Kiwi on the Camino Page 19

  The buildings in the province of León through which we are now walking are different from any we have previously encountered. With no stone available, and a shortage of wood, houses and churches as well as other buildings, are constructed from local clay and straw. The clay and straw are mixed into a kind of mortar, rather than baked into bricks. This makes for a colourful building landscape of red and yellow. The houses tend to be either single or double storied in contrast to the multi-storied stone houses to which we have become accustomed. The church bell towers and the height of the churches are much lower, due to the building materials. As buildings are renovated, clay and straw mortar are being replaced by red fired bricks.

  We turn off the seal onto a hard-packed red clay road, a little soft in places after the light rain, which fell through the night. The landscape continues to be mostly flat and is attractive with the red/brown/yellow villages surrounded by the greens of oats and barley and the yellow of the mustard. The mountains, Montes de León, are now straight ahead and getting closer with every step we take. There are more trees dotting the countryside. Evidence of the progress of spring is visible in the larger leaves. We see no more pilgrims, but do come across orange butterflies, frogs and myriads of birds. There are just a few butterflies. I had been hoping for more. Other Camino authors have written of the beauty of the many butterflies. Perhaps we are too early in the season for an abundance of butterflies.

  We come to another option on The Way and choose the path via the country route, through the old village of Puente de Órbigo. The bridge over the Río Órbigo is famous on the Camino and we want to see this. As we enter the village proper there is a café with a spacious light interior which draws us in. We look out onto the back lawn with its café style metal tables and chairs surrounded by a pleasant garden. There are a few other pilgrims dotted about. The woman of the host couple is an amazing pastry chef. Bruce eats two napolitanas and has two large coffees. I eat four plain biscuits and have a very good cup of coffee. Delicious. We already have enough food, but I cannot resist buying a tuna pastry, a specialty of the area.

  A couple from the United States are also enjoying the pastries and coffee. They tell us of an elderly Korean man who had been in the albergue where they had stayed the previous night. The unfortunate man had been vomiting during the evening and was obviously not well. Ill-advisedly, he was sleeping on a top bunk. He fell off the bunk during the night. Four of the pilgrims in the bunkroom were qualified nurses, so were on the spot to help and call for an ambulance. When we hear the story, Bruce and I pray for this poor man. I have not been unwell, but have occasionally felt anxious sleeping on a top bunk, as the bunks are narrower than single bed width and not one top bunk has had a guard rail.

  We stop to admire the beauty of the stone bridge over the Río Órbigo; the exquisite 13th century bridge, Puente de Órbigo, with its nineteen arches. The guidebook states that the bridge is reputed to be the best preserved medieval bridge in Spain and is built over an earlier Roman bridge. The bridge may be long, but the river only flows under three of the arches. The remaining arches span dry land. Has the river been diverted upstream or is its length to cope with flood water? “I was just about to call the police.” With a start, I turn around. It is the chap from the USA whom we had met at the pastry café. He is obliquely referring to the missing water. After crossing the bridge, we notice an irrigation channel through which much of the river water is diverted.

  I miss the turn off, just one kilometre after the bridge, which would take us through farmland and two small villages. We are both preoccupied with looking for a secluded place for Bruce to stop. It isn’t until we reach the N-120, I realise my mistake. We end up walking three kilometres beside this busy road. Thankfully, I notice the right-hand turn to the village of Santibanez de Valdeiglesia. Taking this exit means we will miss just one small village.

  Our trusted guidebook tells us the albergue at Santibanez de Valdeiglesia is poorly maintained and prior to leaving New Zealand I had put a big ‘No’ beside this village: code for, “Do not stay here.” When we arrive at the village, we notice that the albergue has been restored by the villagers and it now looks great. The albergue has a bar and café where some of the locals are gathered. This would have been a fun place to have stayed. Opposite the albergue there is a rest area; an exquisite little garden with a wrought iron rail fence surrounding it. The garden is only six by eight metres in all, but within its bounds there are some large trees, a fountain, plus sculptures made for children to play on. We take some rest there escaping the heat of the day. Two pilgrims, a mother and daughter from the USA, come over and introduce themselves to me. Bruce had enjoyed a conversation with them the night before. The women leave and Bruce and I continue to sit in the shade of the rest area, watching people go in and out the church, busy with their preparations for Easter weekend. A few villagers talk and laugh with us as they pass by carrying equipment and of course, flowers. This village provides us with much needed rest, shade, sustenance, and warm conversation.

  Sitting in the garden, I muse on the power of the written word thinking about how much responsibility it carries. I had pre-judged this friendly village based on the guidebook. On an earlier stop, I insisted on staying at a more established albergue, bypassing an attractive looking new one because of the write up in the guidebook about the established hostel. (Bruce had wanted to stop at the new albergue.) I didn’t enjoy the older albergue. Perhaps albergue custodians treat writers of guidebooks differently from non-writing pilgrims. We certainly had a different experience to that of the guidebook author.

  We have left the Meseta, but continue through croplands. The vast swathes of vivid green are interspersed with the chrome yellow of mustard. The colours continue to delight me. We climb yet another hill and there is a makeshift wooden cross hung about with old boots and scraps of clothing - the detritus of pilgrims who have passed by. As Bruce and I view the cross, two Swiss men, on bicycles, also stop. “How about giving me a ride?” says Bruce. They laugh and reply in French which roughly translates in the New Zealand vernacular as, “You’re too big mate.”

  Going downhill now under a baking sun we pass a wet area, backed by relatively high red earth walls. In these natural walls birds are nesting. We watch them ducking in and out their earthy nests, all the while screeching aloud to neighbours and their young. A little further on we stop in a shallow dip of a shady oasis complete with leafy willow trees sheltering a small spring. There is also a children’s swing

  Ahead is yet another hill. The climb is tiring in the warmth of the day in the absence of shade. We stop yet again under some poplars on the downward slope. There is a muddy area in the stream bed below and someone has laid out planks of wood to aid pilgrims’ crossing. The planks do not help much, but I appreciate the effort. I am very footsore now. The rubbed area on my toe (from my new sandals) is worrying me and ahead is yet another climb. At least the toe is a distraction.

  At the summit of the upcoming hill we are expecting to find an interesting character. We have been told a man has set up an open-air soup kitchen to sell sustenance to passing pilgrims. As we approach the spot, we see a man naked to the waist, but his long hair offers his back some protection from the sun. He is talking with two young Chinese women, who allow an embrace in exchange for soup. Other women are standing around laughing. We decide against the soup. My age may exempt me from an embrace, but I am not risking it. Bruce, definitely does not want a stranger touching him. As we pass by he wishes us, “Good life, Buen Camino.” “Gracias señor.”

  We later hear a story from Bruce’s sister. One of her companions had found the going tough and on reaching the soup provider declared, “You are an angel.” At that prompt, the man turned around and lifted the back of his shirt. Across his back was tattooed a set of angel wings. I wish I had known that story prior to walking the Camino. I would have taken a peep at his back, if I could have found a way through that hair.


  Ahead of us is a tower: an ugly tall square column with signal apparatus on the top. On one side of this blot on the landscape an artist has created a treasure. The painting is of two arms outstretched to one another – reminiscent of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel painting of God stretching his hand towards Adam – but here the two hands grip one another’s wrists. It is the depiction of one person holding on to the other so the person below will not fall, or perhaps she has fallen and is being helped to her feet again.

  The path takes a turn to the left, away from the direction instinct would have us follow. There is the unmistakable yellow arrow, created from stones laid out on the ground. In front of us and veering slightly right is a path which looks as if it should head to Astorga. “I would have missed that arrow and gone straight ahead,” Bruce says. He is astonished the arrow points the way it does, but we are dutiful and follow it. A pilgrim passes carrying a plastic bag. We had first seen him some weeks ago. We feel a connection with him even though we have never spoken. It is enough that we recognize our fellow pilgrim. We do not know if he recognizes us.

  Earlier in the day, we had chatted with another pilgrim we had been seeing on and off. We shared a picnic table with him and offered him some fruit, but he preferred to smoke his cigarette. He told us he is German and that without a guidebook he has no idea how far away the next village is, or indeed, where he is. He asked to see our guidebook and I was happy to oblige. I showed him, on the map, where we are and what he could expect for the remainder of the day’s walk. He used his phone to photograph the pages depicting the next few sections of The Way. The conversation made me realise how dependent I am upon the guidebook and that without it, I could not manage. I need to have some idea of where we are, where we are going, and where we might find food and shelter for the night.

  Another tall cross is ahead of us. It is the stone cross, Cruceiro de Santo Toribio, which commemorates a 5th century bishop who died on that spot, within sight of Astorga a mere four kilometres away, after being exiled from his home town. How tragic to die looking back at one’s home. With the camera on zoom I can see the large soaring Gothic cathedral. The cathedral is of course built on the top of a hill. We need to descend then climb again. I am now very thirsty and hot. Our drinking water is in short supply. Perhaps I should have had some of that soup.

  It feels like a long walk down to Justo de la Vega, the small village on the outskirts of Astorga. We hope to purchase an ice cream, but the shops are closed. We cannot even buy water and do not see a village well. I did not refill the water bottles at the last village where there had been water, expecting this village to have a well. Our romantic notion of having one water bottle filled with our leftover red wine becomes a foolhardy practice when embarking on a long walk under a hot sun. We are now out of water. What we need is the miracle of wine turned into water.

  Loose the cords of mistakes binding us

  Our walk takes us beside the busy road running up to Astorga. There is no shade. There are several rail tracks also running towards the bottom of the hill upon which Astorga stands. The walking bridge over the rail tracks looks as if it has been airlifted from a theme park, but is minus the swimming pool one expects below such a spiralled walkway. We are required to climb up and around, then up and around again, to safely cross the train tracks and we then spiral down. A couple of guys pass us, pushing their bicycles. Maybe walking over this rail bridge is not so bad after all.

  Once we are over the bridge there are a few buildings and we press our bodies close to the buildings seeking shade. Then there is a delightful stream with an adjacent house complete with its own water wheel. We have seen a few of these houses by or over streams and once again we stop in admiration.

  We have walked just four kilometres from the memorial cross, but it seems we have come much further. Bruce and I sit at the bottom of the steps which will take us up the hill to the old walled city. I am dehydrated and desperate for fluid. I drink a little of the red wine and immediately regret doing so. Then I notice a small lizard and move aside to avoid squashing it. (We had seen lizards up to eight inches long on the Meseta.) Up we toil.

  The name Astorga is a corruption of Augustus, for the current town had its beginnings as a Roman camp. The camp became the Emperor Augustus’ centre of communication and administration, from which nine roads fanned out. The mineral wealth of the Iberian Peninsula had drawn the mighty eye of Rome. In the 10th century Astorga began to grow with the burgeoning of pilgrim traffic. At the high point of medieval pilgrimage, Astorga boasted no fewer than twenty-two pilgrim hospitals. The medieval wall, we notice, still encloses the old city with newer developments relegated to the areas below the hill, outside the sanctuary of the city wall. As we look down, outside the wall, we notice some houses have been built with the back of the house abutting the wall. Today Astorga is a large market town. There are people everywhere.

  The first albergue we reach is the municipal albergue. It is a large square modern building opposite some very gorgeous old buildings. Two women we had met on a previous day are sitting outside the albergue smoking. One of the women had walked for a few days with Peter, Wendy and Dafydd’s debt collection officer. They tell us the albergue is clean with all the facilities we need. My preferred albergue, run by the Saint Javier Association, is close to the cathedral. It is reputed to be a fine conversion of an old building. I am not keen to stay at the municipal albergue. However, we are both extremely tired and thirsty so go inside.

  Wendy, Dafydd, and Wanda are at the reception. Seeing the three of them, we decide to stay. Wendy and Dafydd say the woman on duty is a ‘saint’ and has given them a room to themselves. My hopes lift. The Canadians leave in search of food and reviving drinks, but not before Wendy jokes, “We should have got you to re-pay us sixty euros to include Peter’s ten euros collection fee.” Oh, to be the butt of their humour. They are indeed part-time Aussies. For despite returning to live in Canada, Wendy and Dafydd are still adhering to the Australian tradition of, ‘It’s okay to knock a Kiwi.’ The rivalry between New Zealand and Australia does not look like it’s about to abate any time soon.

  The ‘saint’ shows us to a small bunkroom with two young men already established there. She persuades the men to let Bruce and I have the bottom bunks which they had claimed. She then changes her mind and takes us to an empty room, again with two sets of bunks and says we can use the bottom bunks. I spread my sleeping bag on the bottom bunk and put some other gear on the top bunk. I am hopeful we will have the room to ourselves. After all, Wendy and Dafydd managed to get a room to themselves despite the two sets of bunks.

  A Spanish pilgrim couple, with a municipal worker, come into our bunkroom. There has been a change of shift and the ‘saint’ has gone off duty. The Spanish man says a lot to Bruce and me in Spanish and I don’t understand a word, but I take my stuff off the top bunk as it is clear they will be staying. Bruce has already stretched himself out on the other bottom bunk. The room feels very crowded. It is too small for two sets of bunks and five adults plus all the gear. Then the woman pilgrim begins to speak very firmly and volubly. It is obvious she is insisting I take my gear off the bottom bunk and move to the top bunk. The municipal worker then joins the fray and adds her thoughts about my occupying the second bottom bunk. I decide this new municipal worker is not a ‘saint.’ I feel bullied, pushed around and as if I have been thoroughly scolded. I may not have been scolded, but I don’t understand what is being said and it feels directed at me. Five people in this small space, with two of them talking loudly all the while looking in my direction, is just too much for me. I try to protest. “The other staff member said we could have the bottom bunks.” My protest takes wings and leaves through the open window.

  I move my gear to the top bunk. I have been sleeping most nights on the top bunk, but today I would prefer a bottom bunk. I am tired after the thirty-one-kilometre-walk in the hot sun and ensuing dehydration. In my exhaustion, I do not
stop to wonder what might be important to this pilgrim couple. All I perceive is that they are not happy with me occupying the second bottom bed. I am very upset. I have lost my emotional resilience. I leave to go and take a shower and indulge in a solo self-pity party. “What was I thinking coming on this walk? I can’t do it. It’s too hard. I’m too old. Do I even want to continue? Are those tears on my face or is it water from the shower head?”

  When I go back to the bunkroom Bruce is there alone and declares, “We are leaving and going to the albergue you wanted to stay at.” I begin to protest. Tears of frustration and self-pity threaten, and again I wonder if I should give up the walk. It has become too hard and I am almost totally overwhelmed with exhaustion and dehydration. I don’t want to find the energy to put on my boots. I don’t want to repack and put my pack back on.

  Bruce then points to the man’s sleep apnoea machine close to the power point beside the bottom bunk from which I had been asked to move. Now I understand why the man needs that bunk. I thought they had been objecting to Bruce and I having both bottom bunks. I admire the man’s determination to walk the Camino. To do so he must carry that heavy machine in a backpack. Bruce says, “He seems nice enough. We tried to talk when you three women left the room, but he only speaks Spanish.” After our thirty-one-kilometre-walk in the heat, we both need sleep and know I won’t sleep with the noise of the machine. “Let’s leave our gear here and go and have a look at that other albergue.” “Okay,” he agrees. We leave our packs to go and look for the albergue I had marked in the guidebook.