My Camino, My Way

It is complete. My story is in 7 sections complete with photographs (all mine).

Part One is here, and there are links to each new section at the bottom of each section.

I am again about to be moving on, so for now, enjoy the story.

Ciao.



Go to parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 & 7

Bull

As an interesting coincidence, Pamplona, the city I started in, had its bull-run today.

Two people were gored.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20070708/ap_on_re_eu/spain_running_of_the_bulls



Nutters.

Winter's Way Part 7 - The End of The World

Finisterre



It is around 86km to Finisterre from Santiago. Finisterre is not entirely necessary - Santiago is the destination of the pilgrimage, but Finisterre is literally the end of the earth. Pilgrims continue walking until they can't walk anymore, and all around them is an expanse of blue ocean.

As I write this, nearly two weeks later, I have had a chance to talk with other pilgrims about the two destinations of Santiago and Finisterre. Simon the Kiwi joined me yesterday. He'd travelled down from Santiago to Portugal, and then to Madrid. He explained how Santiago is considered to be the 'masculine' destination - a very powerful energy as so many routes from across Europe all end there. But Finisterre is not obligatory. It has a gentler, 'feminine' energy. The gentle lapping of the sea, and the desire of most pilgrims to watch the puesta del sol (sunset) as the masculine sun sinks into the western ocean and gives way to the feminine moon and tide of the sea. It was known as the end of the world - the western most point of Europe, until Columbus looked out and decided there must be more. He then discovered The New World (or did he?) and proved that the world was round by not falling off the horizon. And science just hasn't been as much fun since.

Most of the pilgrims I'd spent time with were walking - around 3 day's walk. But for me, walking was over. I was OK with being alone on my birthday - being out of the country for the first time as I turned a year older. Provided I got my little moment sitting on a beach and watching the sun set on the last 28 years of my life. Like spiritual re-birth. But as with most pre-arranged 'moments' it wasn't heart-stoppingly moving. But I got my sunset. I got an Italian man who found me wondering around alone and offered to keep me company. And my birthday came and went in a wave of serenity.

The Italian's name was Ciro (pronounced Cheero). I thought that was apt because he was cheering me up. He was a sweet man. I thought I recognised him but wasn't sure. He was actually one of the Italians from the group at the '100km to go' milestone in Galicia, and I had taken a photo for him and his friends. So we ate together that night, and he was armed with his camera for the sunset as much as I was. I'd spent the day wondering over cliff tops looking for the beach, which was actually 5 minutes away from my hotel. My hotel was 2 minutes away from the bus station, but nevertheless I walked for half an hour to the lighthouse to discover I had to re-trace my steps. I looked so tired (I was carrying everything) that the man who broke the news to me got his son to drive me to the hotel. I told them it was my birthday and driving me was the perfect gift. They, as so many people do, found me amusing. I'd got lost for some time later that day when trying to find the beach that was actually right behind me, and I'd taken a little path that was growing narrower and narrower with every step. I had to fight to get through the end of it, at which point I burst through a thicket, covered in leaves, twigs and thorns, and landed in someone's vegetable patch. The Galician peasant stared at me. She had a twisted face and looked like she might have killed her husband recently. I stood up, apologised, and asked her where the beach was. Typical tourist. She pointed vaguely and I staggered down the lane. That is when I met Ciro.

I sat on the beach alone watching the sky change colour and occasionally glancing over my shoulder at the moon behind me. Other pilgrims were dotted about in their own space. I listened to a favourite piece of music, then I had silence, and then the sun went away. I took several photos before joining up with Ciro again. We were chased off the beach rather unceremoniously by a fleet of hornets, which shook me out of my spiritual reverie, but it was rather funny. Ciro and I said our goodbyes. We'd been great company for each other that evening, but now it was over. Again, no details exchanged. He was there, and then he wasn't.



The next day was a day of trying simply to return to Madrid. Everything that could have gone wrong did go wrong and from start to finish I was travelling from 6am to 9.30pm. I've been back in Madrid for nearly two weeks. Seeing Simon yesterday was lovely. He's continuing his tour of Europe until September.

The weather is hot and sunny and I'll shortly be joining my friend Becky at the pool to damage my skin and swallow dirty water and look horrific in a bikini. The neighbours are still having loud sex and at this very moment I'm trying to drown them out with the BBC National Orchestra.

I leave Spain in less than two days. Mixed feelings are in abundance. My life has not gone to plan lately (well not to my plan) and several things are falling through due to incompetent estate agents and inherited responsibilities. I have to return to the UK, move into my flat, pay the mortgage, and do exactly what I do not want to do for as long as it takes to sell the flat. With me actually being there it should be easier. It does mean that my trip to the US is postponed, which will cost me more money in the future. I'm still going to Las Vegas which is very exciting.

As I sat on that beach in Finisterre, I was over-whelmed with the desire to continue travelling - backpacking. Not forever, but to see places I've always wanted to see. Even my creativity felt insignificant in comparison. I now have to do the total opposite (stay still and be surrounded by unnecessary crap) but I'm trying to focus on positive things. I can watch telly again. I can eat English food again. I can see my friends and family without rushing. I can go to the cinema and understand the film. I can take up a fitness class and understand the intructions. And who knows, if this is where life is taking me, perhaps the Universe is still unfolding as it should. So bring it on.

The four sided peace pole at land's end:





Sculpture of a pilgrim's boot:

Winter's Way Part 6 - Up, Down, and Everything Inbetween

Friday 22nd June

I woke up at 7am. Most people had gone. I launched myself out of the albergue, eating some stale bread, and charged along in the pissing rain.

It is often said Galacia is very much like England (Yorkshire, for instance), and this is very true. Especially with the rain. For me, the scenary was no longer particularly exotic. But the freedom of walking remained intoxicating.

It also appears to be a bit Irish in places, with some ancient pagan icons. One of the icons of the region is a little witch, which is surprising for such Catholic territory. But when Christianity came to England, pagan dates and images were incorporated in to the faith in order to incorporate the people into the faith. The Easter Bunny is the sacred hare of the goddess, for instance, and the soltices and equinoxes have significant holidays attached to them. Easter takes place each year on the first Sunday after the first full moon after the Spring Equinox. The actual date of Jesus' birthday is up for discussion, but the fact it is so close to the Winter Soltice is interesting.

While trekking through Galicia I observed the festival of San Juan. This included fireworks and leaping over fires - a very old custom (ever seen The Wickerman? The original work of art, I mean, not that Nicolas Cage, someone-has-too-much-money sacrilidge.) Here's what Wikipedia says about it:

"The evening of June 23, St. John's Eve, is the eve of celebration before the Feast Day of St. John the Baptist. The Gospel of Luke (Luke 1:36, 56-57) states that John was born about six months before Jesus, therefore the feast of John the Baptist falls on June 24, six months before Christmas. This feast day is one of the very few saint's days to mark the anniversary of the birth, rather than the death, of its namesake.

The Feast of St. John coincides with the June solstice also referred to as Midsummers. The Christian holy day is fixed at June 24, but, in the old way, festivities are celebrated the night before, on St. John's Eve.

St. John's Eve (or Bonfire Night) is celebrated in many parts of rural Ireland with the lighting of bonfires. This ancient custom has its roots in pre-Christian Irish society when the Celts honoured the Goddess Áine, the Celtic equivalent of Venus and Aphrodite. She was the Goddess Queen of Munster and Christianised rituals in her honour (as Naomh Áine) took place until the nineteenth century on Knockainy, (Cnoc Áine - the Hill of Áine) in County Limerick.

Similar festivities take place in Scandinavia. Bonfires are lit and effigees burned on the evening of June 23. People jump over the bonfires to prove their courage. Traditionally, three jumps cleanses one from sin and disease. One of the centers of the festival is in Ciutadella; but many different cities and towns have their own unique traditions associated with the festival. In recent years, public celebrations have begun cordoning off the fires for safety reasons."

In Spain, they don't have safety reasons. So they still have public fires and leaping over them (they still run bulls through streets).

So Galicia seemed to be a wonderful taste of Yorkshire and Ireland.

I stalked through the trees and lanes and babbling brooks before I became aware, a few kilometres in, that there was an old man behind me. He eventually caught up with me and began to chat to me. His name was Rudi, and he was a German (rather inevitably) from a town near Freiburg (the one place in Germany I've actually been to) known exclusively for its wine. He was retired, but had been a 'glueman' for over 40 years. He began walking on 2nd April from a town along the French/German border. He was 65 and as fit as a fiddle. His English wan't just proficient, it was better than that of a great deal of native speakers. He spoke poetically. He was the kind of man that you have in stories as a wise leader who's travelled everywhere. He should have been an old wizard. Actually he could have been Dumbledore. I was so enchanted by him. We spoke about all kinds of things - his children, his childhood, his battle with the rules of Catholicism, his travels (his job took him all over the world). He was able to speak a few languages. He'd spent time in China. He said that if I was going to the US I absolutely couldn't miss New York. I'm not intending to miss New York (when I finally get over there) but I wanted more details. "Why?" I asked. It is rare these days to hear a European speak so positively about the US. It's fashionable to put them down. It was therefore refreshing to hear New York spoken of like a planet of wonders, a mesh of cultures. He said it was a melting pot, but all the ingredients were still visible, meaning originality was not compromised. Cuisine, music, theatre, opera, dance, nationalities and all hours of the night. I told him I'd like to go to San Francisco also. "Fantastic city" he said, "But you must be prepared for the funny people". He gave me the low down on several world cities. He was not showing off, he was not trying to impress. I asked, and he told. Because he knew. He'd lived all over the world. He told me things about England I didn't know. Some things about her history. I said I felt a bit daft not knowing. He laughed and said, "It's nothing to do with research, or intelligence! Quite simply, I was there." Quite an effective way to learn something. Hopefully when I'm 65 I will have 'been there' too..

We'd stopped 11km along to take photos at the 100km milestone. There was a group of Italians taking photos as well. Rudi was able to converse with them. I thought of Juan Antonio the Monk and his opera and sang a bit of Nessun Dorma.

The path that day was very up and down. Eventually the rain eased off. Wet England started to look a little bit more like Spain again. I told Rudi it reminded me of Song of the South - the disney film. When I was very little, my sister and I used to sing "Zippity Doo Dah". He hadn't heard of it, so I sang it to him. He looked amused. I confessed I sang a great deal when walking along, and was sure that one day I'd turn around and with extreme embarrassment find a group of people behind me. He said that I was more likely to find him, with a cap in his hand, collecting for me. I can't believe I impressed a man like that with "Zippity Doo Dah".

I told him that I believed that simple stories often teach us more about life than anything you can learn at university or school. I recommended Phillip Pullmans' His Dark Materials, which contains this revelation, among many others. Exceptional reading. Rudi's stories about being here, there and everywhere enriched me no end.

We walked together to Portomarin and decided to get some lunch and a sello (stamp for the credencial). We walked past various shops and I saw a dress. "A dress!" I cried. "I can't wait to be a girl again!" Rudi laughed at that. "Looks just right for you!" he said. It was tempting but alas, it qualified as unnecessary weight. We walked into a bar, for a 'Menu The Pilgrim'. At one point the cafe owner came over and enquired as to the nature of our relationship. "Is she your daughter?" He asked Rudi. "No, I don't have daughters." Rudi replied matter of fact, before saying to me, "At least he doesn't think I'm your grandfather." I pointed out he was younger than my father. After the Camino had given me a mother figure in the form of Chexie, I couldn't help but feel it had now given me a father figure. (A wise one).

We grumbled over the lack of vegetables (pilgrim conversations mutated over time from the nature of one's feet to just how bad the pilgrim diet was, courtesy of Spanish cafes which consistently failed to provide necessary nutrients) and walked out to look at the main church.

"Alison?"

I spun around. On the steps was Jesse! With the girl from Hong Kong! How we'd managed to be in the same place at the same time on the same day was completely insane. I'd followed a completely random trail of my own instincts and impulses, and now here I was with someone from my very first day. Delighted to see each other, we exchanged some anecdotes before Rudi (who'd decided to join me for an extra 7km to Gonzar) and I walked on, promising to see each other in Santiago. That was one of the greatest things of that last stretch. Anyone you met, you were almost guaranteed to meet again at Santiago. There was a lovely sense of being caught in a circle that would see you there safely.

We walked 29km that day. Gonzar was a cowshed. But I was pleased to get there nonetheless. The hospitalario showed us to our beds. Or bed. Two bunks were pushed together, with two pilgrims already inhabiting the lower bunks. It looked like a double-decker double bed. Rudi looked to me to see if I was OK with that set-up. There wasn't a lot we could have done about it anyway, and frankly, there was plenty of space and I was so exhausted I didn't care a bit. I said, "I apologise if I wake up cuddling you." He blushed. I laughed at him. I showered in a lovely hot water (communal) shower, whilst having a great conversation with a german woman while we were both stark naked. It was communal but not uni-sex, though there were those on the Camino. I hid until all the men had gone. I haven't quite got that to that state of abandonment!

I had a nap, as did Rudi and about 15 others. I was waking up when I heard a picture being taken. The cheeky bugger had taken a photo of me in my sleeping bag. But then again, I had done it up, because I was cold, completely, and the only thing sticking out was my nose for air. I must have looked hilarious and he'd obviously woken up to find he was in bed with a cocoon. I feigned sleep and tried not to laugh, though I heard him chuckling. I went back to sleep for bit longer.

There was one cafe (Gonzar was a church, several cow sheds, a bar, two or three houses and a albergue) so I joined a table of Germans for a salad. The people I joined that night were all people I was with in Santiago in the end. I learnt a lot of German that evening. I complained about feeling like a man, and Rudi told me I should have bought the dress. "It would have been just right." He told me and everyone. I explained that red is not really my colour because I'm always so pale. "Not at the moment," he said. "You're bronzed". I felt attractive for the first time since I could remember. (Most of my clothes were mens clothes because I don't fit into female Spanish attire, so I spent most of the time feeling like a bloke.)

That night, we all filled into bed around 9pm/9.30pm. The naked German woman (now suitably clothed) was on the top bunk above an Italian, who'd chosen this moment, with a dormitory full of sleeping pilgrims, to make a phone call on his mobile phone from the comfort of his bed. It was 9.50pm. By pilgrim standards that's midnight. It's a testament to the character of these people, that most people found it crippling hilarious. Unbelievably selfish. He was blissfully unaware of the shhhing around him. The German woman was killing herself laughing - I mean it was so inappropriate, all you could do was laugh. He finished one phone call and began another. "Ciao ciao" he began once more. In the end someone went over and gestured to him. He immediately went quiet then. The lights were off - it wasn't like he could assume people were awake. And there was a garden and a kitchen where he could have gone. Extraordinary. Rudi had called out to him in Italian, though he found it just as funny.

I did my usual routine of waking up throughout the night, worried that I'd over-sleep and miss everything or lose everyone or whatever the hell the problem is. Rudi rolled over in the night and clocked me with his hand which was a bit of a classic moment. Bit like when he glasses fell through the gap in the middle of the beds.

Not your usual Friday night.

Saturday 23rd June

I kept looking over my shoulder that day. I was up and out before Rudi, who said he'd see me down the road at a cafe. But the problem was, I was going fast again, and he did not want to get to Santiago before Tuesday. He did not catch up.



I was delightfully happy, singing along, enjoying the scenary. The sunrise was beautiful and I felt full of energy. The temperature was perfect - very cool, and no rain. Ideal conditions. I charged on again until midday, singing along to Carmina Burana, the Beatles and Alice Faye.

I walked into Palas Du Rei, decided to find water, and bumped into Jesse again in a supermarket. We walked together and chatted non stop. He was very fast which was great for me because it was another 29km day and I needed the impotus to keep going. I stopped for breath after we overtook about 40 people on a steep slope at uber-warp speed.

"Is this an OK pace for you or is this suicide?" he asked.

"I'm fine." I replied, being British, and weezing.

The relationship blossomed; He talked, I listened (because I was too busy trying to breathe and compartmentalise the pain in my feet), and he got me to Molinde at the very reasonable time of 4.30pm. We spent a lot of time talking about world-wide conceptions of America and Europe which entertained us a great deal. The word 'Europe' means something completely different to someone living in England. To the US, 'Europe' is a land mass - a global location. To the Englishman, 'Europe' is a place of hairy armpits, cheap wine, olive oil, common currency, decent weather, raunchy films, driving on the wrong side of the road and strange languages. That's just not England. It is another planet, and NO-ONE coming from the UK considers themselves to be in Europe. Equally, to a Brit, and to Europe, the US is full of people who cannot speak properly, eat hamburgers and weak beer, are unaware there is a world outside of their borders, want God to bless their country only, cannot make a film without the US flag cropping up every 5 minutes, cannot make a film without the US being wonderful and saving all the inferior other nations, are responsible for continually putting under-weight women on screen whilst simultaneously having the fattest people on Earth, and voted in a maniac. On the other hand, to the US, the British ARE in Europe, drink tea, all speak like Hugh Grant, know the Royal Family personally, cannot make a film without Hugh Grant, cannot make more than one film a year, drink warm beer, are pointlessly modest, are overly polite, drive on the wrong side of the road and voted in a maniac.

We then agreed that people are people wherever you go, just as stupid, just as daft, just as fat and just as thin, and their films are just as crap. That's what I love about Star Trek. It takes people out of their nationalities so you can see what's left. Humanity. And the fact that by all of us being different, we are in fact all the same. The Camino is wonderful for also doing this. And of course the wonderful story of how the German and British soldiers played football together on Christmas Day, 1914:

"Christmas Eve, 1914, and not a shot fired. The Germans ask to play football and hand out drink and cigars. They are eager to swop almost anything for our bully beef," the 34 year old veteran of the Boer War, who spent Christmas in a trench near the Belgian village of St Yves, near Ypres, writes in his diary.

The much-decorated NCO (Beck won the Military Cross and the Distinguished Service Medal and was twice mentioned in dispatches) also writes about how the British and Germans sing together, exchange gifts and play football in no-man's-land.

“Point 63. Quiet day. Relieved 2 RDF (Royal Dublin Fusiliers) in the trenches in the evening. Germans shout over to us and ask us to play them at football, and also not to fire and they would do likewise,” the entry in his diary for December 24 reads.

He also describes how a German band sing Home Sweet Home and God Save the King, much to the amusement of the British troops who start feeling nostalgic about their home back in England.

“At 2am (25th) a German Band went along their trenches playing Home Sweet Home and God Save the King, which sounded grand and made everyone think of home. The music sounded grand and made everyone think of home,” a local daily quoted his diary as saying.

“During the night, several of our fellows went over "No Man's Land" to German lines and were given drink and cigars." - ZEENEWS.com

One of the few time football has lead to peace, mind!

That evening, I realised that I wouldn't see Rudi again. Jesse met up with the girl from Hong Kong (a very magical relationship was growing) and I had a look around the town. Having had such rich company the night before, such rich conversation, I felt quite a sense of loss. With everything being so intense on the Camino, I was beginning to feel what it was like for the human lab rats in Big Brother. I already had an idea - when you work on a play, it has its own time and rules - its own reality. Emotions get blown out of proportion at times - certainly in young student theatre! I was taken aback by how much I missed Rudi's company. But I was nonetheless glad I'd had it for a day.

I went back into the albergue having bought food for the evening and the next day (because the next day was Sunday and you never know what will be open). A few of the Germans I was with the night before were sitting around the table in the kitchen. Tired of bad wine I'd splashed out on a decent bottle of rioja to help relax my muscles. It was perfect - I was able to share it with everyone (I wouldn't have had more than one glass probably) and we had a good time trying to communicate in basic English and German. I went to sleep that night quite relaxed, which help me to ignore the snoring French (who are the worst) and the celebrations for San Juan.

Sunday 24th June

I awoke to a miracle. My cotton scarf was tied to my bunk. I had no idea how it got there and hadn't noticed I'd lost it. However, there was no-one around to ask.

Actually, it wasn't the first thing I woke to. The first thing was pain. It was my penultimate day walking, and for the first time, I woke up aching like hell. I hadn't taken pain killers - wanting to save them for when I absolutely needed them. So Sunday, I had one of the best days of the entire walk, off my face on codeine.

I had an energetic start when I went down to the kitchen to get my food for breakfast and lunch, and found that someone had taken it all. I'm still angry about that. There was bread, cheese, tomato, cereal bars and some garlic. It was in a bag next to my water and a can of tomato puree. (There was no fridge and the dormitory was too warm). They left the water and the can and took the bag. Furious, I ran the first kilometre (after my German friends made me sit and have breakfast in a cafe - coffee and croissant - cake for breakfast again - I could have gagged but I didn't know when I was going to eat again. Typically there was nothing savoury and no fresh fruit to eat. It's a wonder these people (Galicians) haven't died out. They are all round though) in search of someone with my carrier bag. Apart from anything else the food had been quite expensive. To assume it was left there for another pilgrim would have been totally outragious as my cheese (having had no knife) had bite marks in it, and everything was obviously belonging to someone. Entertaining fantasies of the cattle prod again, I took off at an absurd speed, enjoying the fact I could feel no pain. All around me was mist and smoke from last night's fires. Going through the woods was a little like the Blair Witch Project.

I walked and walked and walked, exclusively alone that day but for half an hour with Brian the ex-airforce pilot from the US. He gave me his life story, as punctuated by conquests of women, but with self awareness and a sense of humour which was wonderful. He was very kind to me. I would have liked to have talked with him more, but he was very slow (it was very uphill for a while that day, and I had 31km to cover) so I went on ahead after a while.

I took off, aware that I could only take so many doses of codeine without an over-dose, and that I therefore had to complete the day's walk before they wore off and I was crippled. I sang, danced, marched, laughed, and leapt through woods and villages. The last two hours were tough. The pain started to ignore the painkillers and I may as well have been walking on hot coals. I pressed on and on, free as a bird and loving it.


Feminism on the Camino - someone drew the skirt and ponytail!

I arrived at my destination, Santa Irene, around 4pm, having walked since 8am with a half hour break. I was quite shocked when I was told there was only room for one more person (this was the first albergue for 17km, so there would be plenty more pilgrims coming). I soon realised it was full of pilgrims who'd walked half the distance and got there early. There were another 15 or so people (my friends) due to get to Santa Irene that night, having walked 31km. They were sent on to the next place. It was awful.

I had a shower and found a bunk over a loud snoring man. I suddenly felt that I should check the domitories in case I knew anyone. I found a smaller one - one of the Germans was in there already. I said something to him, getting the attention of someone at the back of the room in her bunk.

Chexie. It could have brought the house down. We weren't expecting to see each other until tomorrow in Santiago! The bed beneath her was free, so I re-installed myself, having, in many ways, already reached the end of my Camino.

Monday 25th June

Santiago de Compostela.

Chexie and I agreed to walk in separately for the sake of having our personal thoughts for the last 21km into Santiago. We met at a cafe further down the path briefly as well. I had a chilling experience there, seeing on the TV how Spanish soldiers had been killed in the Lebanon in a terrorist bomb. The Spanish soldiers were there working with ONU, United Nations. And it had been my job on arriving to Madrid, to teach them English. I'd panicked and reached for a newspaper. I still feel quite bad about this. 6 boys of 19 and 20 were killed. But I felt relief when I didn't recognise any names - or a specific name, truth be told. Once I knew my friend was safe, I felt better, but it's nevertheless terrible. Spain is towards the Switzerland end of the scale when it comes to aggression.

Chexie asked me if my MP3 player helped me move along faster. I told her it most certainly did - and it set a pace for me. At that time a song had cropped up with the lyrics "F**k you I won't do what ya tell me" - a favourite of one of my sisters. "But I prefer Frank Sinatra!" I explained, which is true, but Frank doesn't help you get up the hill!!

I walked into Santiago around 1.30pm. I was tired by this point. It was all town/city so it was concrete and people. I went into the Cathedral, expecting...well, something. I was too tired. Tourists were everywhere, with their flash photography. There were no signs indicating where St James' remains were. I felt angry that the end of my walk was a total non-event. I left the Cathedral, hating all the people around me who were carrying nothing, had probably walked for 5 minutes to visit the Cathedral and insisted on bumping into me. I decided it wasn't the best time for an epiphany and trailed off to the pilgrim office to collect my Compostela, my certificate.


The Cathedral at sunset

Chexie and I checked ourselves in to the hostel we'd treated outselves to (a private room each!) and relaxed for the rest of the day. She went out to dinner with many of the pilgrims she'd met. The ones I'd been with had stopped at an albergue just outside of Santiago so they'd arrive early the next morning.

So the next day, bringing with it a thousand familiar faces, was when I really arrived.

Tuesday 26th June (Chexie's Birthday)

Mass was at 12noon. Every day there's mass for the pilgrims. If you've arrived before 11am that day (or the previous afternoon) your starting point and nationality is read out by the priest. I was the only UK person who started in Pamplona. But they read me out and I was over-joyed.

The Cathedral was full of pilgrims. Two French women asked me if I'd got my scarf. I'd never seen them before. "Yes!!!" I exclaimed. "Thank you!". With the language barrier I couldn't understand how it had all happened. "It's not us, it's the Camino," they said. I sat with the Germans. I'd helped one of them retrieve his wallet after he left it at a cafe, and he was incredibly grateful. But I was missing one person. Rudi. As I sat there, staring up at the world's largest incense burner (the Botafumeiro) I prayed and prayed that I would see him again, not knowing if he'd arrive before the evening, and this being the opportunity to meet other pilgrims I would have missed him.

The German man next to me then leaned forward and said, "Rudi is here too."

I spun around and he was there, a few seats back. He waved at me. I looked back at the altar with big eyes.

After the service, I went and spoke to him. As un-epiphany as I was feeling, he clearly was experiencing something, so I gave him his space. I later had the opportunity to say goodbye properly, and then I was able to draw the curtain on that particular experience. Brian the American had said to me that Voltaire's theory is that we take a bit of everyone we meet - if we like it, we incorporate it, and if not, we disguard it. I hope Rudi's stories can live on in me at least. He was going on to Finisterre the next morning and told me he'd think of me on my birthday. I would have liked to have walked, but I so much wanted to watch the sunset into the ocean on my birthday that I was fast-tracking on the bus.

I felt a dreadful sense of come-down that day. Emotionally it was my hardest day. I'd said only the night before to Chexie that I didn't feel as though I'd walked the Camino with an emotional struggle. It all felt effortless, as if I hadn't earned it. But I suffered on Tuesday. Chexie said she didn't believe suffering was always necessary. She told me she thinks I'm "Very good at feeling your feelings". Not that the buggers give me much choice! But I'd rather feel them than shut them off.

I saw so many people again - the lovely Canadian who gave me a beer, Kate the eccentric Brit, many Americans and Germans, and finally, as ever, Jesse and his Hong Kong girl. I feel bad that I can't remember her name, she was beautiful and friendly and her English was excellent. They'd walked almost the whole way together. Jesse explained that the French women had found my scarf along the road and recognised it from when he and I were at a cafe that day. They'd handed it to him and he'd tied it to my bed. He said he thought I'd like a little miracle to wake up to.

Chexie and I went out to dinner to celebrate our birthdays and I took some photos of the sunsetting on the face of the Cathedral. She gave me a silver pendant of a scallop shell - a sign of St James. I'd made her a card because I couldn't find a decent one. We said our goodbyes that night - she was rushing off first thing to get her plane. She'd borrowed Simon's long Johns to keep her warm (just like me she'd left her trousers somewhere!) and I had to leave them in the post office for Simon to find when he got to Santiago. I went back to my room and packed what I could for the next day's trip to Finisterre.

Wednesday 27th June (Mt birthday)

I was awoked by a faint knocking. It turned out to be the birthday fairy.

"I'm sorry but I couldn't leave without wishing you a Happy Birthday!" said Chexie, and she hugged me goodbye.

Then, just like that, it was over. And now, I had to go to Finisterre, The End of The World.

PART SEVEN


Moon rises over Santiago Cathedral as the sun sets.


The shadow of Senorita Invierno

Winter's Way Part 5 - Rabanal Del Camino

Monday 18th June (continued)

I'd thought it might just be me, but in fact there were 6 other people joining me in the monastery that day. I'd spent some time talking with pilgrims in the English hostal before the monastery opened later that afternoon. Ricardo the Spaniard showed up late in the afternoon and I told him I was staying in the monastery next door. He was such a sweet, shy soul, and like me was better off away from the madding-crowd. I was very glad the next day when he arrived to have a few day's stay. I was waiting outside for the doors to open for a while when another pilgrim approached me and starting chatting with me.

"Are you religious or are you just walking around?" He asked in English, despite being German, words carefully chosen and appealing quite gloriously to my sense of humour. The very idea! Wondering around for hundreds of miles? There's nothing 'just' about it!

"I'm quite spiritual but I'm not..."

"Organised?" He finished, again, hitting the nail on the head rather acutely.

"I'm definitely not organised!" I replied.

Finally a Monk emerged. Another pilgrim with me was a German lady who'd just completed the entire pilgrimage, but having seen the monastery along the way she had told herself she'd come back and spend a week there. You can spend as long as you like - it is run on donations and you help out with cooking and cleaning. Unlike the hostals/albergues, you are not thrown out at evil o' clock. You can stay all day and sit in the living room on the sofa reading a book from the library. A library which has books from at least 7 different languages. It was a haven. Pure and simple.

Other pilgrims staying were mostly German, but for two young women from South Korea. They barely had any English. They were just lovely. The hospitalerio (man running the hostal: they were once called hospitals, with the old meaning of hospitality!) was a wonderful young man from Valencia. He was also hilarious. And an excellent cook. He wanted us to phone his mother and tell her how well the meals were going so she'd stop giving him a hard time. Poor boy! Having a Spanish Momma must be oppressive at times!

I had grown concerned about how cold it was going to be (we were pretty high up in the mountains by now) so I'd made use of a large water-proof duffle coat that had been left behind at Astorga. I'd carried it all the way with the feeling I'd need it later. And I was right. It was bloody cold! The monastery did not have heating, and June was taking a year off. It was 10 degrees.

Obviously, what with being in a monastery, there was more of a religious 'angle'. The Camino, although a Catholic pilgrimage, welcomes everyone nowadays. There are a great deal of people spiritually motivated rather than founded in an organised religion. But there were even more just doing it for the walk. Especially the Germans. Late last year, a book was published in Germany by a famous comedian who'd walked the Camino and detailed his adventures. Consequently, 8 out of 10 people were German. And over 50. Anyway, I'd approached this with an interest in all things spiritual, having read Paulo Coelho's book 'The Pilgrimage'. I also adore walking and the freedom it gives me. I'd rather walk for an hour than get the bus for 10 minutes, for instance. But I have found myself trusting a force greater than myself in recent months - certainly more so in the last year. I don't know what that means. I wondered if the Camino might help me to discover something.

I attended church services/prayer (performed in Gregorian chant) which were open to the public (pilgrims) and tried to shake off any pre-conceptions or influence from my overtly antheistic immediate family. The services were very simple. They took one short lesson from the bible, translated it into German, English, Spanish and French and also had booklets translating their Latin verse into those respective 4 languages. Therefore, what came through was morality, decency and inclusion. A message for everyone.

You did not have to be religious to stay at the monastery. You did not have to be anything. It was the very shining example of acceptance, tolerance and brotherhood.

After the evening service there was confession. You could confess in 5 languages, as the Monk in charge was multi-lingual. I have no idea (and I still don't) what you're supposed to confess, or how you're supposed to do it. Never done it. I'm not sure what the Catholic Church considers to be worthy of confession (except for just about everything) so I didn't know where to start. But I was intrigued. I've always felt like I don't belong when I've walked into a church. Like I don't have the right to be there. Like I don't know the rules or I'm pretty much bound to have broken them anyway. But as this was the Camino, I decided that it was now or never. I said almost exactly all of this to the head Monk, Juan Antonio. He was very kind and rather amused by me. I told him I felt completely blind but I thought I should give it a shot. He advised that I read a certain passage of the Bible and talk to him afterwards. But he very firmly said that the whole idea is one of Love, and to have a relationship with Christ. He said that should be the focus, not the sins. As I related to my friend Kris, I immediately thought of the packet of Smarties I stole from a newsagent when I was 5. I didn't tell him about it. God surely already knows about that. My mother made me take them back, though.

Tuesday 19th June

The next day, I helped with the cleaning and then sat in the library reading. Juan Antonio had recommended the Gospel According to Luke. I recognised a great deal of it, even having never previously read the Bible. Feeling like a total fraud, I kept getting flashes of Mel Gibson's The Passion of The Christ. But I didn't want to go back to the Monk and say, "Hey it's OK - I saw the film version!!!". Jeepers. Can you say travesty??? I actually wanted to read more, but it took me most of the day besides other duties, and I could not take it with me.

Later that day more pilgrims rolled in. Frank the German was among them, still quite unwell. He was also tired. We shared English/German solidarity on the subject of continuous talking - a hobby of the Spanish and the Italians.

"They go to sleep talking, they wake up talking," he said, dryly. This made me laugh for some time.

I had the fortune that day, to finally meet someone else from England. Her name was Kate, and she'd walked from León. Despite the impressive proficiency of the Germans in English, it was a delight to talk utter shite (because no-one does that like the English) with Kate. Word-play, irony and understatement. It's an English institution that I sorely miss here in Spain. I used to have entire conversations in metaphor. Picking up on a ludricrous chat from 2 weeks ago. My, she was a breath of fresh air. We proceeded to incorporate 'malarkey' and 'shenanigans' into our discussion on the Camino, as well as liberal use of the words, 'thingy, doodah, watsit and fuck.' I hadn't felt so at home in weeks.

The pilgrims were given meals, included in the whole deal. It was the best food I have had during my stay in Spain. The hospitalario even provided me with vegetarian alternatives. We said grace before each meal. He said he'd developed a way of saying it as fast as possible to get to the food, but he was joking. He was an extremely devoted man, with a lovely sense of humour.

I went for a walk around the town before sunset. I found myself trailing up a hill towards a farm. Then I saw one of the Korean women. She was the quieter one. Her name was Mi (me) which I was happy about because I could pronouce it. She and her friend had taught me the word for good (it sounds like Chiwawa if you take off the last 'wa' and don't dawdle on the i, so it's Ch'wa). She was wandering alone. I'd felt sorry for her, because most conversation at the monastery was in German. I couldn't understand it either, but English would have been more inclusive. I smiled at her and said how beautiful I thought the scenary was (sounds trite but it actually really was breathtaking). She nodded. Most of our conversations had been in mime and when I spoke to her I used all my wits as a TEFL teacher in the hope she'd get the meaning. To my surprise, she asked me a question, in fairly coherent English.

"Why you do this road?" she asked shyly. We were a few metres apart. I felt towards her as I would feel towards a horse or an elephant; I didn't want to get too close - not for danger, but out of respect for a creature which I feel has tremendous grace and elegance. She was entirely in her own space, but inviting me in all the same.

"Um, I've wanted to do it for a while. I love walking. And I'm searching."

She understood what I said and gave me a warm grin.

"And you," I asked, "Why are you doing the Camino?"

She paused and tried to find the words.

"Ahh," she started with a self-conscious smile. Then she said, very slowly, "For peace in my heart. And prayer."

I was so touched that of the little English she knew, she had such beautiful words. As she said them, she mimed, and placed her hands over her heart.

That moment meant a lot to me. It was a perfect silence, in perfect nature, between two souls finding a way to communicate. I'd felt bad about encroaching on her space, but I was so glad I'd approached her. I felt sure she'd never have asked me that question around the others. Her friend was also so very kind and warm, but her English was better. She laughed and joked with the others. Mi was floaty and gentle.

I was due to leave the following morning, as were the Korean girls. We were packing. Mi approached me once more. She gave me a small token. It was a silly Korean mobile accessory - I'd seen them a great deal in Seoul airport a couple of years before. But it was never about the actual item with the pilgrims. She was giving me something to remember her by and as a token of affection. I knew I wouldn't see them again. I was again touched and quite embarrassed I had nothing to give in return. It remains one of my most precious momentos.

Wednesday 20th June

I awoke early to attend Lauds, the morning prayer. Another Gregorian chant. The monks were a little tired that morning and made a couple of mistakes. Well. I'm a singer, but not at 7.30am I'm not. And not in Latin.

Afterwards I returned to the monastery for breakfast. I said goodbye to all the people I'd met. It wasn't easy as I was so comfortable being there with all of them. I felt I'd no longer need the duffle coat so I left it behind for another pilgrim who was bound to need it. So I left a donation and the coat off my back.

Those two days could just have easily been on another planet. One pilgrim said, the most enchanting thing of all, was connecting with people of all ages, backgrounds, genders, colours, thoughts and nationalities. It became so irrelevant. It was pure peace. Not solemn, introspective peace, joyful, belly-laughing peace. Peace of sharing things with one another, laughing at ourselves and each other, respecting our differences. The milk of human kindness. I may well return to that haven on the hill. Just to remind myself what humanity can be.

Before I left, I owed a visit to Juan Antonio again. I told him I'd read Luke, and had almost a feeling of deja-vous, but then again the Bible and its message are fairly intrinsic in our society. He smiled. He reiterated that it's a relationship. That grows and grows. And it's about love. I told him how much my short stay had meant to be, and how material things mean so little to me now. When the material worlds disappears, what are you left with? I told him that after my mother died, everything external felt unreal, and everything inside me felt real. Same as my dreams which felt more real than my day to day living, which swiftly became 2 dimensional. I told him how I'd had a good job, a mortgage, a lovely flat with lovely things. And how the emptiness inside me was amplified by the fact that they meant nothing, how I realised that I needed more from life - that I wanted to be alive in the moment to live in the moment. I explained I'd sacrificed material comforts to have that freedom, to feel alive, in touch. In touch with what I couldn't be sure. I said that I'd prooved to myself that I could hold down a very good job and buy shiny new things and make a very good home for myself, but without someone to share it with it may as well been a coffin. I had come as far as I could with that kind of life. I told him I felt like a child playing on a beach. Once my sandcastle was built, I wanted to smash it down and build another. The pleasure is in building. Not having.

Juan Antonio invited me back, saying that they could use a good English teacher to help them improve their conversation. I said I hoped life would take me that way. He said that his Italian is ridiculous because as an opera lover all of his Italian is poetic. We laughed at that. I have the same problem with my German - I know lines of Schumann songs but that's all. He was a delight to speak to. We said our goodbyes and I began to make my way up the path.

Before I got very far, Ricardo joined me. He'd come out of his shell a great deal in the last day or so. He was good fun at the meals. And after glimpsing his photography, one hell of a talent too. With him I was fulfilling my role again (as I realised in retrospect) and the one who notices the shy and tries to include them. There were many times I needed someone to do that for me and I often still do. So I know how it feels. Ricardo told me he believed I was about to embark upon what he considered to be the best part of the entire Camino - and this is a guy who's already completed it 3 times. He then handed me a beautiful pink flower. Another flower!

"Buen Camino" he said.

I thanked him, and gave him the traditional two kisses and squeezed his hand. He had such a beautiful aura about him - peaceful, innocent, kind, but wise. Again I got the impression he would not have felt comfortable talking with me in front of anyone else so he'd sought this privacy. He made me feel special. There was nothing more to it - we hadn't even exchanged email addresses, but there was something richer about our exchange as a result of that. He waved me goodbye and returned to the village to continue his stay. I turned and began to walk, feeling like I'd been given the freshest air, and the lightest load.

I walked to Molinaseca that day. It was the toughest physical challenge, not due to reaching the highest point of the Camino (1517m) as that had been a gradual climb over a few days. But the decent lasted several, and I mean several hours, in the cold rain. It was 24km, with only the first 9 being uphill. Therefore I had 15km in which to drop from 1517m to 595m. The hardest bit was that so much of the path was not grass or earth, but rock. With the rain, it was slippery rock. At one point I stood staring at a steep slope in the rain considering that if I slipped and hit my head, that could well be it. I'd seen very few pilgrims that day and many were either further on ahead (I'd left at 9am and they'd probably left at 6am) or stopping in previous small villages. However, I just decided to be very careful. My hiking pole became a crucial aid.

These pictures are from the summit:


The Iron Cross. All around are tokens left by pilgrims at one of the most important shrines of the Camino. Having nothing to give, I left my pink flower, the gift of it always in my heart.


No camera could capture the beauty of that day.


Just in case you've lost you're way on your trip to Rome or Jerusalem.

After a dog attacked me, taking with it a large portion of my plastic coat, and a car drove by as I was urinating in a bush, I'd really rather had enough. I lurched into Molinaseca at around 5pm that day, physically exhausted. I got over the beautiful Roman bridge, saw that the albergue was another 2 km, and walked into a private hotel. It was still absurdly cheap, and to be honest, I would have paid what I paid just for the unspeakable luxury of having a hot bath. The fact that the bed was officially the most comfortable bed in Europe was just a bonus.

I had planned to get a bus to Ponferrada that would connect with another bus for Sarria - where most pilgrims start the final leg of the Camino. Sarria is the last place you can start which still qualifies for the Compostela (certificate). It is actually around 111km from Santiago. I was missing about 100km, and didn't like to get the bus again, but I felt that it was more important to meet up with Chexie in Santiago, and to be in Finisterre for my birthday, than it was to drag myself up the 900m climb of El Cebreiro with knees that were applying for annual leave.

Thursday 21st June

I met Frank the German again that morning, this time resolved to go home and rest. It wasn't working out so he was going to Santiago by bus that day. I was sorely tempted to join him as I was getting the same bus but merely getting off earlier, but I dragged myself off at the right point.

It was in one of world's most painful bus stations (soulless, waiting room, time has no meaning kind of place where you lose the will to live) that I was re-united with a favourite pilgrim. Pascal the old Frenchman from Bordeaux who'd reminded me so much of De Kelley. He was wondering around looking completely lost. We shared an absolutely priceless conversation over breakfast which he bought for me, being such a gentleman and all. We could still hardly speak to each other, but I managed to explain I was going to Finisterre, so he drew a little map for me so I'd know where to go once I was there. He had not been so well. He had a bad headache and he'd had a fever. So 'zee wife' was picking him up from a bigger town that he was getting a bus to. I gave him a Frenadol sachet (hot lemon, lemsip) and tried to explain that it was Spanish and very strong. I couldn't remember French for strong so I had to act the whole thing out, which was really something and amused him no end.

We were both tired and trying to communicate was quite an effort. I had the inevitable three hour Spanish wait for my bus ahead of me. His arrived and we wished each other well. I was so glad I'd seen him again.

By the time I got to Sarria nothing was funny. I felt more exhausted from waiting in bus stations and orienteering around towns than from rambling over mountains. I found an internet cafe for the first time in several days and sent out a reassuring message to anyone who might worry. I then went to bed. At 5pm. I got up at 7pm and ate my sandwich. I went back to bed at 7.30pm. I was done in. And now, it was 111km to go with no buses. This was a good feeling. Just expanse of walking and four days to do it in. Therefore getting sleep was my biggest priority. But I felt achy and lonely - the albergue was full of French and German pilgrims. Little did I know, one of the most enchanting parts of my journey was waiting for me the very next morning.

PART SIX

Winter's Way Part 4 - The Parting of the Ways

Monday 11th June (DeForest Kelley remembered, 1920 -1999)



De is a personal hero of mine and so I'd sent my friend Kris (and his carer/daughter/publicist) an email the night before. One of the main rules of the Camino was 'do what you can, while you can'. You never knew when you'd next have food, water, internet or chocolate, so you had as much as you could when you could! I'm glad I did because this particular day lead to a town with 27 inhabitants and though the albergue had electricity, you were not allowed to use it and the power sockets had been taped over! I lit a candle for De in Burgos Cathedral. It's enormous and over-elaborate, so it wasn't particularly apt, but I told myself I'd save another moment for him the next day at a smaller church when it was still 11th June in the US anyway! He died 8 years ago. And there's a big hole in the world as a result. Kris has written a book about De, DeForest Kelley: A Harvest of Memories, detailing her relationship with him and her experiences of caring for him during the last 3 months of his life (he had stomach cancer). I was so touched I was moved to write to her about it. Her book, read back-to-back with Terry Lee Rioux's biography From Sawdust to Stardust, reveals the life and character of a man I'm beginning to believe should be learned about in schools. When I think of the goodness in humanity, I think of him.

----

The biggest surprise about Santo Domingo for me was finding Jesse again, this time with a companion from Hong Kong. When a random set of events takes you here, there and everywhere it seems rather unlikely that anyone you met on your first day will somehow have made it to same distance, and to the same albergue. But there he was. The feeling of meeting someone you 'know' when life is so uncertain and things are unfamiliar is amplified therefore. We exchanged email addresses, etc.

Burgos was not somewhere any of us wanted to go. The guide warns pilgrims that most people bus in and out because some clever-dick built a motorway next to the Camino so for 20 miles in and out of the city you are walking next to lorries. There is nothing saintly, pure, noble, or remotely beneficial about walking it. In fact, it probably damages your lungs. So we didn't. We'd also decided after some less pleasant experiences that'd we'd rather go for the remote towns than the big cities. Going from a pretty trail that hasn't changed in hundreds of years into a big Spanish city is not unlike sharing a romantic, peaceful picnic in a park and then going to a child's birthday party at Macdonalds. The transition is traumatic. We went to Burgos purely for a bus connection to the Meseta (Beautiful flat land that I mistakenly called a desert earlier - I was misinformed by someone who thinks that land without a mountain is desert).

Daire and Christian went on to Astorga, (I was SO sad) and Chexie, Simon and I booked ourselves onto a bus avoiding motorway and taking us to Castrojeriz. But due to the ever-wonderful Spanish bus system, the one we wanted wasn't for another 3 hours, so first we took in Burgos Cathedral. Now I'm developing a severe intolerance for people who disrespect the rules of a cathedral. They all, without fail, state (and in several languages) that no flash photography is allowed. And yet the tourists swarm like bees, greedy to grab the best picture for their digital camera. If you don't have any respect for a work of art, such as these cathedrals truly are, what are you doing there? It's such a juxta-position. I only take photos without a flash and they come out fine - usually with a better idea of the atmosphere. It was around this time, PMS brewing like a deadly potion, that I developed the fantasy of carrying a cattle-prod.

I grew excessively agitated and immediately stalked off to find an appropriate anti-chamber. I found one, with a nice nun, and sat down to have quiet moment of reflection (trying to get the cattle-prod idea out of my head before God heard it..)

Spanish 'cathedral art' falls into 4 categories.
1) Excessively morbid (Christ's mangled body is everywhere)
2) Excessively tacky/tasteless and gaudy
3) Both 1 & 2
4) Breath-taking art and craftmanship of epic-proportions which makes you cry.

Fortunately there is more than enough of the 4th to make up for the others. The passion, anger, pain, joy, despair, sorrow, laughter, determination, courage, pride, fear, loneliness, exhilaration, love, desire, effort, struggle and conquest of hundreds of years can be found in the equisite stone carvings. Forget the garish gold alters, it's the intricate care in the columns that can only have taken YEARS to complete. I stand by my new fairly authoritive opinion; the best example of this is way off of the trail, in Salamanca. It remains the be the most exceptional cathedral I've ever seen. Burgos was full of people and full of things worth money, which is a complete turn off for me, so I went back outside and sat on a bit of grass having a conversation with a nice 80 yr old man who asked me to marry him. (I said no thanks.) One of the good things about Burgos Cathedral, though, was the beggar outside of it. She saw we were pilgrims. She therefore did not ask us for money but gave us the pilgrim blessing: "Buen Camino, Peregrinos" (Good Way, pilgrims). Most villagers, passers by and other pilgrims say this to pilgrims - a traditional well wishing. I was so impressed she did not ask us for money. That's respect, that is! I thanked her most cordially!

As previously mentioned, the accomodation that night (Castrojeriz, guidebook says it was probably founded by Julius Caesar) was rather basic. We also had to be inside by 9pm or we got locked out, so when we looked at our watches at 8.50pm in the restaurant, we all had to run to get back in time. Well it was donotivo (donation) funded. I slept next to an old hairy man (they're everywhere), but for a small concrete divide. He didn't snore. Lucky for him.

Tuesday 12th June

I got up in the dark at 5.50am. It was supposed to be 5.30am but Simon forgot to wake us up. We wanted to leave early because the meseta is famous for having no shade and it had been rather hot. However, we were delayed by the fact that old man in charge had locked us in and I couldn't access the kitchen to get my food out of the fridge. We eventually got out of there at 6.40am and strode out into the sunrise. I hadn't realised, but two pairs of my trousers and my towel were still in the dormitory on a chair. If I do the Camino again, I will bring a torch.





We watched the sun rise, illuminating the mist to golden and brightening the red of the poppies, whilst listening to the dawn chorus of pond creatures (they're so noisy!!). Full of beans (or more likely, the banana I had for breakfast) I strode on for the most part alone, fully conscious now that I needed to be alone with the road, as it were.

I practically marched all 24km to Fromista, with perhaps a 30-40 minute break, delighted to have my full ability to walk back. The meseta was beautiful but that day I just wanted to walk and walk and walk. To feel free. I arrived in Fromista shortly after 12noon.

I soon realised, upon wanting to go for a shower, that I'd left my trousers and my travel towel behind. The towel was expensive. I was in a terrible mood. But soon enough I was directed to a lost-property bin at the albergue and a nice woman from Quebec told me that the quick-dry towel in it must be for me. "The road gives you what you need," she said. Feeling mystical, I had a wonderful hot shower, felt much better and than went to investigate the Roman church.

I was a bit of an emotional wreck that afternoon and I didn't know why. The little Roman church is meant to be one of the most perfect churches because of its perfect dimensions. And it was. But it had no soul. Someone mentioned another church so I went and had a look. I later learned it is a national monument. A crumbling, gothic church. No-one was there. There was no entry fee. It was silent and musty. I went and set on a pew at the front. And wept.

Lack of tissues soon dictated a need to 'pull myself together', though it was hard because I had no idea why I was crying so I didn't know what to 'shut off'. I got up and left, walking back to the centre square where there was a fountain. I sat in the sun and dangled my feet in the cold water. It was lovely circular fountain with a giant rock in the middle which was an odd shape. It made me feel better than the church did!

I thought about how I'd be going off on my own. Chexie had decided she was getting a bus to a different section the next morning. We discovered one or two days in that and I have a June birthday - just a day apart. We later discovered that she is the same age my Mother would have been had she lived, and I am the same age as her daughter. For all the beliefs that the Camino gives you what you need, I couldn't help but feel it had given me a mother. She reminded me of my mum a great deal, even physically. We were both quite enchanted with one another, so we arranged to meet in Santiago to celebrate our birthdays together at the end of June. Without Chexie, it occured to me I would need a guidebook. I was considering this when a German girl I'd met earlier that afternoon came and joined me. Her guidebook was in german, so not much help, but she spoke French and English which did help. I'd got to a point of the Camino where hardly anyone spoke English or Spanish (mostly Italian, German and French). She was sweet and funny. I can't remember her name because I met about a 1000 people and they all had foreign names. I hope she'll forgive me that! We got to chatting again when I suddenly saw something on the rock in the centre of the fountain.

I pointed this out to my friend, and bless her, she waded in and retrieved it. I thought it was a stone carving of a book with some writing about the town on it. But no. It was a paper book, with some water damage. It was an English guide to the Camino, complete with details of every town, distances, accomodation, and a day by day 'level/climb' guide that had been tucked into it. And it weighed NOTHING. Light as a feather. (I heard that a pilgrim had snapped off the handle of his hairbrush to minimize weight, such is our plight, though to be honest I don't know why he didn't just take a comb.) The book had been published in 2001. But for one or two details, it was entirely up to date.

Blessed with another miracle I decided to call it a night and go to bed. On the way in, I noticed a young person who looked like Tom Sawyer and had no luggage. On closer inspection, I realised it was a girl. In Tom Sawyer's clothes. At that point, Chexie shrieked because she knew her from earlier in the trip. "Nina!" she cried. Nina was a pretty, fresh-faced 19 yr old girl from The Czech Republic. Her trousers looked about a size too big for her and were tied up with rope. Her checked shirt looked like it was her father's or something. And she was hiding under an enormous straw hat. She had a waterproof coat and a little pouch bag thing. And a plastic bag full of fruit. And that was Nina. She immediately offered me a pear.

I was staggered. She'd walked all the way from France. Just like that. With nothing more. Now that's REAL wilderness stuff! She arrived late to the albergue but they were so shocked by her that they put out an extra mattress on the floor. I was quite warm that night so I offered her my sleeping bag. She refused, and promptly fell asleep in her clothes. Incredible.

That night I'll remember fondly as the cacophony of farts and snores. It was ridiculous. My German friend was in the top bunk, as I was, and beneath her was the main culprit. The guy must have been 70. He looked like Santa and was wearing a one-piece pyjama thing. I videoed him snoring for amusement (but I'm not so cruel as to distribute it!). My German friend giggled herself to sleep.

Wednesday 13th June

Equipt with my new book, I took off at sunrise again, destination Carrión de los Condes.

Another thing the Camino gave me, was flowers. I've always had a bit of a gripe with the fact that I so rarely get flowers. I love them. And yet from the first day, men would pick a flower and give it to me. Simon did this a lot which was lovely. Then on this day, a Spanish guy handed me a pink flower (see picture below which was taken shortly after - you can see it peeping out of my bag). He'd had that in one hand, and a snail in the other. I've never seen such a harmonious relationship. I asked him what the snail was called. "Santiago," he replied with a smile. Such peaceful creatures, these pilgrims. I don't like snails generally, but then again I've never seen such a content one as Santiago, who was edging along this gentleman's thumb, totally relaxed.



I soon came to a cross roads. My book wasn't much help with that. I chose one but didn't like it in the end so I cut down a road towards the nicer route. I'm very gald I did because I found a lovely outdoor cafe selling a decent breakfast, and I met Nina again. Her English was not too good, or at least that's what I thought, but after a little conversation about how she was managing the walk, I told her she was 'very brave'. She replied with one of her beautiful smiles "Yes or very stupid!". I laughed at that. The Spanish cafe owner then put some Irish music on, and Nina and I tried to Irish dance for a bit. This really entertained the Spanish. I soon needed to press on so I told Nina I'd see her later and scurried off up the path. I was convinced I'd see her again. Alas, I did not. Of all the pilgrims that cropped up all over the place, and disappeared all over the place, she was quite simply a tragic loss. What a remarkable girl. I hope the Camino looked after her.

This was the day I heard my first cuckoo. And it wasn't a clock. I stood infront of a tree opened mouthed trying to see the little critter but couldn't. Wonderful sound. And much better than a clock.

I arrived at my destination (only 19km, but the next stop was another 17km) with my feet aching and decided to go to bed as soon as possible! I arrived at a monastery that had an albergue, paid 8 euros (it was private). Feeling as knackered as I was, I decided to get some bits and pieces from a supermarket for the day (the albergue had a kitchen). On doing this I saw Simon for the last time. Being the little trooper he is, he'd decided to carry-on (and we all had a laugh at the fact the name of this town was pronounced carry-on), so we said our goodbyes and I tried to find provisions. I staggered about like a lame zombie for what felt like several years, my feet feeling like they'd been beaten with a wooden plank, eventually found something that passed for food and went bacl to the hostal to bed. It was about 1.30pm!

The biggest problem now facing me was that the weather had changed. I fell into a deep sleep, shivering under two blankets, all my clothes, and a sleeping bag. I also felt bereft. It was my decision to continue the walk alone, because I knew that's what I needed to do. But I felt like a 3 yr old lost on a (cold) beach. The monastery was rather well equipped, however, and after my siesta I found a pay-phone and was able to make a couple of calls. Despite feeling weird and emotional, I was still loving my freedom. And the best thing is, no matter how crap anyone situation is on the Camino, you're always moving so you know you're not stuck with it.

I met a facinating woman - a South African who was living in Perth, Australia and was walking the Camino for the fourth time at the age of 60 something. She'd nearly died in the Pyrenees due to bad weather, and now was having an enforced two day rest because her feet were giving her awful trouble. Not blisters - muscular problems. Still, she was determined, and was one of many people that age making the journey with all kinds of difficulties. They're truly an inspiration.

That night I had a terrifying vivid dream that I was in one of the twin towers as they fell. I woke up with a scream. Which was a little embarrassing as I was sharing a small room with three other people. I went back to sleep under the now stack of blankets, putting the experience down to the fact that muggins had chosen the broken bed which threatens to tip you onto the floor. It was, though, one of a spate of anxiety dreams that had started the previous weekend. I mention this because from that time on, with one exception, the toughest part of the Camino was what I went through at night in my sleep, and when waking from it.

Thursday 14th June

Having decided to meet Chexie at the end of June, I was now faced with skipping some parts of the Camino. I'd had a good look through my new guidebook, and what with my feet hurting and the torrential rain, I decided to get a bus to Leon. If I had continued walking at that point, there would have been no buses for 4 days because the path went too remote, and with my feet and the impending 'feminine curse', I thought it best to play safe.

I felt rotten. I was thrown out at 7.30am. The bus to Leon goes twice a day - 1pm and 5pm. I had to wait for a bus for 5 and half hours. I didn't want to keep ordering food and drink, so I couldn't just stay in a cafe. I wandered (and trust me, lonely as a cloud has nothing on it) about like a pathetic lost puppy, with nothing but my florescent yellow plastic coat (1 euro from a newsagent in San Sebastian). It kept me dry, but it wasn't keeping me warm. I tried to find somewhere to buy some trousers, but rather typically, it was a tourist town, so you cannot buy anything practical. I was so bored, I actually followed a good-looking waiter who'd served me a 'pilgrim's' breakfast early in the morning. I'd bumped into him again in a supermarket when precuring bread and water, and he gave me a lovely warm smile and patted my arm. Affection!!! Wow. I followed him like a lost dog, for amusement. He was not hairy, greasy or short. He passed all three of the main 'Spanish potential bachelor' tests. But alas he just went back to work. I ended up sitting on the ground outside a church (it wasn't open yet) looking insane. After my backside went numb and the rain eased off a little, I followed signs to another church, to have a butcher's. (Cockney Rhyming Slang: Butcher's Hook = look).

I walked in being a tourist and much to my mortification there was a service going on. I crept in as slowly as possible and perched at the back trying not to rustle. I listened to the service for a few minutes, observed as 35 pensionistas hugged each other, and watched them leave. I got several warm smiles, despite my shocking appearance. (I was an enormous bright yellow plastic bag with a bewildered expression).

After everyone had gone, I left my bag, etc, as the back of the church and padded down the aisle to sit at the front. I looked at the extraordinary altar in front of me. And I could feel everything. It was tangable - tangable sorrow. I cried and cried, and this time I had tissues, so I let it happen. I was expecting the vicar, who I could hear having a chat in a room near by, to find me and perhaps attempt communication. He did not. After about 20 minutes, it seemed that my emotional incontinence was not going to abate. So I tried to think of happy things. The phone call I'd made to my grandmother from the monastery the day before was a good one. My uncle's brain tumour has been eradicated. He may be recovering from chemotherapy for around two years, and he still has double vision so he has glasses with one eye covered, but looks like he's surviving for now. That helped a great deal, but I still felt as though I was merely putting a finger in the damn. I'd entertained no thoughts - no morbid ideas. I'd simply sat and allowed myself to feel. I'm sure PMS had a part to play, though how large or small I really don't know. But the thing that struck me, was that it was emotion with no thought. I was just crying. And to this day I have no idea why. (With PMS for me there's usually a thought process, however psychotic or illogical, so this was new!)

The vicar came out, ignored me, and blew out the candles from the service. The light became cold. I took that as my cue to leave and walked to the cafe near the bus stop. Well. The cafe was the bus stop, actually.

As someone who 'doesn't drink', the Camino took an odd turn for me. I don't particularly like alcohol, but I do sometimes like a good red wine (just a glass) with a meal. Other than that, there are some things such as Martini that I started to drink when coming to Spain in an attempt to keep warm. So it was, that at 11 o' clock in the morning, I ordered a slice of tortilla and a glass of Martini in the hope that I'd get warm and the time would go by faster. It was a typical Spanish bar, so a measure of a spirit is about half a pint. With ice, like that makes it ok. I drank it slowly and damn, it was a tonic. There were other pilgrims there by that time - some from another albergue, and some who'd already walked that morning. I chatted to a lovely American couple from Idaho. The bus turned up at 1.25pm, by which time I'd completely lost my sense of humour, and we poured onto the bus out of the apocalyptic rain, and relaxed on our way to León.

I'd prebooked a hotel - treating myself to a private room in order to get some sleep (no snoring!!) and have a bath. Once installed, I found an internet cafe and wrote this blog entry on 14th June...

http://senoritainvierno.blogspot.com/2007/06/where-are-you-from-and-how-are-your.html

I visited the cathedral but found it too austere. Plus once more it was full of tourists taking flash photography and spoiling the atmosphere. Selfiish rabble. CATTLE PROD.

The bed was comfortable, and what with being a hotel I didn't have to check out until 12 midday, so I had a lie in. I felt like a queen.

Friday 15th June

I lurched out of León around 11.30am after being lost for a substantial amount of time. The yellow arrows were terrible and I just couldn't see them. By this time, 'the curse' was hitting me with full force and I was very uncomfortable. I decided to have a short walk that day and walk to a place called La Virgen del Camino (The Virgin of the Camino). I thought it sounded pretty. Talk about don't judge a book by it's cover. I walked through industrial estates and around/over/under motorways, some of which I'm convinced are designed to kill pilgrims, and came to a town that looked just like the arse end of West Ealing, where I previously lived. I was so disgusted, I stopped only to obtain a sello (stamp for my pilgrim passport) and decided to carry on, unaware that the next few stops had no accomodation. I ended up walking all afternoon (I got badly sunburnt, which is why you don't walk in the afternoons normally) until I reached Villadangos. This horrible walk was just like the one I'd sought to avoid near Burgos. Right next to the road. I walked in to the albergue, in near collapse, and a nice Canadian man gave me a beer. I don't drink beer, but suddenly, it seemed like a good idea. The hostal was lovely. It was not very full so I had a alcove all to myself. Myself and my beer were very happy there (though I had about 4 sips out of thirst before resolving to find water.

Sharing a space with people, especially a personal space, and especially with old men, can be a bit much at times. This was one such time. My sister had warned me that I'd want to be in my own environment. I was using a 'mooncup' for the first time. You need clean water to rinse the thing out. So there I was trying to rinse out the 'slippery little bugger' as I'd affectionately called it, when a 50 yr old fat man in bright red pants (UK pants, i.e. under pants) came into the communal bathroom and started to wash his socks next to me. It was at that point of my journey I officially lost any sense of modesty. As far as I am concerned, am I officially doing my bit for the environment, AND THAT'S AN UNDER STATEMENT.

I ventured out after reaching an acceptable level of higiene (a level which frequently altered throughout the walk) and asked a local man where the supermarket was. He told me. I proceeded to walk for an hour around a small village full of shifty-looking old people and a disconcerting amount of cats. I asked someone once more when the supermarket was, my sense of humour well and truly on it's way out of Europe, and the old man pointed behind me. It was like that moment in Labyrinth where the little worm tells Sarah there's an opening but she can't see it because it's invisible until you walk into it. I found a tiny door and walked into a tiny shop full of stale food. And THAT was their supermarket. SUPER???????? It's was shite.

Dinner that night was soup and peanuts. I couldn't eat the bread because it was as hard as a brick. The lovely Canadian man helped me shell the peanuts (I don't like salty peanuts). The news was that the weather was expected to be terrible for the next few days so he was considering getting the bus to Astorga rather than walking along side a motorway in the rain. I thought it might be a better idea, but I was feeling uneasy about the amount of bussing. The only obligatory part of the Camino is the last 100km. Anything before that is up to you. However, I felt like I needed to walk. Even when the walk was horrible, it seemed better than the bus. I therefore woke up the next morning (late, at 7am, due to being in my little alcove) and strode off towards Astorga, thinking that 29km would be 'fun'.

Saturday 16th June

Famous last words. The curse was putting pressure on my bladder, so I was having to find appropriate trees every 40 minutes or so. Not to mention how uncomfortable I felt generally. I can normally go a day with one, maybe two visits to the toilet. I like that. I am a camel and I'm ok with that. But this is the time it changes. And you simply do not want to be in the middle of nowhere surrounded by other (male) pilgrims. I was developing severe resentment towards men and their plumbing. The only blessing was it wasn't raining.

I traipsed along the side of the motorway for about two hours before the Camino took me through a little village and into countryside. I traipsed up and down hillocks like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Male cyclists kept wizzing past calling out 'buen camino!'. I returned the blessing but continued scowling at everything. It was at this point I came face to face with a cow.
We looked at one another, not sure what the other one was going to do. It soon decided I was irrelevant and went back to chewing grass. I crept by, having heard too many stories of when they run the cows through the streets (Bulls in Pamplona, cows in Los Arcos) and tourists get kicked because they're trying to take photos. As I proceeded down the track, I realised there were many more.


Nice Cow


Less Nice Cow....RUN!!!!!

After running away from the cow I continued for another few kilometres. Another cheerful, wombless bastard went by on his bike. I started hating men with an absolute vengeance. It's so easy for them!!!! I muttered and stomped until I just couldn't go on any further. I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach and my legs had been run over by a steam-roller. I found an albergue in the relatively deserted town of Santibanez de Valdeiglesias.

There was no shop, only a bar. After checking in at the albergue, where the nice owner took my backpack off me because I looked so pathetic, I went into the bar to see about food. Dry bread and a bit of ham. Lovely. The albergue was like a pub at first - full of people smoking in the kitchen which got to me a lot. I found a room far back from all of this and made my bed there. It was only at this point I realised that the toilets were in the shed outside and there was no hot water. I asked for a blanket and got one, and sat underneath it on a sofa in the main room, which was beginning to fill up with the French. We were all freezing. The weather had kept its promise and outside was about 12 degrees and raining heavily. Going out to use the loo was NOT fun.

We sat around trying to communicate, though my French is awful. I can understand a lot, but now when I try to say something, I speak Spanish. I met a lovely girl called Saskia from Germany, who'd spent the last year in Barcelona so we spoke in Spanish for sometime before I realised her English was better than my Spanish. Everyone was a bit down at that point. The owner of the albergue was making dinner for all of us (about 20), or at least his Momma was. As soon as the food came out, and we realised we were not going to be hungry, it was like someone turning on the lights. It was a Saturday night, and we were all seated around a huge table, at what had become a dinner party. My new French friend and I could barely communicate, so every time we saw each other that evening, and the following morning, we united over the Edith Piaf song, "Je n'regrette rien". We both sang it at each other. She told me she thought I was very pretty. Always lovely to hear, and people say it a lot, though I really don't understand why! No false modesty - I just don't see it. But hey. I told her that she had a beautiful face - and she did. It was the kind of face that's lived and seen things. I told her her face was 'full of life'. She was very touched by that and gave me a rather violent hug.

Another French person was Pascal, from Bordeaux. He had a lovely way about him which reminded me of De Kelley. We had a hopeless (due to the language barrier) conversation about how we both prefer dogs to cats. There was a stuffed toy dog in the room which he gave to me to cuddle. The dog had a very soppy expression, but Pascal warned me it could bite if I wasn't careful. It did make me laugh.

I have a theory that when language gets in the way (or the lack of it) people are driven to basic communication, which is always such a pure, good thing. You can't say kind things, so you do kind things. You express kindness as a child would. It does bring out the best in people. Not everyone, of course, but pilgrims, most certainly. Everyone wants to be friendly and helpful and kind and the best they can be. It can warm your heart on a cold miserable day when your abdomen is causing havok, I can tell you. That night there was a couple, a man from Australia and a woman from Germany (I think), who were walking the Camino a second time together, new engaged to be married, after meeting on their first journey. I had to translate this to the Spanish and the French, and the reaction was like a Mexican wave. They got a round of applause each time I translated for a certain nationality. It was really quite funny.

I talked more with Pascal and his friends, feeling very comfortable because of the kindness he'd shown me and then went to bed wearing all of my clothes. Despite finding the smallest, quietest room, a Belgian man had joined me in the room. He proceeded to snore loudly all night and I shouted at him a couple of times, to no affect, before resorted to kicking his bed and waking him up. Then he was quiet. You snore, you get kicked. Those are the rules. Alas, I still didn't sleep too well. I had a terrible nightmare about a friend eating people. It was totally graphic. He kept saying, "Well they died last night so they're nice and fresh, and it's awfully convenient that the local shop sells it.". It the dream he proceeded to eat what looked like a spinal cord, and some fingers. Then he stamped on my brother's face. I woke up with a jolt. Not surprising really. I started to wonder if I was working through my fears in my sleep.

Sunday 17th June

As loud as the Belgian had been during the night, he was as quiet as a mouse in the morning. I woke up at 7.20am having heard nothing from anyone or anything. Almost everyone had gone. I leapt into action, and rushed about getting ready to leave. Fortunately, Saskia was not into the 'early leaving' scene that so many pilgrims are. We had (awful) breakfast together and proceeded to walk to Astorga together.

Saskia was a wonderful companion. It was a very beautiful day as we walked through the sunshine and into stormy skies. It never really hit us though. It just gave us exceptional scenary.






We passed by a village where there was an old man dressed in his sunday-best. Not unlike the doggy I fell in love with in an earlier town, he had clocked what time the pilgrims come through the town and was waiting to greet us. At first I thought he was sweet, and then he made to give us the usual two kisses. But he was going for the lips and had a tight hold on my wrist. He kept saying 'guapa' (meaning attractive, but commonly used as a cat call also). Saskia prized me away from Casanova and we both stank of his aftershave for about half an hour afterwards. I definitely preferred the doggy.

We made it into Astorga around midday and I went into a cafe to use the conveniences. Saskia was going to walk on to another town, but I'd had an email from Christian telling me about a lovely albergue in Astorga so I'd decided to stay and see the city. However, when I came out of the cafe, I couldn't find Saskia anywhere. We hadn't exchanged contact details or anything. I looked around for some time, and then went to the albergue to check in, thinking she would have gone there as she was going to leave her bag there while we had lunch together. But she wasn't there. I checked in and stayed there for a while in case she showed up. I asked the owner if he'd seen her but no girl answering her name had come in. Then I went and stood in the town square and tried to be obvious (!!!!) so she could find me! A few hours later I gave up, had a shower (oh so communal showers with a towel the size of a pillow case), and went to sample the famous regional dish that Saskia had told me about.

The dish of the region was several courses and an entire bottle of red wine. Feeling incredibly stupid, I sat there and tried to eat it. They served me a plate full of horrid unidentifiable meat or fish that looked just like the flesh out of my nightmare. That was when I decided to become a vegetarian. And as I write this in Madrid, I still am. The second dish was lovely vegetables, probably the only ones available on the Camino. Then there was a third dish. Then a fourth. I just couldn't eat anymore, but I was worried about offended the waiter who'd been so kind. I began to feel guilty about a mint I'd had earlier that day! I was so full I started drinking the wine to compensate for the fact I couldn't eat anything else. After some time, I no longer cared what the waiter thought (dubious benefits of alcohol!). The meal was expensive and I hadn't intended to have it - well I hadn't known that's what it was. I stopped drinking the wine when I realised I could no longer think. I drank the water from my water bottle and poured the rest of the wine into it, trying not to be wasteful and imaging Ethiopians. My mother has a lot to answer for!

The waiter arrived and asked why I hadn't finished the dish of oil, noodles and dead animals. Knowing he couldn't understand a word of English I said simply (in English),

"The Virgin Mary came to me in a dream and told me not to eat this shit anymore."

I said it with a smile, so he smiled back and took the dish anyway. I experienced a rush of liberation, apologised to the Virgin Mary (but seriously, I did dream about that meat before I saw it so something freaky was going on) and swaggered back to the albergue.

I chatted with some lovely Canadians and gave them my wine, before the owner of the place came up to me. He was a Scottish man called Sky who'd been running the place for a few years having walked the Camino. He handed me a note. It was from Saskia!! She'd tried to find me but we'd somehow missed each other. She'd left me her Spanish mobile so I could contact her immediately, and her email too. I was so happy!! I hadn't lost her after all. I thanked Sky profusely. I chatted to him about his life running the albergue. He insisted he was happy, though I got the feeling he was lonely. I could have been wrong and way off the mark, but that was my feeling. I wondered what life must be like for him. All these people coming in and out every day. How wonderful. But then they leave. And it's over. I met a lot of people that night, including a nice German man called Frank and a Spaniard called Ricardo. Ricardo was on his fourth Camino. Frank was beginning to suffer a bit and was having to walk slowly. His English was excellent. It was good to have a silly chat in English.

I was kept awake that night by a French woman snoring like a pig with flu. When I did fall asleep here and there, I kept waking up, my fear of missing everything kicking in. I regularly have dreams that I can't wake up from. I'm conscious but I can't move. Sleep paralysis it's called. And I also hate it when I wake up and find everyone's gone. I don't just mean on the Camino. I suppose there are some 'abandonment issues' at play. But I think I've had this my whole life. If I don't say goodbye to someone and then discover they've gone, I can easily go into a state of panic and then I feel awful for ages. It's a horrible anxiety I have. I decided to believe that the Camino was helping me sort it out. But I think it's just me. If anyone I care about leaves without saying goodbye, it kills me. I love connecting with people. Severing that connection is just awful.

Monday 18th June

I enjoyed the breakfast that morning - the beauty of the place being run by a Scotsman, he knows the value of savoury food in the morning. Or at least healthy food in the morning. Without fail, most breakfasts in Spain are coffee and cake. I have a sweet tooth but I like to start the day with good intentions. If I start the day on cake where will I be by night fall?

I walked alone to a place called Rabanal Del Camino. Christian had also recommended an albergue there - one that serves tea in the afternoon because it's run by Brits. I decided this had to be experienced. I walked very fast, barely stopping but for a drink here and there, and covered 21km in 4 hours. It was a beautiful walk that day. Sunny but cool with a nice breeze, and well into the country. It was also very flat so it was an easy walk, with naked fields and the occasional tree. I breathed in everything around me, feeling free and happy. After some time I began to wish I had someone by my side to share it with. Perhaps a nice gentleman. It crossed my mind how nice it would be to have DeForest Kelley by my side. I smiled to myself at my hopeless romanticism. Do men like that exist anymore? I was listening to my MP3 player and growing tired of the songs so I shut it off. Suddenly I became aware of a ghostly noise. I turned my head to the right. The noise was the wind in the trees. It was beautiful. But where had the trees come from?? There was a forest by my side! DE forest was by my side!!! The Camino does give you what you want! I decided to believe in the idea, delighted by the Camino's play on words if nothing else, and walked with DeForest by my side for a few kilometres, grinning like an idiot and wondering if I'd finally gone entirely bonkers. Well, this life is mine for the living so I'll make what I like of it.

I'd been alone for a nearly a week now, met all kind of interesting people, albeit fleetingly. I was now walking into just another town. Or so I thought. In actuality, stage three of the Camino was just beginning.

I walked up the slope into a quintessential Camino town. Then I saw her. Saskia! We ran towards each other like lunatics - like some hollywood reunion scene between sisters who were separated in the war or something, when really we'd known each other for a matter of hours. But time has no meaning on the Camino! We were so pleased to see each other. I had sent her an SMS the day before to let her know I'd got her note, but hadn't expected to see her again. However, a combination of my warp speed and early start with her late start and brought us together again. She gave me a token - her gourd (a pilgrim symbol) and I gave her my little scallop shell that I'd bought to decorate my stick earlier that day. It was the only day I saw someone selling small shells. Perfect, or I'd have had nothing to give her. She went on her way. I went to the albergue. But it didn't open until 2pm. And then I noticed a small church and went inside. There was an excavation going on (not at that moment) and half the church was operational while the other half was in the process of exhuming skeletons, the bones of which were sticking out of the earth. It was quite gross really. I then noticed a leaflet. It was in several languages. It was from a monastery, inviting pilgrims to stay and have some time to meditate and relax. The minimum stay was two nights. I thought about this. I was in a hurry to get to Santiago now and wasn't sure I could afford to stay still for two days. But when I walked outside, more people had arrived for the albergue. They were noisy - and the snoring French woman was with them. I suddenly felt like I didn't belong with them anymore. On closer inspection, the Brits running the albergue were very nice but they didn't feel to me to be in the spirit of the Camino. They had other motivations and objectives and I felt no spiritual connection there.

I therefore made to the decision to stay at the Holy Redeemer's Monastery of Monte Irago and allow my spirit to catch up with my body.

And phase three began.

PART FIVE


Astorga Cathedral at sunset from the domitory window.