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 JuneI 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 JuneEquipt 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 JuneHaving 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.htmlI 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 JuneI 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 JuneFamous 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 JuneAs 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 JuneI 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.
