Kiwi on the Camino Read online

  The municipal albergue reeks of cigarette smoke and Bruce thinks the hosts do not actually want pilgrims yet. They are not very welcoming and anyway, we cannot sleep in that stench. We continue walking through this small village with its central road and a few short side streets. When we reach the outskirts of the village there is a small private hotel with beds for forty-five euros per person per night. Bruce is too tired to turn back to the first albergue, so we now pay triple what we would have paid if we had stopped with the German couple. I tell myself not to worry about the budget.

  Loose the cords of mistakes binding us

  The host takes us to our bedroom. It has a double bed and a private bathroom. This is our fourth night in a row in a private room. Bruce is so tired he thinks he may be coming down with a virus so our kind host feels Bruce’s forehead to see if he has a temperature. “No, but you are very tired.” Bruce sleeps from 5 p.m. until 8 p.m. While he sleeps, I go in search of a shop for provisions. I am not prepared to pay for a hotel dinner on top of the forty-five euros each for our room.

  I have no idea where the shop is, but after ambling around the very narrow streets I find it closed. (I later read in the guidebook, “A small inconspicuous shop…and only open late afternoon for a short period.”) The owner happens to look out the window and when he sees me he opens the shop. He is kind and friendly. I buy bread, cheese, ham, yogurt, and fruit. He slices the ham for me in his tiny, crowded delicatessen come grocery store. There is barely room for the ham slicer on the counter top. Into the bag goes the food plus beer for Bruce and wine for me. I have with me a fabric shoulder bag for shopping for our supplies. It folds down to handkerchief size and weighs almost nothing; it is very useful. Back at the hotel I check my emails, our bank accounts and load a few photos for the blog, but then the iPad is flat. Bruce accidently pulled out the charger last night and I didn’t notice.

  When Bruce wakes, our amiable host and hostess take us on a tour of the landing area, which is more like a narrow mezzanine wrapping around the entrance hall below. It is a family museum. There are old garments and family photos - a record of their family and village life. She proudly points to the clothes worn by her grandmother and great grandmother. They are thick woollen undergarments. “It is so cold here in the winter.” (That is the Meseta’s reputation.) I am so glad, yet again, we are walking in spring. We have seen countless photos in bars and albergues, of snow covering villages and towns.

  We, the only guests, are invited to sit downstairs by the fire. I can see the kitchen off to the left and think of our meagre dinner. We both sleep well. Bruce doesn’t snore much after his three-hour long afternoon sleep.

  Calzada de los Hermanillos

  to Mansilla de las Mulas

  25 kms (15.5ml)

  360.6 kms (224.1ml) to Santiago

  Great things are done by a series

  of small things brought together.

  Vincent Van Gogh (1853 – 1890).

  April 13, Day 23

  THE LANDSCAPE IS FLAT CROPLAND with mountains in the distance which have ceased to send chilling winds our way. Where the land dips, there are areas of bog surrounded by a few trees of the willow and poplar varieties.

  “Bruce are those frogs we can hear?”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “When was the last time you heard frogs in New Zealand?”

  Bruce is silent for a while and then responds, “When I was a kid I suppose.”

  I am enjoying today’s walk and am excited when we arrive at the beginning of an eighteen kilometre stretch of road built by the Romans. The guidebook promises, “… the most perfect extant stretch of Roman road left in Spain today, we follow in the footsteps of Emperor Augustus himself.” The road stretches ahead into the distance and is superbly straight. Funny that. I had read that Romans built straight roads and I am like a child, rejoicing in something that is now tangibly known. There are no rocks or boulders in this landscape and yet the foundation of the road consists of large stones. It must have taken a lot of slaves to bring rocks from far afield to lay the foundations. The road surface has not been sealed with tarmac. It looks like very little vehicular traffic uses the road. I hope it is left unsealed as a tribute to the road builders of 2,000 years ago.

  Our fitness has increased and we quickly begin walking more effortlessly each morning. I am walking ahead of Bruce and occasionally look back to see how far behind he is. I hope he is okay. Then I get into the rhythm of walking, in the zone I enjoy, where my body and mind flow in the rhythm of movement. With it comes a sense of unity, belongingness, and peace with self, other and the natural world. My body is moving effortlessly (the road is flat and my blister healing) and I am breathing slowly and deeply. I can hear the stamp of my sandals hitting the ground with each step. How far is the noise of my stamping travelling I wonder? In my imagination, I fancy I hear thousands of sandalled feet marching behind me. (The Meseta is getting to me too. Shirley McLean is not on her own.) The Roman Legions must have made the ground shudder and vibrate. How far away would the Romans soldiers be before the local people could hear them coming?

  The majestic Cantabrian mountains are flanking our right. The highest peak is some 2,500 metres above sea level. The peaks are reluctant to let go of the snow, to send it cascading down to the large aqueducts we have been seeing across these plains. These are not high suspended aqueducts, rather enormous concrete irrigation channels of clean water, to irrigate crops. The road we are walking today is at an altitude varying between 800 – 1,000 metres above sea level and the breeze from those whitewashed mountains is now welcome in the heat of the midday sun.

  The sun at midday is now hot enough for me to start thinking I would not consider walking the Camino in either July or August. To do so, I would need to leave the albergue about 5 a.m. and be off the path by midday. It would be far too hot for me to walk in that heat. Did the pilgrims, whose memorials we have just passed, die because of heat stroke up here on the open Meseta?

  We have been having fine weather for the past two weeks. The days are warm and sometimes there is thunder in the air, but no rain. I have stopped checking the weather forecast in the evening for the next day’s weather. Our wet weather gear – coats and over-trousers – are now first to be packed and are down at the bottom of our packs. Bruce starts to talk about posting his coat and over-trousers back to Pollensa. I am concerned because it will probably be wet in the province of Galicia. “No, Bruce. You need to keep your wet weather gear in your pack.” I get into bossy mode quickly.

  Once again, I walk on ahead enjoying the tramping sound and rhythm. My body calls my mind’s attention away from the enjoyment of walking. I have a problem with one of my feet - I had chosen to dispense with my socks - I really do not like the combination of socks and sandals. My new right sandal has rubbed against my second toe and it is now bleeding. I must stop and find a plaster. When Bruce catches up he asks, “Why don’t you just put your socks back on?” “Because I don’t like socks with sandals.” I am to rue the decision based on prejudice rather than practical sense.

  A railway track appears to our left and we walk beside it for a while. I keep peering at the small map in the guidebook trying to work out where we need to turn off. The road is stretching ahead into eternity. I am confused. Are we looking for a sealed road? I don’t actually know. We sit down and rest awhile opposite a disused railway shelter. At least I sit, Bruce slumbers until he asks, “How much further is there to go? Do you know where the turn off should be?” “I don’t know, but we are looking for a sealed road.” We pick up our packs and walk some more. Bruce asks how I know the road is sealed as we pass yet another unsealed road leading off from the railway track on the opposite side. I don’t give a sensible reply such as, “Bruce I’m not sure. It looks from the legend the road we are looking for is a sealed road.” Instead I go for one of my (I’m very tired) short cut responses; “I don’t. I just made that up.�
� “Well don’t make things up,” he retorts. I realise how frustrating I can be sometimes.

  Loose the cords of mistakes binding us,

  As we release the strands we hold of others’ faults

  Bruce and I are good companions, able to be together comfortably, but are tired, hot and in need of our lunch stop and rest.

  We continue to walk among what feels like nothingness, waiting for a very tall radio mast to come into view. The Germans, Emma and Ben, catch up and we talk about the challenges of the day’s walk. Together we walk beside the immense irrigation channels. As we walk around a bend, in the distance is the radio mast still about two kilometres away, but we are veering towards it. Bruce and I are now looking for a steep path which detours down into the village of Reliegos. The Germans take the main route. It looks hot down on that flat plain. I feel like we are very high up, but do not know our current altitude. Our detour takes us on a path down through farms and, thankfully, there are a few trees.

  Having come down the hill we arrive on the outskirts of the village. A little further on there is a sloping grassed area shaded by some evergreens. Two pilgrims are eating sandwiches, we greet them, but move on. We need to go to a bar to use their facilities. I had heard there is an ‘Elvis Bar.’ It sounded intriguing with the description of all the trappings on the ceiling and walls, but when we step inside the bar, we stop and grin at each other and readily agree we do not want to stop here. This bar, like the municipal albergue we had rejected the night before, reeks of cigarette smoke.

  Down the road, the albergue is open and it has a bar. It has round wooden tables with wooden chairs and a well-stocked liquor supply. We order coffees and when they come we are also given a piece of crêpe suzette with freshly whipped cream. Heaven in a mouthful. An elderly man arrives at the bar walking with an unsteady gait. It is 1.30 p.m. in the afternoon. The host immediately pours him a wine, which is diluted with the same amount of water. He too is given food to eat.

  Giving thanks to our generous hosts, we go outside to the grassed area to have our picnic lunch. The two picnicking pilgrims have left. We eat with contentment on the slight slope under silver birch trees with their young leaves. We both have a short sleep on the grass as the birds sing lullabies. We agree that these rests on grassed squares in the centre of villages will become favourites among our Camino memories. These breaks are so restful with the gentle rhythm of village life going on around us. We see snatches of family life; their interactions within their families and with their neighbours. Our outside picnics also mean we can shed our socks and footwear without causing offence.

  A young adolescent boy walks past and wishes us, “Buen Camino.” Together we wonder if a young adolescent boy in New Zealand would have been so courteous to strangers and tourists? Perhaps as pilgrims we avoid the brand, ‘tourist.’ Not far from us an older woman is accompanying a little boy. I hear her speak to the boy and in response she receives a hug. Voices sometimes come to us through open doors and windows, but often these are closed if they face the street. There are the sounds of hens in the vicinity and a rooster crows. I recall the cuckoos we heard as we passed through groups of trees and woodlands. We always feel safe and welcome.

  On the outskirts of Mansilla de las Mulas there is a private albergue with a garden and courtyard. I like the look of this place. We see that Wanda, Wendy and Dafydd are here as well. Great. We book our beds. There is one large room partially separated into two by a dividing partition in the centre of the room, with forty bunk beds in total. A group of Italian men arrive in their lycra biking gear. They are cycling the Camino as a training run. A young female walking pilgrim likens one of the men to Adonis. “He must have done a lot of cycling to have a body like that.”

  Bruce and I, with the Canadians, head downstairs to look at the dinner menu. The five of us decide we do not want to eat dinner here at the albergue. The Canadians say they will go into the village proper and find a restaurant. Dafydd wants pizza. While Bruce sleeps, I walk into the village and notice the Canadians will be out of luck in their search for pizza. There is a reasonable sized supermercado so I purchase supplies for dinner. It will be cold meats and cheese with lots of vegetables. I should be able to buy breakfast before we set off in the morning. Bruce and I sit in the garden eating our dinner and are still there when the Canadians arrive back at the albergue. “You probably had a better dinner than we did,” they say.

  There is a turkey near the albergue and as we prepare for bed its ’gobble, gobble’ is audible through the open windows. I want a relatively early start as we are heading into the city of León in the morning and the guidebook has warned we will need to be alert as the waymarking into the city is sometimes hard to spot. I decide to set my alarm to ensure the required early start. I hope that if I put the phone under my pillow, the alarm will wake me, but not the other pilgrims. I notice the setting for a rooster alarm. I choose this setting. Was this choice inspired by the turkey outside our window?

  Mansilla de las Mulas to León

  18.6 kms (11.6ml)

  336.1 kms (208.9ml) to Santiago

  As a well-spent day brings happy sleep,

  so life well used brings happy death.

  Leonardo da Vinci (1452 – 1519)

  April 14, Day 24

  I WAKE EARLY IN THE morning and so does every other pilgrim in that large bunkroom. It is dark when my rooster alarm starts crowing. It sounds very loud in the quiet of the morning. I fumble under my pillow and haven’t a clue how to turn the wretched noise off. I get out of bed as quickly as I can (fortunately I am on a bottom bunk) and rush, with the rooster, in fewer clothes than I would have preferred, to the women’s bathroom. The light does not work. In my indecorous night attire, I go to the men’s bathroom. Their light works. Typical. I still cannot silence the rooster. By now pilgrims are getting up. What is the point staying in a sleeping bag when sleep has been so rudely interrupted by the rooster at large in the bunkroom? Men push past me to begin their morning ablutions. I am wretchedly embarrassed. The Adonis grabs my phone, takes out the battery and then hands me the three pieces. I retreat to the women’s bathroom to recover. When I re-enter the bunkroom, I hear a few muttered comments about roosters and necks needing to be rung. Dafydd’s comments, on the other hand, are not quiet. Anyone who cares to listen to his opinion on the preferred short lives of roosters can do so. I smile ruefully at him.

  Loose the cords of mistakes that bind us

  Thanks to the rooster we are on the road early heading to the city of León. In a group of five we cross the Río Esla, looking for the medieval bridge up ahead. As we walk and talk a group of Camino cyclists ride up beside us. As they pass, we hear a loud, “cock-a-doodle-doo.” The Italians are gone in a blur of lycra.

  León is the largest city we have walked to. Those Romans had stamped their sandals across the Meseta and the 7 th Legion created a camp which became the foundation of the future city. The original city wall, with four gates, is well restored and almost complete. We of course want to visit the cathedral, the Pulchra Leonina, reputed to be the most striking Gothic cathedral in all of Spain. The old city is stunning with cherubs watching over us and a fountain symbolising the two rivers that embrace the city: Río Bernesga and Río Torio. Trees, now in leaf, add the city’s charm.

  Once again, I choose a religious albergue and this time it is the Benedictine monastery on the Plaza de Santa Maria del Camino y Grano in the old part of the city. As we walk in under the high arched entrance way which feels a little tunnel like, we are greeted by Paul, the Korean pilgrim who had helped me with my iPad.

  At the reception desk, we hand over both our New Zealand passports and our credentials. This evening our family names are checked to see if they are the same, for at this monastery, there are three bunkrooms. There is a bunkroom for single men, another for single women and a third for those who can prove they are legally married. If the reception folk are convin
ced, the couples are allocated to the bunkroom for those who are married. One couple is separated as they cannot prove to the satisfaction of the staff, that they are married. Another couple manages to lie their way into the bunkroom for married couples. Those present in this bunkroom, married or not, agree that we are all tired. I appreciate the gender separation with the bathroom arrangements.

  We are ready to go and have a look around León. It is now Holy Week, the week which leads up to Easter, the most holy and significant of festivals in the Christian calendar. Downstairs in the internal courtyard there is a large white marquee and underneath are three floats. We have never seen the like before. The floats are representations of the Stations of the Cross. There is a float of Jesus carrying His cross, another of Him on the cross and the final, a weeping Mary. The floats are decked with fresh flowers. The flowers are lavishly gorgeous. We have no idea what the floats are for and when they will be used. The fresh flowers suggest the floats must soon be going in a parade.

  Bruce and I follow the brass scallop shells embedded in the pavement not far from the front door of the monastery. There are a lot of people about. What is going on? While we are walking up a narrow medieval street, so narrow it surely must be one way, a police officer on a motorcycle stops in the middle of the road to greet and talk with a friend. A small car inches past the motor cycle and the two friends. A road sweeper heads up the street apparently wanting part of the action in this already constricted space. It is madness. But no, there is laughter all around and people calling to one another in unabashed pleasure.

  We come to the Plaza San Marcelo. The road winding around the plaza is closed to traffic and there are people thronging the road and pavements. It feels like carnival time. Young children carry helium balloons demonstrating the pervasive presence of Disneyland. Spiderman, Dora, unicorns and princesses greet us. There are young girls with candy floss. There are, to our astonishment, adults and children in black hoods and robes; the same design as the white robes worn by the infamous Ku Klux Klan. Nobody is taking any notice of them or looking at all concerned. Some of these sinisterly robed figures are carrying long poles. Other blacked robed figures are carrying drums and trumpets. (We learn that the Ku Klux Klan modelled their garb on these Spanish robes as they ensured anonymity as they carried out their nefarious acts.) Other people - we can see their faces - dressed in red or black, look like orchestra members and walk past carrying a greater variety of instruments.