Winter's Way Part 3 - Ambition Should Be Made of Sterner Stuff

Wednesday 6th June

I got up after the nice old man trod on my face and went downstairs to eat my breakfast of stale bread. I had a lovely conversation with Chexie about how I quite fancy the idea of running my own albergue (refuge) one day. My idea came to me last year when reading Nicholas Christopher's A Trip to The Stars. A book of exceptional depth and beauty. A main character owns a hotel on the outskirts of Las Vegas and loves it because he's now too old to travel about so he lets people come to him. I adore being a house keeper (which is why living out of a big bag is so radical for me, though it keeps the dusting down) and I thought it would be lovely to run a small hotel or B&B one day (like when I grow up). But after having met so many incredible people on the Camino, I think running an albergue would be wonderfully rewarding. Who knows if it will ever happen. If it doesn't, I may have to write a story about one instead. Anyway, Chexie told me she thought it was a great idea because I'm, "Just the sort of person people would love to meet". Totally flattered, we became very good friends (yes it is that easy!).

Ego happily inflated, I met with Elaine and we set off into the sunrise.

It was a sharp climb but we went at a hell of a pace. After about 7km we stopped in the first small town which had a shop and some bread. I went in and asked for coffee. "No hay" was the reply (there is none). I asked where I could get a coffee in this town. "No hay" he said again. The town had no coffee. At that moment Chexie strolled by and I explained there were no beverages except fizzy and/or sugary drinks. "I'm not stopping until I find tea," she declared, and marched off up the hill. We pressed on too, and arrived in another village with a very cute doggy and no people. I talked to the doggy for a bit, who'd obviously clocked that the pilgrims come through at a certain time of day and was therefore sitting in the middle of the deserted main road waiting for attention. He got a lot. He was the most peaceful animal I've ever encountered and I wondered if it was a test (I've always been nervous of animals following several years of growing up with a neurotic and unpredictable black labrador who kept getting into fights). Well I'm cured either way. I want that dog.

Soon enough the disaster waiting to happen struck and the 'little' blister became a nightmare. I pressed on throughout the day but the last few kilometres were absolute torture. I arrived at Estrella, just 23km or so in to my 45km attempt. And I could go no further. Normal people were packing it in for the day anyway. Elaine and I said our goodbyes and she carried on. I hobbled into the Albergue, meeting up with all the usual suspects again, and examined the damage.

Now, I took a photo of this, but it's simply far too disgusting to post on here. My toe had swelled up in blister literally 3-4 times its normal size. And it was yellow. Ugly yellow. It was time for surgery. I attacked it with needles and disinfectant. But tragically, walking for me was over for the next two whole days. In all the time I was walking I experienced various aches and pains, some enough for pain-killers, but at no point did anything come close to the Toe of Evil.

This could have been avoided if I'd broken my shoes in for more than 2 days before the start of my journey. But that would have meant buying them in Spain which could have been far more dangerous because my Spanish is not advanced enough to demand the correct thing. Fortunately, after two days off, I was fit to walk again and my shoes became my best friends.

Thursday 7th June

Myself and other fellow cripples, Marcus (Sweden), Celine (France) and Christian (previously mentioned) hobbled (oh so literally) down the cobbled (very pretty but a total bitch to walk on with sore feet) road and got the bus to a main pilgrimage site...

The Fountain of Wine

Yes it does exist. I drank some at 8.25am. I have proof:



Just one of the many random Spanish things there are on the Camino. It's meant to give pilgrims strength to get to Santiago. Can't see how. We all became even more useless than before.

We caught another two buses (oh ho ho getting around Spain is FUN) and got to the albergue feeling exhausted. We were now in a place called Los Arcos, which has one of the most exquisite churches I have ever seen in my life. Because we were all together again that night, we ended up sleeping together pretty much. The bunks are sometimes pushed together to make what looks like a double-decker-double bed. I laughed at Simon and Daire who looked rather snug. "This is the second time we've slept together," I was informed. As I was going to sleep, I heard this exchange from them,

- Goodnight Thelma.
- Goodnight Louise.

I giggled myself to sleep.

Friday 8th June

Chexie decided that she needed a 'bus' day having walked all the way from France an'all. So she joined me on the Friday morning. The bus, rather inevitably, did not go at any remotely useful hour so we waited until around 11am (having been thrown out at 8am by a stern cleaner) and we took the opportunity to have a relaxing coffee/breakfast in the warm sun. Chexie did some new age healing mumbo-jumbo on my foot which was in keeping with the whole 'magical' camino deal. Well it worked. I walked the following morning! We got the bus to Logroño, a big city. That day it was 40c (104f) and a bit much to be honest. By chance she and I met up with Simon, Daire and Christian again, and we decided to stay as a group and go on to a smaller, more interesting place called Naverette. It meant yet another short bus ride, but the motivation was that the albergue in Logroño was full, and Naverette was another 10km (6/7 miles) walk. So I arranged tickets and whatnot for everyone, which was quite stressful because I can barely cope by myself with Spanish transport, but I managed. Swore a lot, though.

Alas, when arriving at Naverette, we discovered the albergue there was also full. But the man in charge whipped out his mobile phone and called his mate, who picked us up in a car so old it still had a choke, and took us to a 16th Century castle in a place called Sortes. It was a bit more expensive. 12 euros for bed and breakfast - but they were REAL beds with sheets and stuff. A night without a sleeping bag!!! And we were staying in a CASTLE. The cellar was full of wine. The region was Rioja, so naturally this family were making Rioja. They were also having a dinner party. The older brother of the family showed me around the extensive wine cellars. I asked him if there were any (and I mimed a ghost at this point, not knowing the Spanish for ghost), and he said, "Only me, woooo" and wiggled his fingers. I decided to get out of the cellar.





They had a good store, so for another 12 euros between the 5 of us we ate like kings. Having been in a city earlier, I took full advantage of the supermarket and bought baked beans, thinking I'd have a kitchen that night. Well, I had a microwave. So I cooked for the 5 of us - baked potato with beans (Christian contributed a tin), chicken soup for starter, and salad. It went around beautifully. And I love cooking for people so I enjoyed myself and then left them to wash up.

I stumbled outside where a storm appeared to be whipping up, but the Spanish were ignoring it as ever and sitting under a gazebo eating. I spoke to them in Spanish and they were stunned. (Most pilgrims can't speak Spanish). I was instantly invited to partake of their food and sit with the lord of the manor. I couldn't have refused, even though I was SO full up. They gave me their home-made wine which blew my head off. Then they gave me their home-made Vermouth which blew everything off. I was then given home-made tortilla (and that is such a treat, since the food was so bad for the whole journey, and really, it was made by the father of the house and was exceptional). It was getting painful but it would have been so rude to refuse! Then they brought out some bull. Yes. I ate bull. Never had it before. But again it was freshly prepared and brought out by their 'help'. I had a piece and it was divine. Shortly after that, more of their friends arrived and the guy next to me started to introduce me as his wife (mi mujer) literally my woman, one of the less attractive aspects of the language I feel! I laughed and chatted for as long as I could but then it was time to go back to my friends, so I thanked them, stood up and fell over my chair. Damn home-made alcohol! Fortunately Simon was at my side and he caught me. I tried not to look drunk and English (the two are rather inseparable, however) and staggered off to bed feeling markedly daft.

Saturday 9th June

I climbed out of bed and decided to walk. I was slower than everyone else all day and trailed behind them listening to love songs on my mp3 player, but I made my little way all the same. The path that day lead us to Azofra. It was again hot so I put my white cotton scarf over my head to protect my neck and shoulders. Chexie said I looked like Mary Magdalene. I don't think Mary Magdalene ever wore hiking boots, though. For the entire, hot, long walk, I thought of nothing other than an ice-cool pool to plonk my feet in.

As if by magic, we arrived at the albergue. The only one in 4 weeks to have an ice-cool pool to plonk one's feet into. It was not big enough to swim in - it was like a paddling-pool really. About 3 ft high and 1.5 metres squared I'd say. It was just what I'd had in my mind. Daire coined it, with,

"This is the best thing in the history of humanity."

We all sat there, easing our feet. The simplicity of cold water being a luxury greater than anything else in the world!

That night, a Saturday night, we went out for dinner to risk another "Menu The Pilgrim". I enjoyed translating for people, and it was great - the five of us chatting and socialising over some food, rather than while walking and trying to breathe and move and stuff. We somehow got onto the subject of inappropriate things. I'd been talking about internet dating - something I tried last year. I explained I got fed up with the guys trying to kiss me so early on and that I needed to know someone for more than 3 hours before I got that intimate. They all laughed at that. I then went onto to say how I'd been utterly mortified when walking down London's Oxford St (main street) a couple of years ago. I walked past a shop which seemed to have cute teddy bears just inside the main doors. I walked in mesmorised (total sucker for the cute and cuddly) and had a closer look. With utter horror I suddenly realised the teddy bears had erections. I then realised I was in a sex shop. I then ran out. That had them giggling. It's totally true though. I may have even picked one up. I didn't know teddy bears had penises, let alone erotic thoughts. And it was something like 2 o'clock in the afternoon. They should have been at a picnic, not in a sex shop. I've never got over it!

One of the best things about that particular albergue (despite the pool of joy) was that all rooms were for two people. So Chexie and I had a private room to ourselves. It couldn't have been tinier, but it was fine.

Sunday 10th June

I hadn't slept well due to a dog barking and a storm thundering all night long. The morning arrived and with it, pain. My toe hurt badly again. However, there were no buses from this town. So I had to walk. The coffee machine had run out of coffee. I grumbled along in the rain scowling like a unreasonable 3 yr old. Eventually the rain cleared and the scenary became, well, perfect. We came to a point in the path where we all stopped for a moment. We recognised it. In front of us was the view in the picture of Daire's guidebook (the most used English guidebook). It was this:



Wow. Said we all. (And I had to resize it for this blog. Full sized it's just something else.) Then we continued along for a very long time - I again far behind, lurching and staggering up the path. It was in this exceptionally beautiful countryside that I was forced to urinate near a vineyard. I later confessed this to my father who speculated that it may indeed give Rioja 2007 the kick it needs.

We came across a housing site (in the process of being built) and ate stale bread in a concrete structure out of the recurring rain. Then we saw a sign for coffee and followed it like the 3 wise men to the Star of Bethlehem. Caffeine is a powerful drug. After I took that, I flew along at warp 9 ahead of everyone, marching along to Madonna's album Confessions on a Dance Floor. The blisters had been beaten into submission and were no match for a Spanish coffee. I arrived in Santo Domingo before everyone else.

That was our last night together. The next day, Daire and Christian needed to get a bus to Astorga, cutting out the centre part of the camino (Burgos and Leon), in order to get to Santiago within their respective schedules. Myself, Chexie and Simon would go on together for a day or so before also separating. We'd quickly become aware that as happy as we were together, a trip with friends is not the purpose of the camino. Or at least it wasn't for me or Chexie. I for one needed some alone time to absorb the experience, though if the other two hadn't been going their own way, I wouldn't have left the group at all. I loved it. It was great fun and a perfect dynamic of differences and spices and characters.

We all slept close together again that night. Giggling ourselves to sleep again, and looking forward to a new phase of the camino.

"Goodnight, Thelma," I said to no-one in particular.

"Goodnight, Louise," said Chexie.

PART FOUR

Present Day - 4th July 2007

No-one does irony like the British. And here I am, stuck in my flat, unable to enjoy the sunshine because I got two terrible blisters from a new pair of sandals which I wore for 2 hours yesterday. I had trouble with one or two blisters for one or two days during the whole month I was walking. Now I'm not even walking, and I can't walk. If you get me. So today I'm in the flat reading and writing.

I'm getting repeated spam emails about Independence Day today, spammers a bit slow to realise that not everyone is from North America. I hope the US is enjoying a day off at least. I don't know much about it, except there was a Declaration of Independence following a big punch-up following years of bullying from King George III, and the Brits ran away like girls and picked on someone closer to their own size (France).

There's an interesting article here in The Guardian on George III to George W..
http://commentisfree.guardian.co.uk/ian_williams/2007/07/george_iii_or_george_w.html

Meanwhile, I'll go back to dreaming of eating English food, speaking the English language and having to use my umbrella all the time. There are things I like and dislike about every place I've been to, but I don't feel there's a right or a wrong or a better or a worse. There are just differences. But people are people wherever you go. I do wish someone in power would recognise that and live by it. I have to say, I'm not looking forward to paying taxes in England again, taxes which fund our illegal invasion of Iraq. And just one more time... why are we there again? Have they come up with a reason yet?

Winter's Way Part 2 - Follow The Yellow Brick Road.

Next to my first yellow arrow was a church. And next to the church there was a tour group. The tour group was lead by a bilingual Spaniard and was being conducted in English. I listened in, hopeful for free information. I soon realised the group was American. 'They're everywhere', I thought to myself. The group were quicker to realise I was a pilgrim. A real, live pilgrim. This was good news for the tour guide who had just reached the 'pilgrimage' part of his routine. I happily told them what I was doing, where I was going and presented them with my 'credencial'. They were all extremely interested, though they clearly thought I was nuts. They wished my all the best of luck. And then a couple came up to me and said they'd walked a section of the camino last year and promised me I'd love it. It was with these heart warming sentiments that I then began to trundle along the ancient Calle Major of Pamplona, which is famous for sending bulls down the very same street. Fortunately not at the same time as me.

I walked through and out of the city. It took ages. I sat down to drink some water. Stood up. Walked for a few minutes. A thought occured to me. I turned around and went back to the bench and picked up my walking pole which if it had a head would surely have been shaking it at me. I then retraced my steps. This became a comedy/tragedy routine throughout the entire 4 weeks (I should have attached it to myself surgically) culminating in a wonderful moment where I wasn't quick enough to get it out of the taxi in Madrid last Thursday, and the taxi driver drove off with it in his trunk/boot. Well, it was trying to get away from me all that time and it finally succeeded. I wouldn't mind only it's damn expensive and I'm going to need a new one now.

I continued walking for a mere 90 minutes until I saw a castle with a flag.



I thought that was rather interesting and carried on walking after taking the above photo. A little further on, I saw a sign for an Albergue. It was 12.30pm, about the time to check in to ensure getting a bed. I felt a bit silly, I'd only walked about 7 or 8 km. However, I was tired from buses and everything so I took myself in. I was the first one there. That decision changed everything for the following four weeks. For a start, there were supposed to be five and a half weeks. But wonderful things unfurled.

The kindest man in the entire world took me in and put me in a room exclusively for women. This was the one and only time that was possible or an option. Ironically, the snoring was louder that night than on any other, thanks to a skinny Danish lady. Snored like a motorbike.

The Castle belongs to the Order of St John - the Knights of Malta. Incredible stuff. The man was a knight himself. The order has worked giving humanitarian aid since the 12th Century. They avoided slaughter (unlike the Knights Templar) by keeping a low profile that should be the awe of every under-cover operator in the world. Their story is exceptional and you should look it up. Please follow this link. Those with less time will perhaps be satisfied simply to know that St John's Ambulance is just one of the remarkable things they have given the world.

http://www.orderofstjohn.org/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Knights_Hospitaller

It was also a nice touch that it's Malta, where my Mother spent some of her childhood.

That afternoon, I had a short sleep to make up for a weekend of worrying about my luggage, and later wondered into the kitchen. The charge was 5 euros for a bed, showers, and food for lunch, dinner and breakfast. Bit of a deal. But the best bit was when the Knight ushered us into the church/castle (see below) and gave us the history in English. That was my first day. It was an incredibly magical start.



Later that day, I met friends who I would meet again and again. Perhaps even friends for life. The following is a breakdown:

A Kiwi, Simon
An Irishman, Daire
A Kenyan (British Colonial fond of tea) Chexie (pron. Checkie)
A German (Christian)
An American (Jesse)

Three of us tried to cook Spaghetti Bolognese and did OK, though it was a bit Heinz. I quickly learned that bedtime was anytime from 8pm, and the electricity shuts off at 10pm. This meant that the conversation I was having with Jesse had to end rather abruptly, but as time would tell I was unable to lose him quite so easily! At 9.45pm I went to bed and was startled to find that the lights were off and everyone was asleep. I hadn't brought a torch with me so I rustled all my stuff until I climbed under a couple of blankets and tried to ignore Miss Motorbike 2007.

=====

The following morning, we (myself, Simon and Daire) took off about 7am or so, downing a coffee which the chaps assured me would be essential, and we took off out of the town and into a field. Now, I know I've complained about the rain a great deal since being in Spain, but I have to say, it worked wonders. The scenary was stunning. All the better for green, rather than parched yellow. We had a nicely paced accent towards mountains with windmills on them. They make a beautiful relaxing noice when you're up-close. Some people have called them eyesores. Personally, I'm always happy to see human beings trying to work with the Earth rather than against it. We trailed upwards, seeing various 'pilgrim alters' on the way. People often create crosses, and leave a stone or some other token such as a flower or a note covered with plastic, as a memorial to a love one, for instance. I hadn't known about that so I never had anything to leave. I therefore always found a flower or a pretty stone to place either by a cross or on one of the hundreds of mile-stones. However, I never went into a church or cathedral where I never lit a candle for my Mother, or other loved ones. And sometimes, they were real candles rather than those awful electric things. How soulless are they????







Once at the summit, there were one or two monuments for pilgrims, including an iron 2D depiction of pilgrims making their way.



After this, it was pretty much downhill. We stopped at a cafe on the way and re-loaded with coffee and bananas and cake. We walked a little further and ate our stale bread sandwiches (we had to buy the bread the night before because we left before the shops had opened). Everything was rather idyllic. I wanted to keep walking so I went on ahead - on to a famous church called Eunate..

"Santa Maria de Eunate - "the jewel of the Camino". This unusual octagonal Romanesque church stands in the middle of cornfields, between Enériz and Puente la Reina. It is surrounded by a free-standing colonnade.

Its origins are obscure - some believe that it was a church of the Knights Templar, and that the octagonal design came from the East, being based on the Templar church of the holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. Whatever its origins, it is a place of great calm - one of the places where one feels a great sense of unity with all those pilgrims who have gone before." - www.santiago-compostela.net

There was so much beauty and wonder that first day, I couldn't take it all in. Gradually, the heat increased and I pressed on, meeting up with the boys shortly afterwards. We arrived that night in Puente de la Reina (Bridge of the Queen.) It is most famous on the Camino for being the town where several routes meet up. (I did the Route Francais, French Route, the most famous) I met up again with Chexie and Christian, and met a lovely young woman called Elaine who came from an island near Fiji. My toe was hurting a little bit but I didn't think it would become an issue (hahaha).

I relaxed on the beautiful green lawn of the hostel and later we all went out for dinner together to experience 'Menu The Pilgrim' as it had been translated, much to my amusement. I will save a full on attack of the poor quality of the food on the Camino for another blog. It deserves an blog entry all to itself. Something I shan't forget, was Simon selecting 'Fruta del Tiempo (fruit of the season)' in an attempt to be healthy when we had all selected the icecream. What arrived (and the Spanish have a way of practically throwing plates and glasses onto the table so it was also delivered with the grace of a shot-down duck) was a saucer, a teaspoon and one markedly sorry looking apple. We all laughed at him. Until our choc-ices arrived. I promptly informed my new friends that the pilgrim menus were a total rip-off and we should avoid them if possible. You can have a better meal for far less money if you select from the normal menu! Shame on every restaurant and bar on the trail currently making money out of pilgrims by feeding them utter crap! And grow some friggin' vegetables!!!!!!

So that was my first day. It lasted a lifetime. I spent that night under a man of about 70 who trod on my face when dismounting from the bunk in the night. He didn't snore though, so I forgave him.

For an impressive photo of the bridge, click here.

That was my first day. Elaine had by this point persuaded me to join her in her attempt to cover 45km (30 miles) the next day. I was totally up for it. Little did I know, the little pinky-toe was at that very moment plotting against me....

PART THREE

Winter's Way Part 1 - Finding The Road

I wasn't the only one who had a rough start. The bad weather at the French/Spanish border managed to disrupt several flights and many wanna-be-pilgrims found themselves at alternative airports - some even were flown all the way back to their starting point and had to get a train instead. I also wasn't the only one whose luggage was lost. But I was the only one who never got her sister's inflatable roll-up mattress back. Spanair are appalling. I got on the return flight with them again from Santiago to Madrid. It was an hour long flight. I then had to wait for an hour and a half to get my bag that time. So just so we're clear....

SPANAIR ARE TOTAL SHIT!

SPANAIR SON MIERDA ABSOLUTA!

Right. Now I can tell my story...

A long time ago in a country far, far away (Spain, last month) a mad 27 yr old woman decided to go on an ancient quest for wisdom, like what Paulo Coelho did. I took some honey and plenty of money wrapped up in a nifty little money pouch and borrowed my sister's mattress, which Satan's airline stole. That's SPANAIR by the way.

She'd been awfully nervous, what with spending several months hiding behind a blanket and an internet connection, but once she hit the road and started being fleeced by Spain's tourism industry she felt more confident.

She arrived in Bilbao instead of San Sebastian because the pilot was too gay to land the plane in the rain*. As some trans-atlantic passengers remarked, "if that pilot had been American, he would have landed". As it was, the Spanish pilot tried to land in a giant grey cloud for half and hour, before pulling-up abruptly and causing a panic, and then swanning off to Bilbao.

*I have nothing against gays. Except you, Steve.

Once in entirely the wrong city, we had to pick up our luggage (which for 6 of us was not there because some goof-ball forgot to put it on the plane - SPANAIR ARE SHIT by the way) and get the bus. So my flight which should have arrived in San Sebastian at 8am in the end caused a delay of 3 hours. I therefore arrived at 11am, in summery clothes, with nothing but a handbag, in a rainstorm. The bus dropped us off at the 'bus station' which was actually the side of a road. The tourist booth was rather inevitably closed. Naturally, because it was a Saturday, and tourists don't happen on Saturdays. Or more likely, the manager saw it was raining and decided that was justifiable cause not to go to work. I wonder what would happen if the English took that view.

I ran into the nearest building which was a hotel and asked if they had a room. 'NO', was the delightful reply delivered to my left shoulder rather than my face. I then returned to the bus stop which had a bit of shelter and spoke with my new US friends whose luggage was also still in Madrid (though at that point we didn't know where it was). They helped me out a great deal, not to mention bringing me to the one B&B in the whole region which wasn't booked out. I had to pay for two night's accommodation which was not part of the plan (pilgrims once they start get cheap/free hostal beds for the night, but I couldn't start walking without my rucksac). A man at the airport said it was my first test (alluding to the idea that the pilgrimage is a big spiritual journey). I smiled and tried to feel spiritual about it, but I mostly wanted to attack people.

Aggravations aside, the B&B was a delight, and I got to see a good deal of San Sebastian which is very, very lovely.

Monday morning arrived rather insensitively (my how the Spanish like to honk their horns, as if I could ever forget they're there!) and I took the bus to Pamplona. The bus drove through some exceptional scenary and then as ever, dumped me in a crappy bus station with no information such as maps, or even a sign. Of the two ways I had to choose from, I inevitably went the wrong way, and for some time. It took me over an hour just to find the middle of the town, get my 'pilgrim's passport' from the Archbishop's palace (which was hiding behind a bullring) and discover the most wonderful sight in the world. The yellow arrow.

PART TWO



The humble yellow arrows mark the entire way from St Jean Pied du Port to Finisterre, though once you get to Galicia they are less helpful! They prevent you from wandering off down the wrong pony track, etc. Therefore, once you are on the road, life is simple. Follow the yellow arrows. That is all you have to do.

http://www.archicompostela.org/Peregrinos/Ingl%C3%A9s/La%20Compostela%20.htm

Where are you from and how are your feet?

The pinky toe has recovered a little bit now. Pilgrims meet new pilgrims all the time. The conversations begin in Spanish by stating a nationality to elicit where the pilgrim is from. For example, "Español? Francais? Inglés? Americano?" Once their nationality, or most importantly, their language has been revealed, you are free to converse (provided you know the language). Mostly I'm speaking Spanish (loads more than in Madrid), then English (but I'm the only English person I've met. English speakers have been Irish, Kiwi, Kenyan, American, Australian, Canadian or German (Haha!). After that I've been speaking some French. Then I've been learning some German, Dutch and Africaans. And Swahili. And Latin. And Basque. No wonder I'm tired. You'd think 16 miles a day would be enough to get you to sleep!

After learning where they're from, the conversation quickly shifts to discussing the state of one's feet. Then plasters, needles, ointments and passed around while several conflicting bits of advice are passed around. Cover it with a plaster, don't cover it - let it breathe, pop it, drain it, leave it, cut it off, see a doctor, rest your feet, keep going till it goes numb... etc etc.

Mostly, United Nations (this is what we call ourselves) spend the evening with their feet in a big bowl of cold water.

The practicality and physicality of the journey has now become normality. Now begins the second phase. The mind. The pilgrim's relationship with the Camino. What it takes away from you, what it gives you, what it teaches you and how it tests you. Sound a bit mystical? When I started this journey I didn't feel remotely spiritual about it, although that had been my approach and my reasons for attempting it. It was a case of practicality for several days. Smelly feet, pain, snoring, sun, rain, hostels, food, water. It quickly became a holiday. Then something changed. Of all the unexplained things I have experienced in my lifetime, none have been more frequent than on this road. Most pilgrims are in agreement. There's something funny going on here. Lots of people (especially the Germans it would seem) come to this journey for the physical challenge - a good trek. But they leave with much more.

As I child I wished that I would find Narnia in my wardrobe, or be whisked away to Oz in a tornado, and even as an adult I resent never getting my letter from Hogwarts. That sense of wonder. What happens with the Camino is that it's you, the road, and The Way. The Way is not just the path. It's what flows through you. You feel yourself doing things - find yourself doing things. As a child again. You wake early and any number of things can happen between then and nightfall. That kind of freedom. You give yourself up to destiny, if you like. Remember how long a day was when you were 7? Because you never knew what would happen day to day. The summers went on for years. An evening lasted a month. No responsibility. Every moment was new. Someone else took care of the details.

It is the same on the Camino. It's as if by travelling with yourself and carrying your life on you back and being totally responsible for yourself, you are then utterly free to be open to where life takes you - to trust that the world will look after you where you can't. Just you and your bag. And the total relinquishing of control. You trust the Camino to take care of the details.

I haven't felt like this since I was a child. Each day really is a new adventure. You start walking, and things happen. Conversations take place. Ideas arise. Magic happens. You can run and play and be in tune with the world. It's not expensive because provided you walk you have somewhere to a sleep. Food is cheap. Everything else is free. Hot water is luxury. Simple acts such a cleaning clothes and preparing food become exciting because there is food to eat and the facility to wash clothes. You live so basically, that everything becomes a wonder. And then you are free to go where your intuition guides you.

Tonight, I'm staying in León. Tomorrow is the beginning of a gradual climb to the highest point of the Camino at approx 1,700 meters. I will get to that point in about 4 days. This is the last major city before my destination. This may be my last blog for several days in that case. I've been staying in monasteries, castles, churches, caravans, huts, school rooms, and in villages with 20 inhabitants and no phone. Coming to a big city after such experiences is Hell. I wandered into traffic earlier because A) I was so tired, B) Spain doesn't always have curbs so it's not clear what's a road and C) I forgot traffic existed.

Fortunately the oncoming car was sufficiently noisy to give me plenty of time to scuttle in a doorway. It was also very cold today. I was therefore wearing all of my clothes at once and looking completely insane. I'd forgotten about that and wondered why the girl serving me a sandwich was looking at me as if I was the Loch Ness Monster. I found it quite funny. She never smiled but looked fairly frightened as if I was unpredictable and perhaps dangerous. I wonder if it will be even worse after the next two weeks. It really is like a time leap from 15 century to now.

Well. Must dash. I left so early the other day it was still dark, and I left a pair of trousers in the hostal because I couldn't see them. I now have a pair of shorts and a pair of light cotton 'fisherman's' trousers. That's it for the lower body. I have to therefore go shopping and buy warm trousers for the mountains. Long johns should do it. Maybe I'll wear them on my head and go back to visit the cafe girl to see how disturbed she gets.

There's something awfully liberating about being a total misfitting, bewildered freak. I love it.

I will be uploading my pictures in July (when I have the cable!). For now, I recommend this site. This is not fancy photography. This is what it is like. Incredible.

http://www.shinealight.com/write/camino/htmfiles/images.htm

Ow.

Friends, Romans and Countrymen.

I am having the time of my life. So far, I have walked about 150km, since last Monday. My pinky toe developed a blister which swelled to about 5 times the usual size of the toe. I had to drain it but the needle slipped. The thing exploded. Then a knight from the Order of St John (older than and surviving the Knights Templar, 12th century thing, and of St John's Ambulance fame) repaired it and poured disinfectant into the wound. That really f*cking hurt. He then tickled my foot to cheer me up and I cracked up laughing. I've taken photos of it so after this trip I'll be uploading the 'scenic route'.

The peregrinos (pilgrims) are like the walking wounded. Some of them have walked from Belgium, Paris and Denmark. There are bandages and plasters and anti-septic lotions left right and centre. We´ve all developed rather strange ways of walking.

The scenary is just breath taking. The albergues (hostals) are good fun. More or less 5 euros a night. The other day, my friends and I could not get into the main hostal. Consequently we were re-directed to a private hostal. We had to pay 12 euros but it included breakfast. A car arrived to drive us there because it was as off the beaten track as off the beaten track could be, and we'd already walked about 30km (20 miles) in 40 degree heat. We didn't know what to expect. Much to our pleasure, we ended up in a 16th century castle with real beds and a good food store. I cooked for the 5 of us and we all slept in real beds. It was incredible. Again, photos will follow.

My friends and I consist of the following. Simon the Kiwi, Dara the Irishman, Christian the German (also a doctor and rather useful) and Checkie from Kenya. Checkie has lived her whole life in Kenya, but in an English colony. She's a quentisential Englishwoman who also speaks swahili and lives in a tree house. She's 61, proficient at yoga and walks faster than me. The other day, during a stiff climb, she declared she would not stop for a rest until she found tea. These are my friends. We've discovered we enjoy each other's company and have spent the last few days together. The magic of the Camino truly is that you meet who you are supposed to meet. And I have.

The way is not flat. It was flat for some time today which was like a day off. But otherwise this is full on trekking up and down. We've braved heat and thunder storms so far. Coming up is the Masetta. It is a desert. For 30km a day more or less, there are no cafes, no water fountains and nothing but hot summer sun. It takes 3 days to cross the Masetta. I keep thinking of Lawrence of Arabia. Some people have been leaving before sun rise with torches to have a cool walk. It's strange - I feel like I'm on another planet and then I come to a town like this and everything is modern. Extraordinary.

There are several chapters I want to write, but I'm afraid I can't do that until I return to Madrid in early July. I'm writing in a note book. It's not just the expense of connecting to the internet, but the time I need to write. Now is not the time. I'm having some of the most incredible experiences of my life, and though I'm making notes, I'd be a fool to spend an hour on the internet when I have another world full of magic to be in.

Everyone should attempt this walk in their lifetime if possible. It is more than a walk. It's another reality. And it's good fun. It is usual to walk from 6am to 12noon more or less, check in at the hostal, shower, sleep, eat, do yoga and talk with amazing people. These people are motivated not by greed or materialism, but by a desire to connect with the world and its people. Most are healers of some kind. All are eager to help each other and do the best they can - be the best they can. If I could, I'd be walking this walk for the rest of my life.

I must go - it's 6pm. Dinner time. I've been getting up at sunrise (5am-5.30am) and trying to eat a substantial breakfast. We start walking at around 6am-6.30am. Lunch was at 9.20am today. I urinated in a vineyard so avoid Rioja 2007. I absolutely could not help it. There were no toilets for 10 miles. I flew along today - we finally found a cafe and downed some coffee. I also put on my mp3 player and listened to dance music to get my groove on as I didn't sleep too well last night because of the storm and a yappy dog which I wanted to kill. Madonna and caffeine sorted me out and after 2 hours my feet were numb so the pain couldn't hold me back. Super.

And now, it's time to find a meal which has the necessary nutrients for a pilgrim. Or a penguin as we call ourselves because we all walk like penguins in the evenings after a hard day's walk.

I don't have time to find out how to spell quintessential. That might be it. Let me know.

The next entry may not be for some time. Sorry, but I have a journey to make and extraordinary things to do before spending the rest of my life being normal again.

Ciao.

Oh.My.God.

El Camino is more beautiful and wonderous than I could have imagined. I'm into my second day now. My feet hurt a little but on the whole my boots are fantastic! I keep a good pace which is great because I tend to arrive at the albergues nice and early to secure a bed for the night. You pay 5 euros for a night generally. Last night all the food was included.

I currently have two travelling companions. One Irish guy and one Kiwi. They're great fun. I've made a lot of friends at the albergues too. We all tend to meet more or less at the same hostal though there are a few to choose from. Everyone from everywhere is here.

The scenary today was stunning and should continue to be so. Yesterday was more of a city walk. It's not particularly flat so I should be damn fit by the end of this. It is usual to arrive at a hostal/aubergue around 2pm or 3pm, wash yourself and your clothes, hang them out to die, lie or sit down for a bit and then attempt to find food.

Last night I was in a room with 4 other women, one of which snored like a motorbike. The woman above her in the bunk kept rocking the bunk to wake her up and roll her over! It seemed to work.

I'm in the minority here - most people are young men (20s and early 30s) or mature women (50s and early 60s). Though today there seem to be more young women which is nice.

Must sign off now. It's 1 euro for 25 minutes of internet.

Ciao!

I hate Spanair

OK. I have my rucsack. I can get on with my walk. I can change my clothes. I can put after-sun on my face. Such luxury!

HOWEVER, the one thing that doesn't belong to me - on loan from my sister, is missing from my bag. A rolled up inflatable mattress. She said to me, "It's expensive though, so if you lose it, you'll have to replace it". It was strapped in so tightly, and the man at the airport strapped it in even tighter. But it's not here now. I phoned Spanair who said that they have the one reference number for my bag which I have, and any excess items are my problem. So they couldn't land which admittedly was the weather's fault, but they forgot to put my bag on the plane. I've had to pay for a place to stay tonight because I couldn't start walking thereby qualifying for cheap hostals. I missed the friend I was supposed to meet this morning to begin the walk. I didn't want to hold him up. And now they've lost my mattress. And instead of apologising (not one apology) she actually said it was my problem for not strapping it in securely and it would be impossible to look for it.

However, I forced her (at conversational gunpoint) to do something about the situation, and she put a message on the 'system' (why do I get the impression that the system is a post-it note) and gave me a phone number for the airport so I could check there. Yeah! With my pay-as-you-go phone which will soon run out of battery and has no charger will really cope well with an 'information line' which is only open at stupid o'clock and in Spanish.

If the albergues are very busy (which they could well be in June) then the only option is floor space. That's one problem. The other is I would rather lose anything of mine than of another person's. I will of course write to Spanair, but with Spanish bureaucracy the way it is I very much doubt they'll offer any kind of compensation. I will try though.

I know this is all meant to be about 'obstacles' and 'character testing'. Well, turns out I'm the kind of character who's going to bust some balls and demand justice!

With luck, they may trace it and be able to send it to me wherever I am. But that depends on the Spanish being efficient (haha) and my mobile staying alive until I make a friend who owns a nokia charger. I took the advice of a website and didn't bring a charger because everyone else has them and they're heavy. I just hope everyone else didn't take the same advice. Ha!

Well. I'll explain to my sister when the poor girl is out of hospital. She's having an operation tomorrow. Can't help but feel I'd be substantially more useful by being with her rather than by standing with my hands on my hips and glaring at my incomplete luggage.

Stupid trivial shit aside, I've had a lovely day. San Sebastian is beautiful. I walked for hours and broke in my shoes. I got sunburnt through the clouds. (In my defense, my suncream was in my backpack). The place where I'm staying is gorgeous and the señora has been exceptionally kind to me. Perhaps it's moments of aggravating cock-ups that best highlight the good in the world. Tomorrow I have to get the bus to Pamplona, go to the Archbishop's palace and get my 'credencial', (my pilgrim passport). Once I have that I start to walk due west. The one blessing with not having the mattress is the possibility I won't need it, and I'm therefore avoiding the extra weight. Spanair will still have to buy a new one, though.

Bastards.

Hmmm. Not a very pilgrimy thing to say. Oh well. Hopefully Jesus understands that even the very best of people can't help but get really pissed off when the airline loses their stuff. I still have my hiking pole (and yet that didn't escape from the bag!) so if anyone else irritates me, I'll beat them to death with it, and then carry on walking to receive 50% off my punishment.

Ha.

Little by Little

Apparently my luggage is in Madrid, taking up salsa dancing no doubt. Spanair said they 'hope' to put it on the next flight which is this evening and should arrive at San Sebastian airport at 8pm, more or less. That's as good a guarantee as you get in Spain! So I have to spend the day here and another night. The Señora who runs this B&B has been very kind and understands my plight. She's putting me up for another night but on her sofa (no room at the inn). It's warm and dry so I'm happy. If all goes to plan, I can start El Camino tomorrow.

Due to logistical problems such as being delayed and having to pay for 'real' accommodation instead of staying at an Albergue (which you can only do if you've walked that day) I will now start the walk in Pamplona. If I try to get to Roncevalles by the time I get there it will be too late to start walking so I'd have to pay again for a place to stay and then start the walk on Tuesday morning. So I'm going with the flow.

For now, I'm going to the beach in San Sebastian to sit under the grey clouds and ponder. I just had my breakfast here, included in the price. Fried bread and green tea. Must be a Basque thing!

I found the following article when browsing for information and thought that anyone following my adventure may find it interesting.

Bye for now from cloudy, inefficient Spain.




Solo in Spain

Each new year brings time to reflect on one's life. ROCCO ROSSI did just that when he went to Spain after hisday job required him to fire 150 people. Exchanging thefast track for the Camino trail, he set outon a 32-day-long walk along this well-trodden spiritual path.

Special to The Globe and Mail

January 4, 2003

SANTIAGO, SPAIN -- My name is Rocco and I'm a recovering capitalist.

It has been ten months since I last cashed in an option; a year since I last fired an employee to "enhance shareholder value"; and 11 months since I sold the company to "crystallize" that value.

It should have been a banner day -- I had turned a company around that was headed for bankruptcy, saved many jobs, put some money in my pocket, and garnered more offers to do the same for other firms. Along the way, however, two offices had to be closed and more than 150 good people had to be let go. That had been hard, and I was physically, emotionally and spiritually exhausted.

There are as many motivations for travel as there are possible destinations: adventure, relaxation, exploration, curiosity, fleeing winter, fleeing humidity or simply fleeing all these and more in an endless variety of combinations and permutations. I needed time and solitude to re-examine my priorities. I was on the fast track to becoming Rocco "Chainsaw" Rossi, restructuring guy, and that clearly wasn't making me happy.

In school I had always prided myself on how high my marks were, and post-school I had simply replaced the race for high marks with the race for more money as the symbol of success and achievement. Now I found myself troubled by the values of the experience I had just gone through. No, we weren't Enron or WorldCom, and I wasn't enriching myself by illegal means. But was this the best way for me to be true to myself? Socrates said that "the unexamined life is not worth living," and it had been too long since I had undertaken any meaningful examination. I turned to the remedy that has always saved me in difficult times -- I went for a walk.

This walk, however, lasted 32 days and covered almost 900 kilometres in Spain, much of it following a medieval pilgrimage route known as the Camino Francés, or French Road. Since the middle of the ninth century, millions of pilgrims have travelled this route from the French border to the northwestern Spanish city of Santiago de Compostela -- the site of the purported tomb of St. James the Apostle. Traditionally, they came for a host of reasons, ranging from the intercession of the martyred Apostle, to atonement for past sins, to giving thanks for a blessing already received. All of those motivations still exist, but in our more secular world, adventure and tourism have been added.

I read about the pilgrimage five years before I actually went, and was intrigued by the opportunity for solitude, physical challenge and learning. Carving out a month to undertake it, however, didn't seem possible during a period when I was looking to maximize wealth creation and prove what a driven guy I was. If "lunch is for wimps," as Gordon Gekko says in Oliver Stone's movie Wall Street, then just think who I'd be if I took a month-long vacation. But being between jobs and facing a crisis of values gave me the push to go this past July. I was very much a lapsed Catholic, and I left with no hope of personal intercession, but there was enough residue from my early religious training to feed a dim notion that I would be atoning for laying off all those people while I went searching for myself.

In an average year, 40,000 people undertake some portion of the Camino by foot, bicycle, horseback or car. In Holy or Jubilee years when St. James' Day, July 25, falls on a Sunday, there is a special indulgence available from the Catholic Church, and 10 times the usual number will travel to Santiago. There is no one starting point. Historically, non-Spanish European pilgrims began in Arles, LePuy, Vezeley or Paris, but today many begin in St. Jean Pied-De-Port, just inside the French border with Spain. Spaniards have traditionally begun at Roncesvalles. Just inside the Spanish border with France, the town was made famous in The Song of Roland as the place where Charlemagne's retreating rear guard led by his champion and friend, Roland, was destroyed. The church, however, provides a certificate of completion, or Compostela, to any pilgrim who walks at least 100 kilometres or cycles at least 200 kilometres of the route, and so many choose starting points well inside Spain.

I started in Pamplona, 50 kilometres west of Roncesvalles, because there is a convenient airport with frequent connections from Madrid and because all the major pilgrim routes coming from the rest of Europe meet and become one just to the west of Pamplona. It is far cheaper, and almost as convenient, to simply buy a return ticket to Madrid and use Spain's terrific bus system to get to and from cities and towns along the Camino. In a wonderful modern manifestation of church and state interaction, pilgrims who obtain their Compostela are entitled to a significant discount on any Iberia flight out of Santiago.

The first task upon arriving in Spain is to obtain a pilgrim's passport, or credencial. This grants entry into the monasteries and hostels, or albergues,along the way that offer shelter for the night and the occasional meal. I got mine at the Archbishop's palace in Pamplona for the princely sum of one euro. They are also generally available in the hostels in the larger towns along the Camino. Each of the hostelsand many tourist attractions will stamp your credencial. This becomes a wonderful souvenir of the trip and provides a record with which to qualify for the Compostela when you get to Santiago. Having obtained my credencial, I started walking west.

Pamplona is a beautiful city dating back to its Roman founding (its name is derived from its origin as "Pompey's city"), but the timing was wrong for me. The city was in the middle of preparations for the annual Festival of San Fermin, which features the famous running of the bulls and non-stop revelry, and that was the last thing I wanted. I felt lonely in the dancing, singing crowd. But just a couple of kilometres away, walking on a gravel path through wheat fields, I was soon revelling in solitude and my own thoughts.

I found myself meditating on many themes. The most persistent was the human attachment to material things. If you are like me, you accumulate stuff: clothes, shoes, posters, books, furniture. Forced to carry everything you own on your back while walking 30 to 40 kilometres each day under a hot sun focuses your mind on the essentials. Each new day on the Camino brought a reassessment of what could be given or thrown away. One fellow I met had broken off the handle of his hairbrush to save the weight. But it is not only about reducing physical weight -- it becomes about deciding what is enough, and distributing the surplus to your fellow pilgrims. In the kitchen of one of the albergues above a cache of food was a handwritten poster that in eight languages encouraged pilgrims to "take what you need and contribute what you can."

Meeting people along the Camino was a revelation. I spent most of my time walking alone, but I would always meet people at night at the hostels and the conversation was as nourishing as the food that everyone shared. There was little small talk. This was all the more remarkable because it was a veritable Tower of Babel situation where most used hand gestures and an amalgam of languages to get their points across. Sharing the same road, you very quickly get to an intimate discussion of why you're on the Camino.

Early on I met Jess, a Spaniard who had spent the last 10 years of his life working for a foundation in Malaga that focuses on at-risk youth recovering from addictions, depression and violence in the home. "I woke up one morning and found that I had nothing left to give," he explained. "I sold what little I had and started out on the Camino to clear my head and replenish my heart."

Barbara, an American mother and former songwriter whose children had now all gone away to college was there "to rekindle my musical voice"; Luiz, a Brazilian musician, would only say cryptically that he was there by necessity. Peter, a 74-year-old Belgian who was walking the Camino for the third time, had this to say:

"I had to come this time because the other times I came on the Camino, I came to ask God for something. This time I ask only for the strength to complete the pilgrimage. I have been married to the same wonderful woman for 50 years. We have had eight children and 24 grandchildren, and I have had a successful career in banking. I came this time simply to give thanks for the wonderful life I have been blessed with."

We all had our own reasons going into the walk, but there is no question that the walk itself added to and altered them also. The most common addition happens virtually every time a villager gives you directions or fills your water bottle. "No need to thank me," they say. "When you get to Santiago, pray for me -- my name is Gloria or Paco or . . ."

All pilgrims become surrogates for these kind people and, religious or not, it is hard not to say a prayer for them when you reach Santiago. The walk spawned many resolutions. I would cull my "stuff" and think twice before buying anything new; I would sell my Mercedes SUV and buy a smaller, more fuel-efficient car; I would incorporate more exercise into every day; I would reintroduce religion into my life; and I would never, ever do another restructuring project regardless of the money offered.

There is nothing intrinsically wrong with being a businessman, but if I return to business, and that is still an open question, then the opportunity has to be about growing a company with people I share values with and with a product or service I value. Having reached those conclusions, I was given a magnificent gift by the Camino on Day 28.

I had been to Santiago, had gone on another 90 kilometres to Finisterre and was now walking down the Costa da Morte. My intended destination was the beach resort town of Louro, where I planned to spend two days on the beach eating, drinking and generally letting my feet and body recover before returning by bus to Santiago to take a plane home.

Ahead of me was a small boy of about 10 or 12 who was banging away at the side of the road with a hoe. When I reached him I said, "Good morning. How are you doing," in my best Spanish.
He looked up at me and grunted. His face was somewhat distorted and it was clear that he was mentally disabled in some way. He looked me up and down, dropped his hoe and grabbed my walking stick.

I had bought the walking stick on my first day in Spain and it had been with me for almost 900 kilometres. Two days before, in Finisterre, following tradition, I had burned my hiking clothes to symbolize the birth of "the new man" at the end of the pilgrimage. Several of the other pilgrims had burned their walking sticks as well. I couldn't bring myself to do it because I had become attached to it and wanted to bring it back to my father, who loves to carve wood, as a present.
Instinct took over and I wrestled with the boy for the stick. It took all my strength to pry his fingers loose. Just as I was about to win it dawned on me: What was I doing? I stopped struggling, put his hands back on the stick and said, "Regalo por tigo."(Present for you.)

The boy was justifiably confused. He looked at the stick and then at me for a few moments, and suddenly he smiled. "Por tigo,"(for you) I said one last time as tears filled my eyes, and I knew then that my pilgrimage was done.

That smile was the Camino's ultimate gift to me -- it was my reward for learning that it is not about getting the highest marks or most money. I took it as a sign that my atonement had been accepted. Even for the non-religious, it is impossible to walk in the footsteps of the millions who have trudged, bled, prayed, laughed and cried along this route for over 1,000 years, and to see the monuments that have been inspired by that faith, and not be moved.

It is impossible to be exposed to the openness and generosity of your fellow pilgrims and the native Spaniards along the way and not be inspired to introduce more of that behaviour into your own pilgrimage through life. It is impossible to cover several hundred kilometres on foot and not to recognize the power of taking single steps or lighting one candle. It is said that the tourist simply visits the Camino, but the pilgrim is visited by it. The same can be said of all travel. All it takes is an open mind and some comfortable walking shoes.

Bumpy Start

I´m in a B&B in San Sebastian. Free internet access provided you are nice to the Spanish Momma.

The ever-so-easy and cheap half hour flight from Madrid to San Sebastian turned into a nightmare due to terrible weather. We nearly crashed into the airport - after a few bumps we suddenly pulled up dramatically and everyone started freaking out. It was an aborted landing because the pilot just couldn´t see basically. Fortunately he didn´t hit the control tower. So then we were re-routed to Bilbao were there was less cloud. But it´s some distance away!

We all shuffled off the plane to collect our luggage.

Ha ha ha ha ha.

5 of us never got it. Including me. I reported my rucksac (my new rucksac with all my trekking stuff, books, clothes, etc) missing and with the rest of the manifest filed on to a bus bound for San Sebastian.

We eventually arrived at 11am (3 hours later than planned) after a winding journey through pretty mountains, hitting the hostile weather, and were dumped unceremoniously at a bus station. The tourist booth was closed. Bloody Spanish work ethic.

Now, I´d worked out that I would arrive at San Sebastian airport and go to the tourist shop to sort out where I would be staying, etc (I tried booking last night but everywhere was full so I thought I´d try my luck). However, obviously that didn´t happen. So there I was at a bus stop in the middle of a city where written directions are in Basque, in the pouring rain (and my rain gear is missing with the rest of my kit). I walked into a hotel and they told me they were full. I began to despair and walked back to the bus stop. Fortunately for me, I wasn´t alone in this.

God Bless America. I´ve met up with a lovely group of Americans who saved my neck. As luck would have it, 2 of them had booked a tripple room for the sake of privacy, but they have taken me in. They´re also rather pleasant company.

So now, it is still pouring with rain and it´s rather cold. I have my handbag and what I´m wearing, and all I can do is wait for Spanair to call and tell me where my luggage went. I hope it´s having a nice time. Perhaps it went to the south coast.

There are 3 of us in the same boat - though at least I´m wearing warm clothes. These guys are in flip flops and shorts and t-shirts. It´s appalling weather and all the locals were laughing at them. I promptly bought a water-proof poncho which is bright yellow.

I´m staying right near the beach. If only it would stop raining, I could enjoy it. You´d think Spain in June would be nicer!

Well, this is the first day of my adventure. If my stuff doesn´t turn up, apart from being rather devasted as it has a great deal of valuable possessions (both sentimental and plain expensive), I will have no choice but to go back to Madrid tomorrow. However, I have my luggage tag so I´m staying positive and hopefully my backpack, perhaps currently sipping sangria in Malaga, will find its way back to me soon.

Bloomin´rotten start, but as the nice man next to me in the queue at the lost luggage desk said when I told him I was starting El Camino de Santiago, "Your first obstacle".

I know where I´d like to stick an obstacle. Spanair will pay!!!