Woodswoman Walking

Friday, September 11, 2015.  Raise a glass today . . . the 14th anniversary of the attack on the World Trade Center.  And I spend the morning walking to, and exploring, a replica of the Caves of Altamira, near Santillana del Mar.  Ria and I walk there and back, laughing that it feels like a long walk, but if it were part of the actual Camino, it would just be a short spit.  Perspective is interesting.

We can’t actually see the real caves and the original cave drawings, because the hoards of people who visited during the 20th century nearly destroyed the site, just by their very presence.  Now the Caves, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, are protected, and what a visitor sees is a reproduction of parts of the caves and the drawings, as well as a nearly overwhelming amount of information about primitive peoples and their ways of living.

Very intriguing, but as with any museum, more than two hours is enough for me, I’m embarrassed to say.  We walk back to Santillana del Mar, grab lunch and our backpacks, which we’ve stored in the dining room of the Casa Octavio owner, and find our way to the yellow arrows and out of town.  A very late start, already nearly 3:00, but we don’t have so far to go.  We pass the local Albergue de Peregrinos, which is closed to get rid of a bed bug problem.  Good for the hospitaleros there.  I’ve encountered no bed bugs, and if albergues would be as responsible as this one (for the most part they are), no one would ever see one little bug.  No bugs, and no blisters at all, I might add.  My Keens and my 1000 Mile Fusion Socks are serving me very well.

We also pass the inviting food shops, including a chocolate shop displaying this poster on its stone face:

Tempting, but I’m walking across a country . . . and only have energy for one or the other . . .

The day is again bright and sunny, and though the temperature isn’t too high, walking under all that uncloudy sky makes it seem like it’s the desert.  But it surely doesn’t look like the desert.  Lots of cows and open fields, as well as the forested walkways I’ve come to love.

What might be beyond this gate?

Not sure what this is, but gorgeous, surrounded only by farmland and lots of cows.

When I get to El Pino,  just on the early edge of Cóbreces, I am delighted to see a very nice, apparently very new, small albergue.  The owner lives in the house on the main level, and there is a kitchen and big eating table just as I walk into the place.  Rooms are upstairs, two of the, with three sets of bunks in one room and two flat beds with a bunk in the other.  Ria and I have requested “flat beds”, if possible, so the owner shows us to that room.  We are the only ones here at the moment, but later two more couples come, all Spanish speakers, and they are given the other room.  Something to be said for being the “old ones”, though Ria is nearly 20 years younger than I am.

We walk into town to the grocery store and put together the fixings for a dinner.  Tomatoes, roasted red peppers, good cheese, bread of course, and pasta, onions, garlic, etc.  We will eat “in” tonight, and Ria wants to cook.  I’ll prepare the appetizers and open the bottle of wine.

Our dinner “at home” for the first time on the Camino del Norte

Saturday, September 12, 2015.  I am up entirely too late trying to get caught up with my writing (and am still a week behind as I type this), but in the morning, our hostess has breakfast for us at 7:30 so it’s out of bed, get packed up again, and be ready to head out after eating.  Yogurt, bread, cafe con leche.  No eggs 😦       But this has been a wonderful place to stay, and I would give it very high ratings in the scheme of albergues.

And we are off.  We walk together for awhile, only because Ria stops to make boot adjustments, to check the route, etc., but finally we go our fast and slower ways, knowing we will meet at the Albergue in San Vicente de la Barquera, about 22 km away.  My longest day so far on this much more challenging camino.

Red church and blue church (no photo of this one) are standing tall on my left as I walk through the town and out toward the countryside for awhile.

Red Church looming above most of Cóbreces

Another day of part coastal walks with beautiful views and an enormous gathering of shore birds and seagulls down below me about 3 km out of Cóbreces, but also of way too much road walking.

I’d rather be down there with the birds!

The asphalt is not fun on feet, and walking against the traffic rather than on a path is pretty grueling after a few hours.  Fortunately, the cloud cover gives a big chunk of heat/sun rellief.  I stop for lunch in Comillas, another beach/medieval little city, and continue toward my goal for the day.

My friend Larry, whom I met last year, has been e-mailing me his whereabouts here and there, but I haven’t heard from him lately.  Last I knew, he was in Castro Urdiales long before I was, with another friend we both met two years ago.  I wonder whether I’ll run into him at some point.  When I get a couple days down the road, I’ll write to him again to see where he is.  He visited us in Fort Collins in July, and Neil enjoyed meeting him, as did my son-in-law, Justin, who happened to be in the Fort that day.  Larry is enjoying his “drifter” status, having been widowed three years ago, and is taking his time on this Camino.  I have no such luxury at this point, and still haven’t gotten my head around just what “my Camino” will look like this time, though I’m more relaxed about the walking and occasional bussing, especially when I’m joined by others who need to or want to cut down some of the kilometers they will walk.  Ria is probably two hours ahead of me by now.

More injuries on this one, as I listen to people talk about their blisters, their knee problems, strained or sprained ankles, etc.  Some have decided to pack it in and go home.  At least I’m still on the trail!  And at the edge of the road, down in the valley below me, is an interesting sight.  Something like Clematis, with blue flowers, is growing wild, covering the growth below me.  Not only that, but it reaches up to grasp the low branches of the trees above me, creating a long, dense carpet and wallpaper.  Just gorgeous.

I arrive at the bridge to San Vicente de la Barquera, and am grateful the threat of rain has only been that . . . a threat.  My directions for the Albergue read “up the hill”, but the whole town is built on a hill and it’s already been over nine hours since I left the nice El Pino albergue this morning.  The walk across the bridge IS lovely, so I breathe it in.

The bridge to San Vicente de la Barquera

Once I’m on the city-side, I begin to walk up the first hill, and the yellow arrows half-way up seem to point me to a left-hill.  Some men nod and point confirmation, and I ask, “Albergue o Camino?”  They say “Albergue” so I climb to the top of the hill and there is no albergue in sight.  A hotel reception person sadly smiles and points me back down THIS hill and up the next.  I shake my head and begin my descent.

Going up the next hill, I ask two people and get two different responsees, but both say “next to the church”.  Climb climb and it begins to drizzle.  No point in digging out my poncho now.  I’m already soaking wet from exertion.  I call the Albergue to ask for clearer directions, and the hospitalero says, “Just next to the church.”  I see people dressed up, coming out of Saturday evening mass at . . . the church . . . at the VERY top of this hill.

Finally I arrive, and I’m pretty crabby, but I know I cannot be crabby to these volunteers who work so hard for us.  Julien introduces himself, pulls up a chair for me, and shows me the form I need to fill out.  Then to my bunk in a VERY tight bunk room, and then to the spacious kitchen and eating area.  But of course the stores are closed and I have no groceries in my pack.  Maybe I’ll just go to bed.

But then Ria, who has greeted me with congratulations for walking so far today, coughing all the way, has met a German man, Johann, and a German young woman, Adriana, and she wants me to go to dinner with them.  She says there might be another woman with them, and who knows?  Julien has given them a recommendation for a restaurant only a few streets down (down, get it . . . this is so high that EVERYTHING is down), so I sigh and grumble to myself and follow them.

As it happens, this will be a sort of turning point in some ways, though I don’t know it yet.  The restaurant has SOUP!  I’ve been craving soup for my cough, and here it is.  Johann and Adriana sit with us and soon we are joined by a man who is solo, Matthé, a Belgiun walker.  And then we hear a laugh I will never forget, and Adriana says, “Oh, that’s the other woman, Erika!”  She calls down to Erika and another burst of laughter wafts up to our second floor table.

So now we have six.  Three Germans, two Belgians and an American (me).  The conversation starts in German, until Adriana asks if I understand much German.  I say, “Not a word.”  I want to add “and I’m tired so I don’t care whether I can understand” but she switches to English, as do the others.  Of course the Belgians can speak Flemish, French, Dutch, German AND English, putting almost all Americans to shame.

Erika is the most exuberant person I’ve met yet on this trail, or almost every, when I think about it.  If her laugh weren’t so charming, I’d want to put a bag over her head, because she bursts out laughing with nearly every response she makes.

She tells us she has a pretty bad knee problem, and had been pushing herself to go 30 km per day, at the additional urging of some man who happened to be walking with her.  But she ended up earlier today on the beach in Comillas in tears because she was in so much pain, and some “senior walkers” invited her to go more slowly with them.  She says she also met a very nice man on that beach who comforted her for a few minutes.  We all encourage her to listen to her body, and not some guy who doesn’t have her best interests at heart.

Then I can barely keep my eyes open so I excuse myself, pay my part of the bill, and walk back to the albergue.  Get into my sleep sack, wrap my jacket across my eyes and go to sleep.  8:30.  Crash.

Another beloved cow . . . I thought only male cows had horns, but this one was with a whole dozen females with horns and she was interested in me, so I had to include her in this post!

Please disregard the first, disjointed and incomplete post about “Bilbao to Pobeña – No Room At The Inn.”  I have been trying to finish this one, and found myself clicking on “Publish” rather than “Save Draft”. The sun is hot, the walks are beautiful but long, and this Woodswoman is posting things late in the evening.

So mea culpa again.  Sorry to mislead you here and there.  The newest version of Bilbao to Pobeña is up and running, but the first notice you received for this one through your e-mail is not complete. And thanks for following!

Sunday, September 6, 2015.  Hotel Abando’s checkout time is noon, so we take our time, go out to have breakfast (remember that Ria found a place with FRIED EGGS and bacon!), pack up and follow the recommendations of our books and my Camino friend Larry.  Take the Metro and save three hours of walking the industrial section of Bilbao.  The metro can stop at Areeta, just across the river from Portugalete, a good place to begin walking.  Disembarking in Areeta, we see Zanira, the young Dutch (Curacao-born) woman again, from Orio and Zumaia.  She has just spent the three hours walking the above bleak section of Bilbao and is exhausted, especially since she really pushed it, probably past her limits, in the first week.  Now she’s headed just for Portugalete to the Albergue there, which opens early, at 1:00 p.m.  But she has to get there, and so do we, though we won’t stay.

A World Heritage bridge connects the two towns over the water, the Puenta Colganta de Portugalete, and the cost for just walking over the bridge is about as big as its name.  7 Euro.  Seven . . . for walking over a bridge.  Larry had told me there was a special price for pilgrims, so I ask.  The woman looks at three of us traveling together for the moment, with our sticks and our huge backpacks and asked, “Oh, are you pilgrims?”   No, lady, we just LIKE to walk around for fun with 20+ pounds on our backs and two metal legs to help us stay upright.

So the discounted, super special price for peregrinos is  . . . wait for it . . . FIVE Euro.  We pay the 1.70 Euro to take the water gondola across instead.  Saves us all some potential nausea.  We take photos instead, though they probably don’t do the bridge justice.

The World Heritage site, the Puenta Colganta de Portugalete

Umbrellas at a street market – Portugalete

The walk from Portugalete to Pobeña is beautiful for the most part, and though it is “easy”, almost every inch of the 13 km. is on a walking and bicycling track that goes for miles, connecting Portugalete to the three or four towns west of it.  I end up at Playa La Arena, another gorgeous view of the blue, blue sea,  only a 20 minute walk to Pobeña, where Ria is waiting.  She calls to say that the Albergue is “competo”, but that we have an opportunity to stay in a Casa Rural,  a country house, sort of a bed and breakfast.  They have three spaces. I say, “Take it.”  The owner of the place will come to drive us to the Casa, called Casa Labeondo.  The place is lovely, though our room is fairly spare, three twin beds squinched together, and a large, modern bathroom with a nice shower.

The owner, once he has taken our passports, stamped our credenciales and explains the keys, lets us know that in the morning, we have to take the bus back to Pobeña to connect with the Camino again.  He suggests a dinner place for us, just a 20-minute walk down the hill.  I sigh, but we clean up (we’re sharing our bedroom with an older French man named Thierry) and trudge, our feet already sore.  The place serves hamburgers and pizzas, in so many varieties I can’t even read the menu.  I order an ensalata mixta, always a safe choice.

Thierry is a smoker, and I had seen him on the path from Portugalete, always stopped when I passed him.  I began to wonder whether he was a bit suspicious, but finally realized that he stops about every 20 minutes to have a cigarette.  He is coughing at least as hard as I am, but for a different reason.  As we three prepare for sleep, he and I hacking, he makes a sign with his fingers, one hand for me and one for him . . . “just shoot us!”

Monday, September 7, 2015. The night is easy, once we’re all asleep, and in the morning, we have our breakfast in the dining room of the Casa Labeonda and walk to the bus stop.  Once we are back in Pobeña, we again look for the yellow arrows.  Thierry is having a foot problem and he stays outside the Pobeña albergue, waiting for it to open early in the afternoon so he can stay put for another night.  Ria and I go on the path at our separate paces, and I encounter another 100 stone steps up to the coastal path.

I’m really writing each of these days’ events separately, but they do sound like the same thing, don’t they?  Beautiful blue skies, a raft of stone steps, and coastal walks above the sea with spectacular views.  But that’s what many of these days will be about.  Tough life, right?  The weather is being kind . . . temperatures in the low 70’s, though soon into the walks, I’m sweating like I never do in Colorado.  The exertion, even if it is not extreme, and the coastal humidity all add to the wetness of this walker.

Up on the cliffs above the coast, out of Pobeña

Another one of those gorgeous views

And there is pampas grass everywhere . . . an invasive species, and not much appreciated here, but it is lovely to MY eyes

I get to Castro Urdiales in time to send a small package to Santiago with another pound of unneeded things in it.  I haven’t been using my iPod this time, and don’t need the external battery pack I used 0n the last Camino so there is no point in hauling it.  The days are getting easier, but that cough is still making for a more tiring day than I would otherwise have.  So every pound counts . . . and I keep reminding myself that I am not sending my pack ahead of me this time, as I did often on the Camino Frances.

Finding the Albergue is easy, and there are 16 places there.  A group of walkers have lined up their packs in the order of their arrival . . . first come, first served, but the place doesn’t open for another 15 minutes.  I see the Danish women, Inga and Bodil, and they tell me I am #16.  I hope so.  Some of the pilgrims on the other side of the building look like they are not ready for this lineup (or not aware of it).

Sure enough, I get to the registration table and am told that there are no more beds, but I could either have a mattress on the floor (after 9:30 tonight) or a tent outside.  Or the hospitalero can call a pension for me.  I have him do the latter.  Walking back to the coastline to find my Pension La Marina, I also hope to spot a washer and dryer, a real laundry where I can actually clean my clothes and know they will be dry before I put them on.

My room, #9, four flights up, smells as though a dozen Spanish old men sat up and smoked an entire carton of cigarettes, and I know I can’t stay there.  So I walk down the four flights, try to make the old man who owns the place understand “Fumare”, with some coughs just for emphasis.  His wife comes into the conversation and asks (no English, but we make do) whether I’d like my money back.  I say yes, and trudge back up the four flights to get my pack.

When I get to the second floor (Europeans call it the first floor, of course), she is waiting with a different key, and shows me to Room #1, pointing to her nose, telling me I can smell this room and see whether it is good.  It is.  Not sure why she didn’t give me this one in the first place.  Maybe they all smoke.  Bathroom and shower across the hall.  My bedroom windows are open, but the “open” space isn’t really open to anything.  Still, it’s better than the smoke, and after I get some coffee, pinxos, and do my laundry (ah, heaven to actually have a dryer), I return to my room and sleep for 10 hours.  I feel MUCH better in the morning.  More on that later. . .

September 3, 2015.  Waking up in my own room in Deba was luxurious, and it gives me a chance to do some writing before I move to the next stage of the journey.  As I have walked during the past two days, I notice my thoughts have stayed with a theme or two . . . for whom am I walking , and for whom am I writing?

When I began this website very early in 2012, 18 months before I started the Camino Frances in September 2013, it was for me and I didn’t give much thought to readers.  I’ve been keeping a journal since I was a little girl, and I couldn’t imagine taking on such a venture as a walk across Spain without writing down my preparations, thoughts, fears, whatever from the moment I made the decision to do this thing.  Yes, I thought about the possibility of a book eventually, and with all the book ideas I’ve had over the past 25 years, perhaps one day I’ll be the oldest living “first book” female in the annals of history, but one step at a time, both literally and figuratively . . . Write for me, walk for me, and see what happens.

My daughter signed on to follow and so did one of my sisters.  That made sense because Ashley had written her way across the southern hemisphere with her husband during that same time period, and my youngest sister had been a “blogger” for several years.  Everything from the Houston Zoo site to one giving us great suggestions for unique Christmas gifts.  Then a friend or two here or there added their e-mail addresses to the “follow” list, as well as my other sister, and one by one, I had about a dozen followers.  As the date of my departure in 2013 drew closer, my sons added themselves to the list, as did some writing students, and a variety of other well-wishers.  But I was writing for myself, as I have always done.  I noticed one day that the number of followers had risen to over 350.  How did that happen?  I’m not sure, but the internet does strange things without anyone even noticing.  People are interested in the kind of adventure I’m taking, just as I was interested when I saw Emilio Estevez’ movie The Way, written with his father, Martin Sheen, in mind.  I saw the film and immediately decided I would walk the Camino Frances.  And I did.

At this point, I see by WordPress’ stats that I have over 700 followers, and this “audience” factor is both an encouraging thing and a daunting one, once I posed the question to myself:  To whom am I writing?

Yes, I do know these followers want to . . . well, follow.  They are supportive, appreciative, loving and non-judgmental.  This last is important, since I have plenty of judgment so surround myself sometimes.  And I also know that writing my journey is very important to me.  After all, surprisingly enough, I used the material from the last Camino, reshaped and added to, edited and cut down, to finish a Master’s Thesis attempt I’d been struggling with for more than a dozen years.  The writing I had done before, during and after my first Camino was useful to me in personal and professional ways.  And as a great side benefit, those followers seemed to really enjoy what I wrote.  For some, reading was a caring gesture.  For others, it was an energizing factor in making their own decision to walk the Camino.  And I’m sure there are dozens or hundreds of other reasons why a person would follow someone they don’t know, or even someone they DO know, watching a life’s adventure unfold.

I have MOO cards, printed with one of my scenic photos on the front and my information on the back, including the address for this website.  I invite people to read my words, every time I hand someone a card.

Yes, my posts were true, descriptive, and reflective.  Whatever showed up on the page was a valid representation of my days at any given moment.  That is still true.  No, I never thought of just bagging it.  Yes, it was hard at first, and yes, it got easier and I got stronger.  All those things were what I expected on this route.

But it doesn’t just move along slickly, with my last walk’s patterns in some tissue-paper overlay for this one.  Beautiful coastal walks, very hot days, more difficult pathways than I expected, a couple of early tumbles, and now the wretched and arriving-way-too-early bronchial plague I’m famous for.  Now.  Though my body has recovered from the falling jolts, it is now fighting the blows to the midsection every time I cough.  Time will heal this, and nothing else.

My step-by-step musing has come to this.  I will walk for me.  I will write for me.  I will stop or go on, by foot or by bus, as I need to.  And with every step, I’ll smell the smells, hear the sounds, see the sights, feel my feet as I struggle up and down the hills and mud, give thanks for sunny days with not too much heat, for coastal views and fairly manageable walkways.

And I will definitely know many people are with me in spirit.  You’ll continue to take what I write and I’ll continue to write what shows up from my heart and head through my fingers.  And no matter what, I will have a buen Camino.

NOTE:  An adjusted post.  Some of you might have seen part of this erroneously attached to August 31 narratative.  Again, mea culpa.

Tuesday, September 1, 2015  Happy Birthday, Mom! She would have been 94 today. And she still would have thought I am crazy to do this. She would be correct.

Oh, and I have solved the mystery of the missing pills and glasses.  Ana, one of the hospitaleros in Pasai Donibane, wrote to say I left the ziplock bag at the Albergue with the 119 steps, and I’m welcome to come back to get it.  Seriously?  I ask if someone at the Albergue can send it on to me at the post office in Santander.  She replies that she is now in Barcelona, and that “all you have to do” is take a train back to Irun and then a bus to Donibane.  I don’t think so.  I’ll find a way, but have to get replacement pills, at least the Metformin.  There is time for that.

I leave Orio, stopping in the village for cheese, ham, and a banana, and set off up the hill again toward tonight’s destination: Zumaia. 17 km. I come to Zaurutz, another city with minimal markings, and decide to do the coastal route, rather than the mountain route today. As I walk I begin to figure the number of days I have to walk, the number of kilometers and the difficulty of the terrain on at least 1/3 of the days. At the rate I’m going, I can’t imagine how I will actually finish without having to employ a faster method of transportation here and there.

For now, I’m sitting at Charly Bar, on the boardwalk in Zaurutz, right on the sea coast, having just finished two delicious pinxos, an enormous ensalada mixta with tuna, white asparagus, hard-boiled eggs and fresh tomatoes.

Delicious salad on the beach at Zarautz

As an aside, there is a little girl, perhaps five years old, who has been having a rising tantrum on her scooter since long before she began to sit in front of me. Finally she starts punching her brother, her father gives her a couple of swats on the behind and put her in a chair in front of me. She’s been screaming ever since, the kind of scream that lets you know she’s practicing to be Sarah Heartburn when she grows up, and the parents properly ignore her. At this point, she is trying to tip over a table, while her brother sits next to her attempting to prevent complete chaos from ensuing. Now they all walk away from her, warning that if she wants to follow, she had better behave. Children and parents are the same everywhere,, it seems.

I walk to Getaria, starting to cough.  The sore throat that threatened to become something bigger in the week before I left Colorado had subsided, so I thought I was through with it.  But here it is again, along with a familiar beginning of my winter chest cold.  Not a fun prospect with 780 km to go.  I sit at a bus stop just to rest, and the bus comes, taking me to Zumaia. I had not thought of this option today, but there is the stop, and there is the bus, and within 10 minutes, I am at my destination, saving myself another five kilometers. I am beginning to feel guilty about this, and the feeling will take over on tomorrow’s walk. A big new lesson for me to chew on. More about that soon.

Since I am not following yellow arrows into town, I’m not sure where the Convento-Albergue is located, but I do spot a police station and walk there to ask directions. An adorable young policeman sits at the desk and tries to explain where I should go, apologizing constantly for his poor English. I remind him as often that I have nearly NO Spanish, and we laugh.

He takes me outside, points to a big building, and begins with directions. I am puzzled. He ducks his head into the little Polizia building, tells the man he will walk with me to the Convento, and I hold out my wrists. “Would you like to put me in handcuffs? It will look interesting . . . policeman arrests oldish pilgrim in Zumaia.”  He smiles, hoping he understands me.

We talk about where he has been in the US . . . NYC, DC, Philadelphia, before taking a train to Toronto.  He’d like to go to California (and Colorado, now), but he has a new baby . . . perhaps in five years, the baby will be old enough to take with him and his wife.

Continuous apologies for his “poor English”, and then we are at the Convento gate.  He ducks his head to walk through, and gestures that I am to follow.  I ask to take his picture, and he smiles a shy grimace.  Then he kisses me on the cheek, ducks back through the gate in the stone wall of the convent, wishing me Buen Camino as he retreats down the hill to the Polizia station.  What a treat!

The kind policeman (and inadvertent guide to the Convento

Since I took a bus for the last few kilometers, I actually beat Ria. Petra and Yanira are already in the reception area and Petra says, “Ria will be so surprised!”  True. When Ria does arrive, she stops and says, “Taxi?” I shake my head. I”ll tell her later.

The hostess, Mari, takes me to my room . . . a single bedroom. “The old people get to sleep alone,” quips Ria. “

However I can get it,” I respond.

The boats at Zumaia

Pinxos tonight, a walk on the shoreline of the harbor, watching parents and children swimming, then café con leche and some pastry, more pinxos, before we go back to the Convento and make a second or third snacky dinner with the ham and cheese. We’ve also bought bread and tomatoes so we sit out in the garden with many other peregrinos, talking about definitions for the word “closet”.  It’s a moment thing, as my daughter would say, but it starts because a German young woman asks me whether “closet” is a correct word in English . . . I nod. “A place to hang your clothes, yes?” I nod again. Then I can’t resist . . . “Or a place to hide your homosexuality . . . before you tell your parents and your employer.”   And we’re off.

One man says, “Oh, no one has to be in the closet anymore, yes?” I tell him it depends on which country you live in and where the conservatives hang out. So the conversations continue.

Sometimes on my last Camino, I avoided sitting at a table with a mix of people, having these interactions, but tonight the scene is just right. After an hour, Mari comes out to ask whether I would like a eucalyptus steam treatment. She has heard me coughing, and she has some freshly dried leaves. She gives me a basin and a real towel, takes me to the teapot to warm some water to pour over the crushed leaves, and wishes me good health.

In my little room, I think again of my mother, who used to give me these same treatments, but with Vicks Vap-O-Rub rather than real eucalyptus leaves. And I inhale, both the vapors and the memories of the magnificent Rosemary.

You’ve seen her before, but hey, it’s her birthday! Rosemary Teresa Mercurio Joseph . . . 1921-2012

September 2, 2015. Today I walk out of Zumaia and who knows how far I’ll get.  One possibility is to stay tonight in a “nature setting”, meaning just a sleeping quarters with no town around it, 5 km past Deba.  The other option is to stay in Deba itself.  My cough is just revving up, and I’ll see how the path goes and how far I will be able to travel.

The day is near perfect for walking, with cool breezes and some cloud cover, but enough blue sky to enliven the sea view as I walk.  Our hospitalero, Mari, has suggested that we take the “German Way” for awhile, marked with a white and a red horizontal stripe, rather than the Camino’s yellow arrows.  A bit longer but not by much, and with sweeping seacoast views.  And it joins with the Camino very soon.  So off we go, first together, and then alone, each at our own pace as usual.

Here are some tempting eye-treats:

The coastal way out of Zumaia

Another rewarding view for walking the coastline out of Zumaia

And when the path takes me back to the countryside, I must share with large tractors moving hay on the path

Remember the Keen sandal I found on my last Camino? I doubt this one will find its owner by my efforts . . .

After several hours of up and down, through farmlands, I hear a buzzbuzzbuzz.  Sounds like a weed-whacker, but there are only wide open rolling hills.  I come up over one of them and see, to my complete surprise, an old farmer literally weed-whacking his several-acre hillside.  Perhaps it’s too steep to to cut with a tractor, but this work looks endless.

On the way past this man, I meet Mark and Stacy from Boston.  They seem to be going at a pretty good clip, though they tell me this is their first Camino and ask me how it compares to the Frances.  They say it seems really difficult.  I tell them I’m very happy I did the Frances first, and yes, this one is much harder, at least so far.

We all turn a country corner and there, in the middle of nowhere, is a food-truck and WCs, picnic tables and a park area.  An older man stands ready to deliver juice, water, bocadiillos already made up, or one made to order.  I choose the latter.  He gestures toward a baguette, asking how big I want the sandwich, shows me some prosciutto (called something else here), and I ask for tomato.  He nods.  Always a surprise on these pathways and sometimes it’s a good one, not muddy, rutted, rocky downslopes.

A surprise food truck! With servicios behind . . .

Selling wares to peregrinos . . . just what they need . . . food and drink.

Feeling refreshed after my lunch break, I journey toward the west.  The hills become more challenging, but the breeze and mixture of clouds and sun keep things enjoyable.  However, I become more and more aware of my knees, both with knee braces on.  Carefully I trudge.  My shoes are behaving very well, and I still have no blisters, for which I’m especially grateful after I’ve seen the feet of some of my fellow travelers.

A large woman passes me on the trail.  She is probably 50-60 lbs heavier than I am, hauling a huge backpack with a foam bedroll on the top, right hand holding a bottle of water, and left side clutching a PURSE, a beige vinyl pouchy purse, under her arm. Merrily she rolls along, with no sticks, a pink nylon windbreaker and denim calf-length pants. Amazing.

By the time I come to a restaurant, also in the middle of almost nowhere, I’m ready for another break, before I arrive in Deba.  No “nature albergue” for me tonight.  Deba will be my destination.  Ultimately a good choice for several reasons.  First of all, the town is just the right size to people-watch, family-watch, and have good choices for food.  Second, the pharmacia is actually open, and a very solicitous blond pharmacist speaks good enough English to understand my Metformin needs.  She sells me a 50-pack of 1000 mg pills, twice what I need, but I can easily break them in half for my 500 mg. dose.  That box and one of Tylenol costs me Euro 5.50.

The third reason I’m happy to stay here is that I decide to get a real Pension, rather than sleep in an albergue.  The Tourist Information office directs me to the only Pension in town, near the beach, after having called to make sure there is a room for me.  Pensione (or Pensioa in the Basque area) Zumardi has clean sheets, real towels, a very nice breakfast in the morning, and a 12:00 noon checkout.   Euro 50, and I’ll be happy to pay that.

I headed toward the park and the beach, ready to dump my pack load, shower, and go back to town for some nice little pinxos and wine for dinner.  I see Pau (our musician from Pasai Donibane) in the park in Deba.  He’s probably Tanner’s age, thin and strong . . . and he’s carrying a guitar, but not such a large pack. Wearing a hat . . . a sort of Johnny Depp kind of character, very sweet and quiet, though he hails me from his park bench as I walked across the park toward my pensione.  He too is taking buses to save his feet. He walks 5 km and then takes the bus to give himself a break from the very difficult hills. I don’t feel so bad.

I have spoken to Ria and she says it is a good thing I didn’t try the last 5 km up to the nature albergue.  Her feet are very sore and blistery and she might take the bus from Markinen tomorrow toward Guernika.  We will meet there.

My little respite in Deba