Woodswoman Walking

The month has flown by, and map readers want to know . . . apparently.  My journal trackings for each day also help me tremendously.  I encounter fellow walkers regularly who say, “Now wait, where did we sleep last night?  What town?  And about the other day . . . in what town was that old church tower bell?”  (Well, that last question’s answer seems to be that the old church tower bell is in EVERY town.)

If I am not delayed tremendously by the rain that has finally arrived, I should be in Santiago de Compostela after the next fifteen days.  Then on to Finisterre and the Atlantic Ocean!

So here we go:

Day 16 – Villafranca de Montes de Oca – Burgos by bus – 11.2 km walking around town.

Day 17 – Burgos – another day in the city – 8.3 km around town.

Day 18 – Burgos – Villalbella de Brugos – Tardajos – Rabé de las Calzada.  15 km.

Day 19 – Rabé de las Calzada – Hornillos – San Bol – Hontanas.  20 km.

Day 20 – Hontanes – Castrojeriz – Itero del Castillo – Itero de la Vega. 16km.  A  l-o-n-g, steep hill today.

Day 21 – Itero de la Vega – Boadilla – Fromista. 17 km.

Day 22 – Fromista – Poblacion de Campos – Villarmentaro de Campos – Villacarjar – de Sirga – Carrion de los Condes. 20 km.

Day 23 – Carrion de los Condes – Calzadilla de la Cueza.  17.1 km. with not a thing in between.  No fountain, no town, horrid “picnic areas”. See the The Meseta’s Plan for Me – Part One post.

Day 24 – Calzadilla de la Cueza – Ledigos – Terradillos de los Templarios – Moratinos – San Nichola – Sahagun. 23 km.

Day 25 – Sahagun – Hermanillos de la Calzada.  14 km.  Again, not a thing in sight but dirt and wheat and weeds and sky.

Day 26 – Hermanillos – Mansilla.  24.5 km.  Nothing between.

Day 27 – Mansilla – Leon by bus with many other trekkers (18.6 km).  8 km. walking around Leon.

Day 28 – Leon – rest day.

Day 29 – Leon – La Virgen de Camino – Fresno del Camino – Oicina – Choza – Mazarife – Villavente – Hospital del Orbigo.  30 km. (I probably won’t do that again.)

Day 30 – Hospital del Origos – Santibañez – Cantina – San Justo de la Vega – Astorga –  Murias de Rechivalda.  22 km.

Friday, September 20 – Thursday, September 26, 2013.

Friday – September 20.  Well, Senora Meseta is laughing all the way to the dustbowls.  When I leave Hontanas, the chef who made our paella last night fills up my Camelback with ice (bless you, chef) and a bit of water, because I want to have cold agua . . . ice cold.  I am headed for a larger town, Castrojeriz, where I’m told I can get my SIM card recharged.  Civilization and no more Meseta.  I think.  I am mistaken.

Entrance to Castrojeriz

At the entrance to Castrojeriz, I pass an ancient monastery (aren’t they all ancient?) down a small road to the left and then enter the town under  an arch similar to the one in the unfinished part of the Duomo in Siena.  This is a very long town, with one endless street winding slightly for two kilometers from end to end.  I see two shops where I have been told I can recharge my SIM card.  But the first old man in the store looks at me as though he has no idea what I want, and then points down the hill and says “Gasolin” and returns to his customer.

The second shop is closed.  So I will live without making

Meseta – next stage . . .

reservations on my own phone for a bit.  The Cuban hospitalero has called both Itero de la Vega and Fromista and secured reservations for me for the next two nights, so a working telephone isn’t crucial at the moment.  I don’t need to sightsee in Castrojeriz.  I want to be on the road, in a very non-meseta way.  As I exit the long town, here is what I see:

Oh, well, I’m used to climbing now, and the road is in good shape.  Just a little hill.  And each time I reach a curve at what I think is the top, there is more.  But I am so proud of myself.  I don’t huff and puff, I don’t let my heart sink at each new section of elevated track.  I walk.  I drink water.  I imagine there is a tree somewhere on the road, though there is not.  And finally I get to the top, where I see that the terrain does flatten out.  And it goes forever.

For the next seven days, I will walk the meseta, day after day after day, endlessly, often with absolutely no town, no bars, no potable fountains, absolutely nothing but meseta.  I can do it, I do do it, and sometimes it’s just great.  Sometimes.  Flat, a bit of breeze, and enough little villages to get a cafe con leche or a seltzer with ice every 5-10 km.  And some days absolutely nothing. But I don’t know that yet.

Friday afternoon, stumbling into Itero de la Vega for my next bed is like being in a very mellow movie about The Godfather.  Two old brothers run this place, serve us dinner and wine, and then cram us into bunk rooms nearly on top of one another.  One pilgrim sits outside drinking beer with an impressive array of medical supplies for his serious blisters . . . all over his feet.  His plan for the next week is to hitchhike or take a cab along the route.  Not a true meseta experience!  But it’s all he can do, since he can hardly walk in bare feet, let alone in shoes.  Why is it that the people I meet who have the real blister problems are men?  Could it be that they have been walking 30-35-40 km each day?  I won’t editorialize here.

Saturday, September 21.  From Itera de la Vega, I head for Fromista, a real, active town.  Families in the park, etc.  Along the way, I meet (by accident . . . these things never happen on purpose) the first person with whom I will choose to walk for more than five minutes.  We walk together for two days, in fact.  Charlotte from Denmark.  Our walking pace is the similar, our manner of living similar in philosophy, and the nearly twenty years between our ages (she says, “Yes, you could be my mother, but you are not!”) seem non-existent.  I already have a bed in Fromista but she does not, so I use her phone and reserve one for her.

There is one town between my start and our end for the day, and we share some food in Boadilla before we move on.  It’s hot, and of course on the meseta, that means it’s even hotter.  And I dislike the heat, as most people know. But in Fromista at the end of the day, it cools down, and we have a nice dinner at one of the town cafes rather than have another menu del dia . . . too much food and most of the same choices at every albergue. It is now Saturday night.  We have done our laundry in a machine, along with the clothing of a woman named Christel, a German woman living in Holland for the last several decades.  We also meet Maura, and the four of us sit for awhile while the laundry machine is operating, and get to know one another.  Photos and details when I write a “people on the way” post.  But this one is Senora Meseta’s and I don’t want her to get angry with me!

Sunday, September 22.  Sunday morning we are up early and headed out of Fromista in the dark.  Only one bar is open for coffee so we suck up a cafe con leche there, and then move toward Carrion de los Contes, our next bed point.  I think it’s amusing that I’m walking toward a town whose name also means road kill, or more accurately “the dead and decaying flesh of an animal”  Carrion, yes?  Is that what we will be after this new meseta day?  There are a few trees here and there, but it is Sunday and only one town shows any life at all on our way, so when we arrive, the tables are full and the courtyard is teeming with people who are hot and thirsty. This place has hot dogs, so I order one.  It tastes even better than when I get one at a truck stop on a road trip!

Across from the bar is a beautiful stone church, and Mass is in session, so I climb the stairs to take a look.  I am greeted with a sign that says, “Worshipers – Free.  Visitors and Peregrinos – 2 Euro.”  So I sit in a pew, pretending I know what I’m doing.  I do know . . . I had years of training, and I’m sure the word “heathen” is only emblazoned on the inside of me, not the outside.  When Mass is mostly over, I quietly leave.  No bouncer shaking me down for a Euro or two of flesh.

I have never seen a Catholic church that discouraged visiting by charging.  Those big Duomos, tourist attractions, don’t count in this category.  They are and have the big guns.

When I return to the bar, it’s time to move on to our destination stop.  The middle of the day is a bear when it’s hot, and we’re in it.  AND on the Meseta.  We will learn that as we drag ourselves along this desert and come over a hill, finally there will be the “carrot” – the town to which we are headed can be seen in the distance, and though we each take internal bets on how long it will take us to get there, a part of each of us doesn’t much care.  We can finally see something ahead of us that looks promising.

In Carrion de los Condes, we stay at Albergue Espritu Sancto . . . an old convent and now albergue run by the wonderful little nuns.  They check us in and put us in a very large room with NO BUNK BEDS . . . only “normal beds”.  The cost is 5 Euro and the nun in charge shows Charlotte and me to our room.  There are thirteen of us in the very large room, all women.  And the bathroom and shower are right across the hall.  Perfecto!  We treat ourselves to real dinners at a restaurant around the corner, meeting up with Christel, having seen Maura when we arrived in town.  I also see several other familiar faces, and tis will happen in rotation groups throughout the walk.  Again, more on that later after Ms. Meseta.  We head back to the convent and crash early, ready for what tomorrow will bring.

Monday, September 23.  Charlotte and I part company because she wants to be on the path early again and I have to wait until the post office opens so I can send my boots to Leon, since they are still misbehaving.  I know I won’t see Charlotte again on the Camino because she will be moving more quickly from now on.  No rest days for her.  But we have exchanged our information, and I doubt this will be our last encounter.

My boots safely sent, two hours after her departure, I walk out of town along the river and meet Judy, from the U.S. and we have a one-minute conversation.  I will actually see her again in about a week down the road.

But today I walk a hot, windless, boring day on the meseta.  I imagine one isn’t supposed to be bored on the Camino, and I am seldom bored, but today, there is just nothing but a long hot walk.  Nearly 18 km. of heat.  One woman comments that she hasn’t felt like this since she visited Death Valley in the U.S.  I would never visit Death Valley.

I have plenty of water, and there are supposed to be three picnic areas on the next 18km, for a bit of shade and a place to eat a peach or a bocadillo.  However, to the horror of everyone I meet at these “rest areas”, the most shaded picnic table and benches has been used as a latrine by some really crude peregrinos.  Either that or the locals are letting us know how much they love us.  One way or another, there is no relief, and I can’t even believe I’m on this road.  I assure myself that if I could survive the Pyrenees, I will survive this day, and pour half a bottle of water all over my neck and shoulders, soaking my shirt for some cool-down.  The temperature is in the high 80’s and since I didn’t start until about 8:45, I won’t get to my destination until 4:00 or so.  The heat of the day is eating my lunch.  And actually, there is nowhere to eat any lunch at all.

New swimming pool at Calzadilla de la Cueza – in the middle of the meseta

When I fall into the beginning of my sleeping town, Calzadilla de la Cueza, I see that it is the only place in town and it has a new swimming pool.  Not even that seems reward enough, but it will do for now.  I have no bathing suit, but a black bra, black underpants and a scarf wrapped around me just a bit, and I’m in that freezing cold water.  Tomorrow I know there will be towns scattered along the next stretch of the meseta, and I sleep very soundly.  Perhaps tomorrow will be the end of it.

Testing the behavior of a backdated post.

Joannah

Thursday, September 19, 2013   Waking up in Rabe de las Calzadas seems easy.  A small room with four bunk beds does not engender sleeping late, so I decide to suck it up (for the sake of my Meseta travels today) and get out of bed and packed while it’s still dark outside.  I don’t have my headlamp with me, but in those close quarters, no one is sleeping anyway, so the overhead lights are on early.

I have paid once again for a 3 Euro Desayuno, because the posters in the entry to the alberge say “LARGE BREAKFAST”.  Maybe we’ll have eggs . . . or even oatmeal . . . or dried corn flakes . . . but what do we have?  Cafe con leche and bread with jam and butter.  Ah, sigh.  We do also have juice, but that does not make the breakfast so large.  Maybe the sweet woman means that you can have as LARGE a basket of bread as you would like.

Exit Rabe, enter Meseta, direction Hornillos

Meseta beginnings

No point in trying to change the world.  Today is my Meseta day, and as I walk out of Rabe, I take a few photos of doors, little stone buildings, and the pre-dawn landscape.  It is gorgeous and I’m ready with lots of water, though Hornillos is only about 7 km from where I begin, and there is sure to be a bar there.

Out of town, I watch the road and see something dead center.  From afar it looks like a deceased crow or something, but as I get closer, I see that it is one lone Keene Sandal, sort of lime green.  I pick it up, because someone will be very unhappy to find that they now will have only one foot with an alternative shoe.

As people pass me (I’m a slow mo, enjoying things), I tell them,” Here is a lost shoe.  As you encounter people on the way to Hornillos, ask them if they’ve lost a shoe and tell them I will be along at some point to return it to its owner.”

I am hoping against hope that I can reunite shoe with owner, and continue my mantra as people pass me.  With my mind on this mission, the meseta goes by with ease.  Maybe it would have done so anyway, because the weather is quite cool (perhaps in the mid-50’s), the landscape is a climb and then flat, and I’m having an easy time of it.  I see Hornillos ahead, and as I enter the town, I stop in the first Alimentnacion I see.  Three women are there.

“Did you lose a shoe?”  I hold up my find.  Nope, no one lost a shoe.  The owner of the little store tells me to put the shoe on a bench outside.  I do so, but then hear voices down the street, around the corner.  Perhaps a bar.  I pick up the shoe and walk on.

Same scenario.  “Has anyone lost a shoe?”  Nope, no one lost a shoe, but they all remark on the number of people who have come through town telling them about me, an oldish peddler of lost footwear.  Still, no takers.  I sigh, hold up the shoe and say, “I’m going to leave it right here,” and begin to walk toward another bench.

Lost and found . . . a good deed on the Camino

Behind me I hear someone say, “Hey, Nancy!  Isn’t that your shoe?”  One of the women who had been in the chorus of the shoe denial song glances at her backpack to find, lo and behold, there is only ONE Keene Sandal hanging from the outside.

It is the woman from last night, the one who told me the milagro is for me.  California Nancy, a very pretty blond, whose happiness now exceeds most of what I’ve seen thus far on this trip.  She shrieks!  “It’s mine, it’s mine!  Oh, THANK you! Oh my GOD!”  Actually this would be my response as well, but I wouldn’t be as tall.  And I’d still look like Polly Darton. I reunite her with her shoe, and she insists that her friend take a photo of the three of us (Nancy, me, and the shoe) before buying me a . . . cafe con leche.

I feel incredibly accomplished about all of this.  Somehow this is just the kind of thing that should happen on the Camino . . . a small kindness that brings a large dose of gratitude . . . and I feel as though my day is complete,,,  After all, I’m halfway across the Meseta AND I don’t have to carry the weight of another ounce, let alone shoe, to the other part of this desert-like section of the way.

I depart jauntily, free of the weight of the shoe, and free of the conversation in my head about alternative possibilities for the poor owner.  Moving to the next section of meseta, toward Hontanas, I call the Albergue Santa Brigida there to reserve a room, sure that I will be exhausted and exhilarated (again) after conquering this high wheatfield-strewn road.

Meseta optical illusions . . . Rock trolls with tree hair!

Actually, the Meseta is more lovely than I had read, and easier than I thought it would be.  The sun is shining, which took care of one of my fears . . . that it would be pouring rain.  Some climb, sure, but I’m getting used to that.  Bushes are nowhere in sight, but now I have piles of rocks in case of an emergency.  I love rocks.  And occasionally the angle of my view creates weird rock/trees like this.

As I move past this strange image, seeing it reshape itself into reality, a TREE, AND a rock pile . . . with windmills in the background (I love windmills as well . . . ) I’m smiling again, or still.  I’m on the Meseta, I can see the end and my little town of Hontanas, where a bed awaits me.  I’ve done it!

The albergue is lovely.  Run by a darling and very friendly Cuban husband and wife, and they have a chef who will make paella for our pilgrim’s meal.  That sounds fabulous.

There is a courtyard in back, where people are relaxing, writing in journals, washing and hanging out their clothing.  The bunk rooms have enormous floor spaces between the beds, which is quite unusual.

I have a bit of a wi-fi glitch here, because I put in the wrong password and asked my computer to save it.  Then of course I can’t get on the internet, and no matter what I do, my computer does not want to delete that incorrect password.  So I try a breathing meditation, reminding myself that on the Meseta, one does not need to be connected to the outside world.  One merely needs to be connected to the Mesa.  My right brain soothes my nearly hysterical left brain, convincing it that multicolored laundry hanging in the breeze is quite enough visual stimulation after having conquered the wheatfields, walking the inclines and declines of the Meseta, and that tomorrow I will be in a new town with a new password for a new connection.  All will be well.

At our dinner table tonight are Martin (German), a Brit whose name I am sorry I can’t remember, Mark from Tennessee (I think), Patrick and Denise (Oregon), and Patrick’s French niece, who is walking with her uncle and aunt for a week before returning to France until next year.

The Paella is excellent, as tasty as it is lovely, and according to Brierley’s diagrams, the Meseta is past me now. Aren’t I good?  I smile all the way to sleep and into tomorrow morning.

My egg-breakfast favorite place in Burgos

Wednesday,September 18, 2013  The walk out of Burgos is nearly as confusing as Brierley makes it out to be.  I stop at my now favorite cafe for my last dose of breakfast eggs on the way out, and ask the waitress.  “Camino aqui,” as she points.  So I go in that direction.  I see one yellow arrow, and then nothing.  After every few blocks, I ask a Burgos resident, “Donde esta Camino?”  My Spanish is so very rudimentary, but I can manage to make myself understood, which I’ve learned is all that counts at this stage.

The someone points here or there and I go.  Sometimes there is a yellow arrow and sometimes there is just hope.  Occasionally the person I ask looks around, grabs another person and asks advice.  Then they both beam in on one or two more neighbors and they get together in a circle to discuss which way is the correct way.  In rare moments, another peregrino passes me with the confidence that is so awe-inspiring, I am propelled to follow him or her or them.

Of course I do get out of town, and feel pretty good about the route, walking on gravel paths among bushes and high weeds.  Nothing very pretty, just whatever is there at the moment.  After awhile, I come to a crossroad, and there is clear signage to the left.  But an old man on a bicycle stops and tells me in Spanish that my way, the one with the sign, is longer, and that if I want to go on the traditional route, I have to go to the right.  I am nervous because to the right is also what looks like an interstate in the not-so-far-away field.  I hesitate.  Now two Camino bicyclists stop and listen to the one-sided conversation.  They are Spanish, so an artillery-rapid-fire exchange ensues.  They explain what he told me already, and I explain to them that I’m a bit nervous to be out here in the middle of nowhere as a solo trekker, going in the opposite way of all the signs.  So they pedal off, the old man shakes his head at me (“foolish woman . . . I’ve done this five times already . . . I know the way.”), and he too leaves me in his tire dust, back the way I came.

And I . . . I follow the signs.  Which I realize was ridiculous when two hours later I come across a junction that also has a sign for the Camino, coming from the direction I would be traveling if I had listened to the old man.  It’s not a big deal, but my stomach is still unsettled, and I have already made at least four pit-stops since coming out of Burgos, sometimes in bars or little grocery stores, and sometimes in the bushes.  Again.  (Hope you are amused, Sally K and Jazzy . . . ),

And what I need as I approach Tardajos, the next town emerging around the bend, four hours into the walk, is a Pharmacia.  I see it, right on the main street, and it is actually open!  I will let you imagine the exchange between me and the female pharmacist, neither of us speaking a word of the other’s language, and our pantomime is witnessed by a man and his son, who apparently does know some English.  The father wants to recruit his son to help us out, but the son must understand enough of the little hand sign show to know there is no way HE wants to be involved in this.

The bar in Tardajos BFE

Finally, the pharmacist hands me a box of capsules and explains, “Two at the beginning, and then one at every incident, but no more than six a day.”  Wonderful.  I then turn again to what are now abundant yellow arrows heading to the town’s only albergue and bar, and I sit in the hot sun across the road from the building, with a glass of fresh OJ and ice in a tall wine glass.  Elegant for a pilgrim.

I call the next town’s albergue and make a reservation and head out, after not catching the OJ/wine glass that tips in the wind, smashing onto the rocks under my table.  Picking up the pieces carefully, I carry the glass back into the bar to show the woman what has happened.  She smiles and says, “No problemo, senora.  Tranquillo, tranquillo.”  So I try to relax and thank her before resuming my day’s walk.

At some point I get to Rabe de las Calzada, a sweet little town with one bar and two albergues, as well as the requisite church or two, a Catholic school for adults and children (carved right into the stone above the door), which is also some sort of convent.  At the Albergue Liberanos Domine the pretty dark-haired owner takes my documents, stamps them, tells me where to put my shoes and poles and shows me a bed.  She will serve dinner at 7:00, and the cost is 8 Euro, same as the bed cost.  Fortunately, I don’t refuse, but I do go down to the bar, owned by her brother-in-law, I think, to have some Sangria (they put Anise liquor in it this time.  Bleah!) and use the bar’s wifi (wee-fee, the way it’s pronounced in Spain).  I actually order cheese and of course bread.  But really, cheese!  Just plain cheese, and some olives.  Heaven.  I even drink the anise-dosed Sangria, though I hate the taste of black licorice and that’s what anise and anisette do to anything.

But dinner . . . begins with a most magnificent tasting saffron soup with short pieces of vermicelli in it.  I have two bowls.  The best thing about Spanish food in my experience seems to be the soup, and this is the best soup I have tasted since I’ve been here.

Beautiful tortilla – Rabe de las Calzades

The next course is what the Spanish call a Tortilla . . . like a quicke without crust, but typically it’s loaded with potatoes, and I’ve had enough potatoes, along with the barrels of bread I’ve been served in the past nearly three weeks.  This, on the other hand, is mostly eggs, and is decorated with roasted red peppers on top.  Yum.  The dinner always seems to be followed by a dessert choice in a plastic cup.  Ice cream Sunday, yogurt, Creme Caramel . . . typically store-bought in bulk.  Ah, well, I am too full for dessert anyway.

The pretty woman lets us know that at 8:00 there will be an “oracion” at the convent school.  Apparently the nuns do a small group of readings, and though my leanings are so far backward from nuns and oracions, I join most of my dinner-mates and walk down to the old stone building for a very sweet little ceremony.  It lasts perhaps twenty minutes, with the dozen or so nuns taking turns saying or singing words they seem to know well.  Then they give each of us a milagro of the BVM on a yellow thread.  That’s the Blessed Virgin Mary for those of you who never had the “Catholic Experience.”

I wonder what I’m going to do with mine, and say so to someone next to me.  She turns to me in all sincerity, and says, “But it is a gift they gave you.  You keep it.”  And I do.

I make sure I’m fairly well-organized before I go to sleep, bottles full of water, nectarine in my pack.  Tomorrow, Hornillos, Hontanas and the Meseta, clearly marked in Brierley’s book.  Get that one over with, check it off my “to do” list, and move on.  Ha.

Tuesday, September 17, 2013  Awaking all by myself is such a luxury after over two weeks of hearing the morning machinations of, oh, between six and sixty other trekkers while it’s still dark outside.  I am alone and don’t have to pull the covers over my ears or get my backpack ready in the dark so as not to awaken those who are even more reticent to get out of bed in the pre-dawn hours than I am.

But still, I think I am fully conscious by about 8:00 anyway.  I actually have a hair dryer in this room, so for the first time since I left home on August 28, I might look like a decent human being as I walk out the door to greet the day.

Rick and Gay (remember, from yesterday’s tapas/pinchos dinner?) had told me about the bar across the plaza from the one we visited, and that it actually served fried eggs on the menu for desayuno (breakfast), so I am already thinking about them as I walk toward the Cathedral, where much of the action happens each day.

Eggs!  Yum . . . and fresh squeezed orange juice, cafe con leche, and the requisite bread.  After all of that, I head back to the hotel to pack up and to get a box ready to send to myself in Leon, having sorted and re-sorted the things I picked up yesterday at the post office.  I also have a long and lovely conversation with the hotel employee, Teresa, who loves peregrinos.  She stashes my pack and poles in the back room until later in the afternoon when I will pick them up and move them to my next sleeping quarters, the Hotel Entrearcos.  But I leave now with the postal box that will get to Leon long before I will.

Beautiful parkway along the Rio Arlanzon

I think I can find the way out of the myriad of plazas, but I turn right instead of left and it takes me awhile to reroute myself along a beautiful tree-lined park that is in evidence on both sides of the Rio Arlanzon which cuts through the city.  Finished with my shipping duty, I see that the Museum of Human Evolution is directly across the street from the main Post Office, so I decide to make a stab at soaking up the official culture of Burgos before I meander back to the Centro and the massive Church I will visit later in the day.

Someone we used to look like . . .

This museum is quite an accomplishment and the city of Burgos, the country of Spain, and the scientific world in general has great appreciation for its existence, as evidenced by a display of publications such as National Geographic, Scientific American and others whose cover stories tell of Burgos’ contribution.  The exhibits are well-put together and uncluttered.  The path from one to the next is clear, and each one has explanatory panels in both Spanish and English, so I wander through the three levels of video, interactive cubicles, samples in glass cases, and some pretty amazing sculpted pre-human and early human figures, male and female.

Unfortunately, my brain has a fairly limited ability to absorb museums, and this one is no exception.  Always feeling guilty, I pay quick homage to each section and duck out just before the doors close for siesta.  A very kind young attendant explains to me that if I have my receipt stamped, I can come back for another three hours when siesta is over, and I think him profusely.  But I won’t see him again, I know.

Heading back to the old center gets easier each time I do it, and though I’ve been here less than 36 hours, I’m nearly exactly sure of where I’m going.  I have to retrieve my backpack at the Hotel Norte y Londres, so I have a quick something to eat (probably more bread), and retrieve my belongings.

It takes at least thirty minutes to get into my room for tonight.  The owner, who said he would be in attendance all afternoon, has disappeared, so I chat with a couple who is waiting for their room as well.  British man, perhaps forty, though it’s hard to tell.  He has a boyish air about him, but also is a bit stiff.  Says he and his girlfriend are “Medievalists”, and that she is an academic, from an eastern European or Scandinavian country, but I forget which.  Finally the hotel owners returns, we are each settled into our own “habitacion” and the Cathedral is now open again.

How much food would this buy?

Pilgrims get a discounted entry fee for this church, and the audio guides are free.  They want you to listen to twenty-seven sections of information about all the special side altars, who is buried in what sarcophagus and why (well, why?), the gold everywhere, the hundreds (thousands?) of years it took to put this gorgeous behemoth on the earth, and I feel especially heretical as I walk out of the Cathedral after perhaps 45 minutes, thinking of all the poor people who could have been fed their entire lives on what it cost to build yet one more monument to the Catholic Church, the Cardinals, the high-end politicos of the time, etc.  It’s the same thought I have whenever I visit a work-of-art Cathedral, Duomo, Pallazo, world-renowned.  It’s definitely what I feel when I visit the Vatican.  So shoot me.  Someone the other day commented that now this “expense account on the backs of the poor or ordinary” doesn’t build churches, it builds high-rolling CEOs of big corporations, which don’t even have heaven and salvation to offer.  Ah, but I politicize . . . no fair walking the Camino with these ordinary, disruptive  thoughts.  Shoot me again.

As I leave through the ticket-office door, I see a familiar face from a few nights ago (one of the “rescue-me-from-the-bush” group heading toward Villafranca).  It’s Maggie, frantically trying to get the Cathedral ticket attendant to help her find a room.  They don’t do that.  They just deal with the church.  Maggie is tired, since she and her group took two days to get here, while I zoomed in on the bus, as I happily reported in my last post.

I point her toward the real tourist information office, tell her where I’m staying, say hello to Roy, another member of her informal group – the real bush rescuer -, and then head for the “breakfast egg” bar to get a coffee and a sandwich for my early dinner.  I’m glad I’m not as stressed as they seem to be . . . but then I got a good night’s sleep and am heading for another one.

Tomorrow morning I will walk out of Burgos, no easy feat, since the Burgos city fathers don’t depend only on peregrinos for their daily bread (no pun intended), so the yellow arrows are, shall we say, less than abundant or clear.  This I’ve read, this I’ve been told, and this I will discover soon enough for myself.  For now, it’s early to bed, early to organize in the morning, and kiss my privacy goodbye for another week or so. But I’m ready to be out of the city and back on the road. Itching to be walking . . . that I am.

Brierley’s book says this for tomorrow’s stage:  “Today we leave behind the built environment and enter the relative wilderness of the sublime Meseta.”  He goes on in his lyrical way to talk about the “peace and quiet of the endless crop fields.”  Then he twitters on about a shepherd and his flock or an occasional fox or the birds that keep you company.

“There is little or no shade on the meseta . . . ”  and his book’s summary map inside the front cover shows two stages for this turf.  So I figure tomorrow I’ll walk until just before the Meseta begins, stay in an albergue at the edge of this mesa thing, and get the whole of the wheat fields done in a day.  Well, he forgot to say that this goes on and on and on.  His word “endless”  won’t hit me for a few days.  At this point, I’m in the ignorant blissful state, proud of my planning and ready with the weight of water in my Camelback.  Ha!

The Meseta awaits.  Laughing.  It will show me.

What lies ahead . . .

Sunday, September 15, 2013.  I awaken ready to begin the two-day walk to Burgos, though I know I will get a bus into the big city’s outskirts, having been told that it is a horrendous walk into this lovely city.  But this morning I am nauseous, and am not sure why.  It’s a new symptom, and I don’t want to chance having to find bushes again.  I see that not only is there a bus to Burgos at 9:55 (the hotel staff tells me to be there by 9:30 or earlier . . . ), but there are several people sitting in the lobby waiting to catch this same bus.

We all straggle down the long hotel walk to the main street, turn right as instructed, and look for the bench.  Good thing we got there early.  The 9:55 bus arrives at 9:20, and is nearly full.  About a dozen of us get on and settle in for the perhaps 45 minute ride.  As in Logroño, the bus destination is the terminal in Burgos.  Then the fun begins.  Finding the center of town, finding the albergue to which my backpack will be delivered, finding a place to sleep for two nights that is affordable, etc.

I hear my name as I exit the terminal and there is Lizzy, one of the Canberra women, sick today and bussing it, waiting for her companions Chrissy and Sheila to arrive later in the day.  She and I take turns reading maps and signs until we just decide to follow the spire of the magnificent cathedral in the center of the old Burgos.

Burgos Cathedral

I will visit this cathedral later today or tomorrow, but first things first.  After, what else, a cafe con leche, we split up, and I begin to wander and use my phone (now that it works!) to find an affordable hotel for two nights.  Very long story short, I end up in the Hotel Norte y Londres about three blocks from the Cathedral (which is the center of everything here, apparently), and armed with a map marked with the location of the main post office and the Hostal ___ where my pack will be delivered, I head for the hotel to check in and get settled.

On the way, I see another hotel, quite close to the main plaza, and go in to inquire about their rooms.  They are “Completo” tonight, but tomorrow night have availability at a lower cost than my other new place.  I book tomorrow night’s room.  Continue to my “tonight” hotel.  A lovely young woman, Teresa Alonso, greets me at the desk and will prove to be a delightful help during the next 24 hours.  By tomorrow morning I will realize that I’d rather spend half a day talking with her than wandering the old streets of Burgos, looking for another, yet another, church, monastery or cup of cafe con leche.

But in the meantime, there are errands to run, even here.  Down to the main post office to claim the box I sent to myself from St. Jean Pied-de-Port, and then to the Hostal ___ to pick up my pack.  Ah, no pack until three o’clock.  So back to the hotel, shower, get organized, avoid going to the Cathedral. Today.

Returning from another trip to the hostal to retrieve my backpack, I glimpse, down the block on the Camino path into the Centro,  Matthe’ and Elma from Amsterdam.  They have just walked into Burgos and tell me that I was smart to take the bus.  Matthe’ describes the Camino path into the city and it sounds brutal, as Brierley describes it as well. I am so happy to see this couple, and know this will be the last time, just because of the stages we are each walking.  We talk for a few minutes and they move on.  There are many of these encounters with people we will never see again.

Meeting people on the Camino is an interesting experience.  Why do we talk with one person and not another?  Why do we exchange names sometimes and not others?  What do I notice about the various nationalities, groups, individuals?  Now there’s a question for a long post, but for now, I want to say that I see no really deep pattern among the people who talk to strangers, but for the fact that generally the French don’t talk with anyone but their own countrymen and women.  Aussies, Brits and Irish are incredibly outgoing and friendly, at least in this venue. The Germans do talk with others, but generally hang with their own. The Japanese never seem to say hello or acknowledge other peregrinos in any way.  I’ve not seen them even say “Buen Camino” as everyone else does.  If I had $1.00 for every time I said or heard “Buen Camino”, I could buy my own jet plane.  It is a dependable good wish among all peregrinos . . . but for the Japanese, apparently.

The Brazilians seem to be some of the friendliest people on the planet, in my experience on this walk, as evidenced by my encounters over the Pyrenees.  The Spanish are welcoming (the ones who aren’t walking) and friendly (the ones who are walking).  The bicyclists typically ring a bell or shout out so we will know they are coming up behind us.   Single peregrinos sometimes stop and keep pace with one another, but not always.  I’ve met single walkers who are no longer single, having wanted to meet another solo who is compatible in pace and whatever else they need. I might mention that I am not one of those people. I am very friendly on the path, at the dinner table, in the albergue, but I walk alone.  Sounds like a Johnny Cash song.

I must say I enjoy seeing some couples or individuals again and again as we move across the Camino, like Matthe’ and Elma.  Others are less interesting to me, but we still recognize that we’ve shared cramped bunk quarters or a delicious Pilgrim’s dinner together in this town or that. And sometimes these familiar faces show up in unexpected places.

As I begin to “food hunt” for some dinner around Burgos centro, wanting to postpone my visit to the Cathedral for tomorrow, I hear my name and look up.  It seems to be the thing to do.  And the voice says, “Joannah, it’s Gay and Rick from Oklahoma!”  Ah, I met them on the path from Viloria de la Rioja to Villafranca yesterday.  I had taken off my boots and Rick needed to do the same.  Rock stumps appeared intermittently between the path and the highway, and we had availed ourselves of them as temporary foot clinics.  We talked for perhaps ten minutes and I went on, or they did.  Many of these interactions blend into one another, and our brains can only remember a few details.  Until the next time we meet.

A favorite haunt, even for only two days, in Burgos.

Rick and Gay are sipping on cold drinks, sitting at an outside table,  belonging to one of the half-dozen bars situated to the left of the Cathedral.  Sangria sounds good to me, and I accept their invitation to join them.  We spend an hour tasting a variety of pinchos (tapas, if you prefer, but here they’re pinchos) and making small talk.  Rick is one of several men I have met with blister problems at this stage, and is under doctor’s orders to leave his boots off for at least 48 hours, so they will bus to somewhere else tomorrow.

I walk back to my little hotel, stopping on the way to get a couple of chocolates, really wishing I could find a Panaderia (bakery) for a sweet croissant or palmier.  I manage to pantomime to the chocolatier that I’d like sweet bread, and he gestures down the block, turn right, then the third left down a little street, and there will be what I want.  Nodding my head, calling “gracias” over my shoulder, I follow his directions, and there, in a tiny narrow block, is a bakery where a young woman employee is ready to close the doors for the night, but she re-opens for me, and I get exactly what I want.  One more stop on the way to Hotel Norte y Londres and I enter the hotel with a “take-away” cafe con leche and my sweet goodies.

Great bedtime snack.  Mmmm.  And a good night’s sleep by myself.

I am reluctant to go backward, but I also don’t want to miss an accounting of some earlier days, and I’ll try to catch up more quickly in the next few days, so here goes:

Tuesday, September 10, 2013  Torres del Rio to Logroño to Navarette

Today I have an errand agenda – twofold.  I am concerned that I will not get to Burgos by the date I have put on the package I sent to myself from St. Jean Pied-de-Port.  The next real city is Logroño, 20 km. from Torres del Rio, and the other errand precludes me from walking . . . my boots are not cooperating with any consistency, and I would like to buy some hiking sandals as a “foot relief” purchase.  I see at the reception for my albergue that there is a bus from Torres del Rio to Logroño at 9:00 a.m.  Perfect!

The bus was very efficient,  and full of pilgrims who are only walking a few patches of the Camino.  I sit in the first row, since I am notoriously motion sick, and immediately hear, “HEY, JOANNE!”

If you are reading this, you know how much I hate being called Joanne, since my name is Joannah.  I ignore the call, until it comes again.  I turn around and see a woman I vaguely recognize from a few days ago. She must have recognized my Tilly hat.  Sigh. I wave and settle in again, facing front.  The bus takes about 30 minutes to get to Logroño and delivers all of its passengers (and backpacks) to the central bus terminal in the middle of the city.

Soon armed with a map, marked for the main post office as well as a shoe store, I set off.  At the Post Office, I am amused (and relieved) to see a young couple struggling with their enormous packs, trying to fill a postal box with some of their belongings to send home to Germany.  Americans (and oldish ones, at that) are not the only ones who bring too much.  The only English-speaking postal worker is gracious and tremendously helpful.  Someone calls the Burgos Correos (P.O) and tells me that Burgos will hold the package until September 21.   No matter how slowly I go, I’ll be there before then. I leave, relieved.

On the way to the shoe store, I see an actual mini-omelette for sale at a bar.  Yes, it is encased in the requisite half baguette, but still . . . eggs!  I step in and with the plate and a cafe con leche, I find a table outside on the sidewalk and revel in the first real breakfast I’ve had in two weeks.

Then on to the shoe shopping, though after three stores, I am unsuccessful.  The last store is a discount one, and I am afraid to buy a 20 Euro pair of sandals for this walk.  The young employee says that if I have time, I might visit Planeta Aqua, and she shows me where it is on the map.  She even calls the store, tells them what I am looking for, and asks whether they have a selection in my size.  This is definitely above and beyond the call of duty.  I thank her profusely, sorry I can’t purchase something from her shop.

Happy Foot! New Teva hiking sandal with 1000 Mile Fusion Socks, of course!

The Planeta Aqua store is wonderful, as is the English-speaking young man who apparently answered the phone 20 minutes before.  After a very efficient exchange, I purchase some red Teva hiking sandals,  tie my hiking boots to my full pack and wear the new sandals out the door, over my 1000 Mile Fusion Socks, which I would NOT be without!

It is time to set off from Logroño to Navarette, where I am to have a reservation.  I know this because the wonderful young man at the Planeta Aqua shoe store called the Albergue El Cantaro while I stood next to him, showing him the correct phone number.  This is not always a guarantee, apparently.  But more on this when I arrive in Navarette.

I begin my walk through the streets of Logroño, winding gently into and out of lovely city parks, all the way out of town.  For several kilometers into the countryside, this park-like concrete path offers both stability (unlike the patches of old Roman Road) and a hellish effect on the body.  Each type of path is a mixed bag, but for now, I’d rather have meandering concrete than this:

The Camino walkers are moving from Basque/Nararra country to La Rioja, a famous wine district, so the occasional small vineyards become large ones, with evidence of lovely winery buildings spread among the vineyard properties.

Luscious Grapes in Rioja

I can see the various ages of the vines, from the stringy brand new ones waiting to get up their courage, to the middle-aged plants, strung on metal stem and wire as we are used to seeing them, with their lovely wide green leaves touching one another arm in arm like a vineyard solidarity parade.  And then there are the old vines in two stages, as far as I can see.  Old and decrepitly spectacular.  The trunks are actual woody stumps carefully trimmed back so that just the best leaves, the most compact grape clusters push the best fruit, to make better wine.  Neil could describe this much better than I.

I finally can resist the temptation no longer and reach over to pluck a not-quite ripe purple, juicy marble of a grape.  Delicious!  I can nearly taste the wine in my glass, though I don’t know what wine these grapes will ultimately make.

The segment to Navarette is easy and uneventful, but about 5 km before my destination town, I am joined by Frankie and Eugie, “The Flans”, i.e. the Flanagan brothers.  Irish, of course, and delightful company.  Eugie has the less trim frame and a blondish, disheveled pony tail. Frankie’s hair is cropped quite short and is the thinner of the brothers.  They have a third traveling partner who took the bus to Navarette because of a pulled muscle or some other sort of injury.  The friend has saved The Flans two spaces at the same Albergue at which the Planeta Aqua guy reserved my room.  As we walk, Eugie is looking for a big black metal bull standing on top of a hill somewhere.  We finally do see it, and it’s a photo-op moment, of course.  Then we go merrily down a small hill to our Albergue El Cantaro, ready to shower and settle in.  At least I am.  I think these Irish brothers will have a bit of partying in mind with their friend.

Outside Navarette

Except that when we all arrive, there is no reservation for me and there are no more beds.  “Completo.”  The owners, an older couple, have no English, and there is a young woman in the reception area who tries to translate for us, saying that the man in Logroño called this albergue while I was standing next to him with the number.  But no, no reservation,

The owner finally says that since the last two people who have reservations have not shown up yet and it’s 5:30, he will give me one of the beds.  I take it gratefully, and it is even a bottom bunk!

It is very tired out tonight, and after a solo meal down a long courtyard and alley, I crawl into my bed.  A Dutch couple, Elma and Matthé are also in the room, and I will share a bunk room with them several more times.

The Flans are nowhere to be seen, but by 10:00, closing time for most albergues, they come in and try to be quiet in the dark.  At about 2:00 a.m. there is a sound in the room, like an entire bottle of water spilling to the floor from a top bunk.  At first I thought someone was drunk and peeing off the high bed, but no bladder could hold that much liquid.  Finally those of us who awakened for this impromptu “glug-glug” concert can hear the “POP!” of an empty plastic bottle hitting the floor and then silence.

Welcome to albergue living.  We all go back to sleep.

Okay, some of you have wanted to follow with maps, so here is my day-by-day travel, with no real details but for the mileage/km. on my pedometer.  But if you are a map-hound, here you go.  And if not, you can skip this.  No photos here.

(By the way, when I said I had walked 252 km, I lied.  Turns out it was 292!! And now it’s 304 km. Approximately 190 miles. So good on me . . . though that doesn’t seem like much at this point . . . ).

Pre-Camino travel days – Denver – Reykjavik-Paris-Bordeau-Bayonne-St. Jean Pied-de-Port.

Day 1 – St. Jean Pied-de-Port to Orisson.  10km including the back and forth from Orisson to our Gite Kayola down the hill.

Day 2 – Orisson – Roncesvalles (Roncevaux if you are French).  17.1 km, 24K adjusted for altitude over the Pyrenees (Brierley’s calculations).

Day 3 – Roncesvalles – Burguette – Espinal – Gerendiain/Viskarret -Linzoain – Alto de Erro – Puenta de la Rabia – Zubiri.  22.2km (about 4 km. hitchhike)

Day 4 – Zubiri – Larrasoaña – Akerreta – Zuriain – Parque – Pamploma.  22.1 k (about 5 km. grandfather ride).

Day 5 – Pamploma stay.  About 7 km. round the town.

Day 6 – Pamploma – Cizur Menor – Zariquiegui – Alto del Perdon – Utera – Obanos (by taxi – 4 km.). 19.5 m.

Day 7 – Obanos – Puenta la Reina – Mañeru – Cirauqui -Lorca.  17.2 km.

Day 8 – Lorca – Villatuerta – Estella – Irache (wine fountain) – Azqueta – Villamayor de Monjardin. 18 km.

Day 9 – Villamayor de Monjardin – Los Arcos – Sansol – Torres del Rio.  19.5 km.

Day 10 – Torres del Rio – Logroño –  Navarette.  12 km. from Logroño to Navarette.  Bus from Torres del Rio to Logroño.

Day 11 – Navarette – Ventosa – Najra.  17.4 km.

Day 12 – Najera to Cirueña. 15.11 km.

Day 13 – Cirueña – Santo Domingo de la Calzada.  Comfort Day.  6 km.

Day 14 – Santo Domingo de la Calzada – Grañon – REdecilla del Camino – Castildelgado – Viloria de la Rioja. 15 km.

Day 15 – Viloria de la Rioja – Villamayor del Rio – Belorado – Tosantos – Viillambistia – Espinosa del Camino – Villafraca Montes de Oca. 21 km.

Have I mentioned that I cannot keep up with Brierely’s “days”?  This fifteen days I have traveled only “measures up” to half-way through Brierley’s Day 11.  As two robust Irish women said in Torres del Rio . . . “F&*# Brierley!”

I find his book tremendously useful, let me say.  But they had me laughing in my bunk as they extolled the literary virtues of Brierley’s descriptions, and cursed the things he leaves out . . . like the completely arduous up and down of some of the stages.  They are correct.  But hey, he would have deterred most of us if he had told us how f*%#ing HARD some of the days have been.  And though either they’ve evened out or I have gotten much stronger, there are more of those f*&%ing days to come!  I can see it.  I even sent Neil a new copy of Brierley, so he can follow me more intimately than he ever thought he’d want to do.  Love to you, Neil.

Next  installment at the end of the month.

Sunday, September 15, 2013

Dinner at Albergue Acacio and Orietta

My lovely little commune albergue was the site of a delicious communal meal for nine of us last night.  Acacio and Orietta were host and chef respectively, and with six peregrinos and one volunteer, we sat around a long table and shared a sumptuously simple dinner.  Cream of zucchini soup, green salad, rice and a lentil and chorizo stew  The requisite water and wine, of course, though they came just as they were, not transformed by anyone

One of the many lovely things about the philosophy of this couple is that they want us to really be in the pleasure of each moment.  I asked whether I could set the table and Orietta nodded.  Then she said, “Even the act of setting the table is a conscious act, not just a way to get to dinner.”

While they hold to the guideline of most albergues, lights out by 22:00, they will not unlock the doors in the morning until 7:00 a.m.  This prevents anyone from rushing around at 5:30 when others are trying to be quiet, and it helps remind all of us that this is not a race.  I heard one man trying to wheedle an early exit from Orietta, and she said, “You are trying to persuade me to do something when my job right now is to make coffee.  You can wait for twenty minutes to leave, please.”

I will miss this committed couple.  And I am up fairly early, 7:00, relaxing a bit before breakfast.  I head out the door by 8:30, into a completely overcast and gratefully cool day.  The hills are barely rolling and their colors are various shades of gold and brown.  No grapevines, no trees.  Just peace and quiet.

I seem to stop many times today, fussing over my boots and socks, taking the ankle guard off my right foot (too bulky), and again, stopping to reach into the right boot, trying to discover what is in there that is causing such discomfort.  Ah, there it is . . .  a folded bit of fabric at just the point of the bulging bone below my big toe.  After a minute’s hesitation, I get out my little Swiss Army knife and awkwardly cut away the quarter-sized piece of fabric (probably part of the Gortex) and re-insert my foot.  Feels better.

Sign on a bar in a tiny village

Lots of little towns today, a very odd variety of sights, an opportunity to get juice or café-con leche at each stop, along with just a couple of occasional pinchos to feed the body.  I have a reservation at a place 21 km. up the road, the place Amadeo arranged to have my small backpack sent, so I have to get there.  If I don’t arrive by 2:00 p.m. and don’t call, my bed will be gone.  I call at 1:30 to reconfirm and say I will be there by 5:00. Or so.

The way is smooth today, the up and down more gradual than some days, and the bushes, almost non-existent.  I do have a bush time, checking behind me on the path to gauge how far behind me the next group of walkers might be.  I’m getting good at this, but I leave my pack and sticks on the side of the path and plunge into stickers.  I’m standing upright atain as the group approaches.  Five of them, I think.  I ask for a hand out of the brambles, and one man looks up in surprise, passes me his walking stick, and extends his arm.  Whoop! Out I come, and I thank you.  They go on, and I re-don pack, pick up sticks and follow them.

At 4:50, I am at the desk.  The little man looks up past a small crowd of hopeful registrants (the bush rescuer among them) and says, “Joannah?”  I nod.  He also nods and I know my bed is safe.  It’s even a “normal bed”, that is, not a bunk.  YEA!

This guy didn’t even blink when I walked by . . . A Marley-type old boy.

Today was not majestic.  It just was a new Camino day.  By 2:00, my boots were off, replaced by the Teva sandals again.  The hills were very manageable, I was carrying most of the full weight of my large pack, and I never once felt anything but comfortable on the walk (but for the boots here and there).  The people at REI will be shocked that I took a penknife to my Asolo boots.  Sorry, REI.  Nothing personal.

Nearly 21 km. today.  I have walked (but for the two short hitchhiker rides) 252 km so far.  That’s only 156.24 miles, but who’s counting.  It’s not much more than the distance from Fort Collins to Colorado Springs, so why did it take me two weeks to do it??  Time is wiggly on the Camino.

Hmmm . . . Camino or Convento? Which to choose?