sucks. Clambering down a steep, steep slope with tired legs, weak knees and aching feet is almost as hard as climbing. Resting halfway down right now - should be in Zubiri within the hour. Going to check into the hostal and sleep like a baby.
4:15pm: Both refugio´s are full, but I managed to get a bed...well, a space on the floor in a jai alai court anyway. Can´t tell me Navarra´s not part of the basque country. No sign of the Aussies, but they´ve prolly gone on to Logroño. Shame really, they seemed like a lot of fun.
9:00pm: Just had dinner with the nicest retired Spanish couple, José Luis and Aurora. Apparently, they have a son who is about the same age as they thought I was (under 35 is all I got...Yes!). Luis is apparently some kind of amateur historian, and was all over the place talking about the history of the Camino and the Iberian peninsula. Was very entertaining, and also forced me to communicate in Spanish. By the end of it, I was very comfortable with it, even though I only have the vocabulary of a small Spanish dog. On the plus side, everyone is surprised how I don´t appear to have any kind of accent when I do speak Spanish, so I have that in my favor anyway. Time to turn in. Hopefully get as far as Pamplona tomorrow.