3. Navarre
The twelfth of September and I wake at 6:30 am after a sound night's sleep alone in the drying room. The first thing I notice is that the clothes rack is now half empty; those people attending to their laundry at what must have an unearthly hour had not disturbed me. Though my sleep would be tested in the coming weeks, my super-power in normal circumstances is the ability to be asleep five seconds after hitting the pillow, sleep through the kind of thunder and lightning my wife complains kept her up all night, and wake up two minutes before the alarm is due to go off, even that 4:00 am alarm to get me to the airport. Yesterday's sore feet, aching legs and fatigued body had recovered themselves, and yet again I thank the training I had done. Having organised myself I leave at 7:15 am just as the morning is breaking. Yesterday's forced long walk has given me options. I can take a short day if I need to rest or push on to Pamplona if I feel inclined. A scan of the guide book tells me there is accommodation approximately every three miles so I feel relaxed having already forgotten the recent 'where will I sleep?' fiasco. Today is mainly gentle downhill and I am settled into a walking rhythm allowing me to be a bit more reflective. The first day taught me that the signposting on the Camino Francés is excellent and I was to learn that each of Spain's provinces look after its own patch. There is no international standard and the nature of the signage varies by country and by province within Spain. This lets me keep the guidebook safely packed away, follow the signs, and observe my surroundings as I tramp through the province of Navarre.
Arriving at the edge of the semi-industrial town of Zubiri at 11:00 am I make a short detour to buy an early lunch (or late breakfast), top up my water at the fuente and head back over the bridge to re-join the camino. On the bridge leaving Zubiri I am accosted by someone who asks, in French, if there is a water fountain, where is it, and is the water drinkable? I'd prepared for basic Spanish, not French, and I pause. I hope I look thoughtful though I expect I am wearing my stupid face. Just as I was about to give my best 'sorry I can't help you' Gallic shrug, I realise that giving directions and whether water is drinkable or not was the cornerstone of my O-level French learnt forty years ago. As a salute to my French teacher I give it my best shot and after some re-assurance she is satisfied enabling me to record that as my good deed for the day.
Walking on I supplement my shop bought produce with sweet juicy blackberries from the lush hedgerow as it is autumn and the season. At a natural picnic spot - a low stone wall to sit on in a clearing by the main path - a couple from the Netherlands chat briefly and give me an energy sweet, quite probably in response to my sweaty and fatigued appearance. Over the next ten miles I keep crossing paths with the Zubiri French woman until four miles from Pamplona we find ourselves walking side by side entering the quiet suburbs of Pamplona. To supplement the provincial provision of route signage many towns and villages provide their own personalised way-marking to help the pilgrim through the winding streets. Pamplona has a population of 200,000 which is comparable to Aberdeen and navigating through such towns is a different prospect when compared to the clear well-trodden countryside paths such as the one over the Pyrenees. Pamplona's answer to the challenge is to sink metal scallop shells into the fabric of the pavement every five metres or so. A bread crumb trail to keep you where they want you and lead you to the commercial centre where you can spend your meagre pilgrim euros. This was day two, though I had covered a distance that would usually take three days and my earlier anxiety over navigation had passed. Yes, you had to scan the horizon, walls, signposts, roads and pavements for the scallop shell or yellow arrow but they were there if you kept your radar turned on. I am flagging and it helped to walk in to Pamplona with someone else to act as pace maker and share the trail finding duties. A rather sad game emerges as each of us points urgently and hails 'fléche jaune' when we spot the next marker like a couple of bloodhounds on the scent. Together we make our way to one of the many hostels in Pamplona, Jesus and Maria, near the cathedral.
To my relief, my short-term companion spoke some Spanish, asked for two beds and fired off a barrage of questions concerning the location of bathroom, laundry and kitchen. Our bed linen was duly placed in the centre of the counter by the receptionist. I am aware that French culture can have a certain level of formality and the close proximity of our bed linen may not have met with approval. She glared purposefully at our host and said one word. 'Solo'. This multi-purpose Spanish word can be used in many situations such as café solo for an espresso, or solo to mean only. In an exaggerated gesture, the receptionist quickly slid our respective linen to opposite sides of the counter and we paid singly which was perhaps my companion's intent. The protocol in this albergue was that you received a numbered bed ticket in exchange for nine euros. Good value for city centre accommodation. Today is my first day in a large albergue, by which I mean mixed-sex dormitory bunk bed living and mixed-sex bathroom. Jesus and Maria is a former monastery and had a modern steel and glass floor and staircase inserted within its august heavy masonry to provide ground and first floor space for 114 beds. Like most albergues there is a bed and just enough space for your packed rucksack under or alongside the bed. You can unpack on your bed, dry a towel on the bed end, put your boots in the communal boot rack at the entrance. And that's it. I am unsure if I was allocated the hated top bunk or the hotly contested bottom bunk but I needn't have worried as the French woman asks politely - in a tone that suggests 'No' is not an option - if she can take the bottom bed. I make my bed to signal to any bed-less vagrants that it is now occupied and continue with what would quickly become the albergue routine. Skipping the optional recovery beer, next comes a hot shower so you recover enough to do your laundry in the butler sinks they have with a ceramic wash-board, followed by food combined with a walk about town. Laundry is a daily chore as everyone brings little more than a full set of cloths and extra lining socks, underwear and t-shirt so these three items as a minimum get washed daily. In addition to the aforementioned sailing knife, my other luxury is a smart casual short sleeved short for the evenings. I had seen it on a discount rail just after booking my camino and as it was dark blue with a pattern of white scallop shells - the motif of St James - I bought it. Though the shirt borders on naff it felt like too much of a coincidence to pass up and would later offer me the chance for one of my few bad French jokes. You can get away with bad jokes in any language after a day on the way.
The pilgrim passport gets me a discounted ticket to visit the cathedral and the French woman appears as if by magic and snaffles my credential to get her discount and disappears again. Pamplona has a lovely feel to it and in the main plaza I sit to rest and enjoy a Basque band playing pipes and drums on the bandstand. They are all in white t-shirts with red berets and red sashes. The local young girls dance briefly with their mothers and there is a relaxed festival feel. Pamplona is well know for the running of the bulls, or the encierro, and this happens as part of the week long festival of San Fermín in mid July each year. I had missed it this year but would later encounter a smaller version of this Navarre festival in Cirauqui the following night.
It has turned out to be another long day and I naively determine to take things easier in the days ahead starting with an early night. Returning to the albergue I collect my laundered clothes which have dried in the evening sun, update my journal and organise myself for the following morning. My routine mirrors that of others. I sleep in the underwear and t-shirt I'll wear the following day, pack my rucksack and leave day clothes handy to grab and go. This allows me to get up, dress, roll-up my sleeping bag and move out to some lit communal area where I have space to finish my morning preparations and finalise packing. I go to bed quite early while there is still light and I have time to reflect on the day. I don't dislike being in the top bunk. I hate the process of getting up there and dread the challenge of getting down again without stepping on the person below. Ladders are provided. In the real world, the normal ladder protocol is to climb at an angle, on three inch wide steps, wearing stiff soled shoes or boots. The rules change when bunk beds are involved. The ladders are vertical and the steps are made of what feels like taught wire as you are expected to climb in bare feet that, being on the camino, are already sore from walking fifteen to twenty miles each day.
In Pamploma it is the third night for many pilgrims and this is evident in the noise and chatter in the dormitory. Everyone is still getting used to the routine, chatting excitedly, making their plans for the following day and generally creating an almighty din. 10:00 pm is the normal lights out time and this is self-regulated, by which I mean somewhat random. The large monastic stone hall separated into two floors with glass and steel turns out to be the perfect echo chamber for the noise which starts as unavoidable going to bed sounds and creaking bunk beds, transitioning to excited late night chatter, then culminating in a symphony of snoring. While I wait for sleep I mull over these early camino days and I am happy that my free range approach is working and even happier that I have broken the ice with my fellow pilgrims. My utterances of 'buen camino' do trouble me though. This is the mandatory greeting when you pass any pilgrim so its a phrase you use a lot. When spoken by the Spanish and French it has a soft feel like a warming blanket over your shoulders on a chilly night. To my ears, my version of 'buen camino' with it's hard vowels from the north of England sounds more like a threat and so I have been trying out 'bon chemin' and that sounds like a better fit for me even if it's relevance will tail off as we stray even further from France.
The thirteenth of September and I am up at 6:00 am and walking by 6:30 am with the start time determined by the other early walkers; I get up when the first rush has passed. The night before I had checked out the camino signs for the first few streets as I knew I had to both re-find the way and then follow the signs in the half light of dawn. Walking out of Pamplona I chat briefly with a Welshman recognised from the day before until he stopped off for breakfast, and then I enjoy that early morning feel towns often have before the tourists and workers hit the streets.
From Pamploma there is an eight mile gentle climb up a dirt track to the pilgrim monument (monumento peregrino) at Alto del Perdón which the guide book calls a steep climb. It's all relative. The monument depicts a group of weary pilgrims tramping the way and is constructed from wrought iron, now rusted to a reddish brown. My concession to technology is that I brought a basic point and shoot camera. As the monument is a classic image of the camino I try and get a clean shot of it though there are twenty other pilgrims doing the same. Looking back at my photo I see firstly my long shadow in the picture and secondly Pierre and Luis posing and grinning at me having photo bombed the shot. On the way up I had sat at a view point and shared my grapes with Luis and his wife Lucille. Then Pierre, a French Canadian who was loosely walking with this French couple joined us. They were reluctant to take too many until they tasted them - délicieuse - then tucked in heartily arguing they were doing me a big favour in lightening my load. The three were good humoured, humble, polite and having shared their level of English (Luis passed the buck claiming 'my wife's English is better than mine') the French couple stuck to speaking French and it soon became clear that the bi-lingual French Canadian was not there to act as interpreter. With a certain dread of forgetting the little Spanish I had learnt I commit to dusting off the French learnt many years ago and I would mostly do this in my bunk at night while I wait for everyone else to get organised. Two approaches are employed. I walk through basic vocabulary and phrases that might be useful and I also think of things I want to say or ask and search out the French for that. This I was to do for about a week and I silently thank my French teacher and old fashioned teaching methods that enable you to remember.
The decent down from Alto del Perdón is slightly steeper than the uphill section and being downhill it feels steep. The guidebook and I are in agreement. I get to chat to Pierre. He had walked from Le Puy en Velay to St Jean Pied de Port two years previous and was now back again to finish his camino. For those starting in France the route from Le Puy is well established and popular. Pierre looked to be in his late 50's and was simplifying his life, working as and when he wanted, enjoying his golf, seeing his children and generally being content. More than the simple words he used, his attitude reflected that of many pilgrims and seemed to say 'I have been on the treadmill and I have taken the brave step to get off it'. I was later to discover that the French woman from Zubiri and Pamploma had walked from Le Puy having started on the sixteenth of August. This was very humbling as she was very modest and got on quietly with her own camino which would cover approximately one thousand miles when complete. I find out later from Lucille that the other French woman is called Colette. No need for surnames.
Today I get the choice of a detour. This is a relatively short one adding two and a half miles though you never really feel like making any day even longer than it needs to be. This detour takes in the charming twelfth century Romanesque Church of Santa María de Eunate often referred to simply as Eunate church. It is a small simple octagonal structure that sits mostly alone in the middle of agricultural ground. I arrive hot and weary and pay my one euro entry fee then force myself to rest before taking in this architectural gem of unknown origins. Some suspect Knights Templar involvement as the Knights Templar had been charged with overseeing the safety of pilgrims and were responsible for a number of building projects including the octagonal Iglesia de Santo Sepulcro in Torres del Río. For the first time I get to feel some of the history of the camino.
Feeling rested and inspired I walk on and arrive at the small town of Cirauqui. Passing a well signed albergue at the outskirts of town I walk uphill through narrow winding medieval streets to the town centre and start to become aware that most of the townsfolk are in the streets and wearing white with red neckerchiefs and I deduce some festival is due to start. I find a hostel in the centre close to the church and the main square and a notice on the albergue door directs me to the adjoining bar round the side. Hot and tired I locate the proprietor who has just hung up the phone having taken a booking. He asks me with a solemn look if I'd called ahead to book. Replying in the negative with a look of utter dejection I am relieved to see his face change as he announces he has one bed left. This tense ritual of suspense was to repeated many times in the course of the next few weeks and I wonder if the operations manual for albergues includes these instructions under the section on customer care. I hand over my credential to be stamped and twenty-four euros; eleven for the bed and thirteen for a three course meal with wine; slightly expensive by pilgrim standards. Having received the traditional recovery beer and the less traditional security code to the albergue I have just sat down in the bar to regain my strength when in come Pierre, Luis and Lucille. Luis and Lucille are mid-50s, tall, and being runners have a slender athletic build. Pierre is not a runner, does not have an athletic build and like me looks hot and bothered. His appearance does not improve with the news there are no more beds, it declines further and gains a frown when he hears who got the last bed, and finally has to be mollified by Luis who gets the beers in for their gang of three. The three move on to find somewhere else to sleep. I move on to find my bed.
The albergue Maralotx has 28 beds over two floors and four rooms. There is no attendant so I use the security code to get in, find my allotted room, see there is a bed free and start to get organised. There is a walking group already in the room so I start my unpacking in the spacious hall. I locate the various facilities. Here there are separate bathrooms for men and women though it's not obvious which is which from the stylised signage. The two showers in the men's bathroom are both occupied, one by a man and one by a woman. I wait outside. A fellow pilgrim comes and suggests I use the women's bathroom as it is free though I elect to wait to avoid any later embarrassment. I don't mind the shared facilities but I did not want to be the man in his mid-50s in the wrong place at the wrong time. Showered and refreshed I find the group in my allotted dormitory has shrunk in size and without prompting they helpfully make space for me and my rucksack and I make myself at home. It was to become a common theme that pilgrims would look out for each other and offer assistance when required.
Communal living provides scope for people watching. There were two main characters in the dormitory at the Maralotx. There was the person lying in her bunk looking forlorn; it was her job to be the slow one on the way, the one with blisters, the one with a headache and in need of help but not wanting people to fuss. Her face said 'just leave me here to die; my ailment is beyond diagnosis or treatment'. There was also the helper and person responsible for providing medical aid in the group. She was patient and business-like as she tried to coax her companion into a state where they and the group could survive the following day without any murder being committed. I would meet many tired yet positive souls and this forlorn body was certainly the exception.
Colette must have passed me on today's travels when I diverted to Eunate church as I notice she is here and she was suitably impressed that I walked the extra miles to visit Eunate. I pass a pleasant half hour drinking machine dispensed coffee out of a plastic cup chatting to a woman from the Netherlands. It is the earlier part of a long pilgrimage and people are still quite keen to talk as the novelty has not worn off. At this time, the UK is on the brink of leaving Europe and though it would still need an election to gain the required government majority to push it through parliament, the UK was set to leave Europe. Brexit comes up as it often does and I try and move the conversation on. We talk about wilding (or re-wilding) as there are experiments happening in both England and the Netherlands to revert portions of landscape to be more natural and less manicured with minimal intervention from the custodians of the land. This wilding process mirrors to a degree a common theme among camino walkers who want time to simplify, reflect and let their thoughts flow as they flow slowly through the Spanish countryside. People are spending five weeks or more carrying everything they need on their backs and doing this mostly in self-imposed solitude.
A common phrase in the camino literature is that the camino can be transformational; with all the pressures and distractions removed the pilgrim is free to see themselves in their raw state and from this position it is then natural to contemplate the future and how you may wish to live it. Moreover, that process can happen naturally on the way. I am almost a year into retirement and only three days on the camino but I start to understand how the solitude of the camino can help you see what is truly important in life for you as an individual. I am more than a little intrigued to see how the following weeks will play out in this regard.
On a more prosaic note, a noon inspection of my feet that day had revealed a small blister on my left heal which I had drained with help from a safety pin and applied a blister patch from my supply. I see the blister had formed where the rigid lower portion of the boot heal meets a softer cushioned material. When it comes down to it you walk a camino on your feet and whilst you need to take advice on the ideal kit list boots are key. My old boots where showing their age with failing heal padding and new boot purchased four months before my departure date. I had plenty of time to walk them in as I trained. With two weeks to go and with the mileage and summer temperature increasing I realised that the right foot when subject to long miles and heat was (under normal foot swelling) pinching and the boots would not work for the heat of Spain in September. I buy new boots with ten days to wear them in. Not an ideal way to start but I am lucky as the boots work despite the heal blisters. Today's medical report reads 'Feet and legs holding out apart from blister though shoulders starting to ache'.
Getting back to albergue Maralotx, the evening peregrino (pilgrim) meal consisted of a salad followed by a delicious chickpea and king prawn stew topped off with a vanilla custard all washed down with wine. Like so many of the peregrino meals this was the type of home cooked regional food you fantasise about when you travel. It was served in a cellar dining room and there were ten of us with the usual mix of nationalities including German, French and Italian. The early effort to share stories and translate to as many of the assembled group as was possible did dwindle but it was a jolly crowd. After a filling meal people filtered out towards the main square as the festival was in full swing. There was a nine piece Spanish equivalent of a mariachi band on a small stage, guest singers, guest dancers, a parade with two twelve foot gigantes; large wood-framed figures with papier-mâché heads. This small town was too small to host an actual running of bulls though as a nod to this ritual I noticed a small hobby bull (a bull version of a hobby horse) being used by the smaller children. When checking-in to the Maralotx they were, unusually I thought, happily dispensing free earplugs with every bed. I guessed why when the music started up at 6:30 pm and I certainly knew why on hearing it was set to continue into the early hours.
The fourteenth of September and I am walking by 7:00 am in one of those magical mornings with a full moon against a sky studded with bright stars and a sun still preparing itself to make an appearance. The street lights provided pricks of light that acted as the nucleus for large orange orbs suspended in a faint morning mist. It was like a firework display in suspended animation. I have navigated the Pyrenees and have yet to reach the grapes of Rioja so the fertile fields here are rich in produce. There is asparagus ripening, sunflower not yet harvested, peppers plump and shiny, brown tasselled sweetcorn and the ever present scent of fennel. Today is my fourth day and stage six by the guidebook and there is an option, a diversion if I wish, to take a longer higher path which would be quieter. I opt for the main route. After the first day when I started late and passed many people I've been able to start my days at a normal time and go with the flow of pilgrim traffic.
One of today's companions was a man from the Netherlands. We walked together for ten miles either chatting or in comfortable silence. In common with a number of pilgrims he had opted for a long wooden staff - many use a pair of modern walking poles - and like most men on the camino he limited himself to solid practical technical talk. He was making a notch in his staff for every day walked and early on had replaced his heavy boots with lightweight walking sandals which are increasingly popular. One of the must-visit sights on the camino is the wine fountain, Fuente be Vino, on the outskirts of Estella. Though not a fountain in the English sense of the word a local bodegas provides two smart taps, one dispensing water and the other wine. There is no control over the volume any pilgrim takes, though the custom appears to be to treat it as a tasting. This is a good example of the generosity of the Spanish people to pilgrims and how history lives on. In medieval times pilgrims would leave home with little and would be fully reliant on hospitality.
My other companion today was an Australian woman who, true to gender stereotypes, did not want to talk about the technical benefits and disadvantages of walking equipment. She was in her mid-60s and her forty-three year old son had just left home to move into supported accommodation. As her husband had died over thirty years ago her life had been defined by being the sole carer for her son who had special needs. Our brief chat was disrupted by her friend phoning from our shared destination for the day - Los Arcos. It had been a busy evening the night before and I had started walking today with no hint at where I would stay and I found that strangely soothing. Rather than worrying about where to sleep my experience was that - with no destination set - I just didn't worry about getting to a set place. It was the Australian who suggested Los Arcos might be a good place to stop as we'd be there around 3:00 pm and I was happy to take the suggestion.
It is a long hot walk today and the second half of the day is along hot parched gravel paths. This feels like a taste of the dreaded high flat plains of the meseta after Burgos so I cannot pass the pop-up drinks van that I find, ever so conveniently located, in the middle of no-where. Though many of these ventures are run on a donation basis to support weary pilgrims this one is very much a commercial venture. And why not. Many of the villages in northern Spain are in decline and the re-animation of the Way of St James has acted as a life line for some individuals and families. One individual who was making use of the pilgrim footfall was an elderly woman sat on the side of a remote stretch of gravel track. She had an accordion and a small box for donations. She started playing as I approached and I dropped a euro in the box; you would have to be heartless not to. She continued playing until I was out of earshot and I was grateful for the temporary distraction on that hot dusty day.
On arriving at Los Arcos I walk through town and stop at albergue Abuela (Grandma's hostel). In front of me at the reception desk are two women who are asking for their couriered suitcase to be carried up to their room though no help is available and the two women keep reception tied up as they contemplate their dilemma. I should say that it is de rigueur for pilgrims to be more self-sufficient than this. To speed the process I offer to take the baggage up in the hope of then gaining access to reception and securing a bed. The suitcase supplements the women's day to day clothes, is very large, and of odd weight distribution as if they have stowed some dumb bells or a dead body. I carry it up to the third floor on surprisingly sprightly legs and with my good deed for the day done, hurry down to secure a bed. Naturally I am unprepared and this boutique hostel is full already and I am referred to the municipal hostel round the corner. The municipal albergue looks like a converted school, the hospitaleros are welcoming and show me the facilities and to my bed. I am in a room for four though because all the doors have been removed I am really on a floor of around sixty beds. For the first time I notice just how many people take to their bunks for a mid-afternoon rest after their day's tramping. On the bunk below mine a middle-aged man is asleep and snoring loudly. The hospitalera instructs me to kick him sharply if his snoring disturbs me. I look at her with indecision and by way of demonstration she gives him a firm nudge with her foot. He grunts, stops snoring and she beams at me proudly.
Though not planned, Pierre, Luis and Lucille arrive and I see Colette has joined them. We all arrange to cook and eat together and I feel, temporarily at least, part of the French group. After the usual routine of beer, shower and laundry followed by a shopping expedition, the French couple cook pasta and salad, I provide the wine and we eat together outdoors in the cooling evening. In the post-meal discussion Luis mentions that he lost both his parents in the last two years and this is his reason for the camino. Discussion, in French, is wide ranging and I manage to keep up with some of it though contribute little. After a while Colette exclaims 'Ah! Le chemise de Saint-Jacque!' while pointing at me as I am wearing my smart but naff shirt reserved for evenings with its scallop shell design; My Saint James shirt. As ever I pause while I process this and realise it has taken Colette three days to notice my scallop shell shirt with its arguably tacky nod to the camino. 'Oui' seems too simple a response so I reply with a repeated exclamation 'Tois jours! <dramatic pause> Tois jours!'. Lucille gets the joke and repeats 'Tois jours!' with much laughter; the number of evenings Colette has failed to make the shirt-camino link. Walking twenty miles a day with all your belongings in hot conditions is exhausting and it doesn't take much to raise a smile. This shared camino experience is different to walking other long distance trails and some people will develop and nurture their 'camino family' and it was Pierre who had brought this small group together. I later encountered one person who set up an online social media group to keep in touch with his small group over his camino.
The fifteenth of September and I have the option of joining Luis and Lucille for an early start or Colette and Pierre for a slightly later hike. I am ready early and walk on with Luis and Lucille. Having covered six stages in four days I am feeling the physical effects and am grateful that we have decided to stop at Logrono today which means seventeen miles. We have all circled a preferred albergue and a secondary albergue to meet up at in the evening in our various guidebooks. Early on I have a blister and stop for coffee and tortilla (a Spanish potato omelette), my preferred brunch, thereby losing the French couple. Everyone walks their own pace and it is freeing not to be constrained by staying in contact.
I walk into Viana and see they are making preparations for their festival. The side roads off the main street all have large solid wooden gates and I assume they will have a running of bulls or a procession later on. I feel like continuing on my way and walk on trusting if I miss out on a festival something else will appear. Stopping outside Viana for a light lunch of apple I get an energy boost by picking some local figs that grow in abundance on the side of the path. With fig juice dribbling down my chin, Luis and Lucille pass by with bright smiles, a wave, and 'bon appetite'. This is day five and I already feel like a seasoned pilgrim; finding a bed where I can, foraging in hedgerows for autumn fruits, and walking as I please with faith that the path ahead will reveal itself.
South Korea is seventy percent uplands and mountains so hiking is something of a national pass-time. Additionally, for those South Koreans professing a religion, nearly two-thirds are Christian. Perhaps for these reasons the camino is hugely popular with South Koreans whose motives, not surprisingly, mirror those of other pilgrims. Enter my next companion, a single South Korean man who had learnt about the camino from an American TV documentary and was walking the camino in memory of his parents who had both died over the course of the last six years. In his words he felt like he 'was carrying the weight of his parents on his back'. In various discussions with people the South Koreans on the camino appear to have their own special place. Like the Spanish they tend to walk in groups rather than solo, uniquely they can walk into the communal kitchen and come out with an aromatic banquet made from whatever the local store has to offer, and one of the albergues on the way serves South Korean cuisine for the evening meal. Later in my adventure I was to stay at the English run albergue where they offer afternoon tea and rich tea biscuits and a breakfast consisting of bread and jam. Whilst this basic fare was a deliberate reflection of an authentic pilgrim's experience of basic living, it does dent the national pride if you choose to make comparisons.
The South Korean man and I drifted apart after a while and I was walking down a gentle incline when I observed an elderly man walking up past me. He was wearing homespun clothes and a canvas bag on his back. With his tanned and sun creased face and bleached hair, he had the air of a corfiot shepherd or goat herder I had observed in Corfu earlier that year. What most struck me was his approach to walking. He walked slowly and deliberately as if thinking about the effort involved in each step - and if it was worth it - and would pause every few steps as if performing some straight line dance. And slowly, one-two-three-rest, and slowly, one-two-three-rest. There was something of a beast of burden about his gait though he travelled light and looked athletic for his age. Dragging my inquisitive gaze from this gentle man I then noticed his companion following ten metres behind walking with the same slow one-two-three-rest gait. I puzzled over this odd tableau for a while before realising that the donkey walking ten metres behind was setting the pace and the man was mirroring the donkey's progress up the slope. Neither in a rush and neither in charge of proceedings. It was hard to know if they were pilgrims or just going about their daily business. Though walking is the main means of travel on a camino there are quite a number of cyclists, horseback riders are allowed, and some very small number take a donkey to help with luggage though the practicalities of food and stabling can be a challenge.
Approaching Logrono at the end of the day I see Luis and Lucille ahead so I speed up just enough to meet them as we enter Logrono itself and lazily I leave Luis to survey the handy street map that appears just as we enter the town. This shows the town's albergues and I follow Luis's lead to our agreed (though second choice) albergue. After the usual albergue routine I have shopped for my share of the evening meal (wine and cake) and return to the albergue just in time to see Pierre and Colette checking in. We agree to eat at 7:00 pm and get on with our own plans which for me was a tour of the town including a photo exhibition and some journal writing. With the French group re-assembled we all enjoyed a relaxed meal though Luis did appear to be getting over-confident with my level of French. Though I have spent some time re-learning the little French I once knew it is not enough and as Colette points out, the 'avec' I learnt gets pronounced 'aveth' in her regional French.
For the following day Pierre, who I suspect had originally orchestrated our loose group, now wants a slower day; Luis has apparently been driving him too hard out on the road. Luis and Lucille will stay at the next big town for reasons of accommodation security and Colette will push on to Azofra as she needs to be in Santiago to meet her husband on the fourth of October. I leave my options open and make a note of the various albergues people are heading to in the realisation that tomorrow was perhaps a new phase in my journey.
Chapter 4. Rioja
Arriving at the edge of the semi-industrial town of Zubiri at 11:00 am I make a short detour to buy an early lunch (or late breakfast), top up my water at the fuente and head back over the bridge to re-join the camino. On the bridge leaving Zubiri I am accosted by someone who asks, in French, if there is a water fountain, where is it, and is the water drinkable? I'd prepared for basic Spanish, not French, and I pause. I hope I look thoughtful though I expect I am wearing my stupid face. Just as I was about to give my best 'sorry I can't help you' Gallic shrug, I realise that giving directions and whether water is drinkable or not was the cornerstone of my O-level French learnt forty years ago. As a salute to my French teacher I give it my best shot and after some re-assurance she is satisfied enabling me to record that as my good deed for the day.
Walking on I supplement my shop bought produce with sweet juicy blackberries from the lush hedgerow as it is autumn and the season. At a natural picnic spot - a low stone wall to sit on in a clearing by the main path - a couple from the Netherlands chat briefly and give me an energy sweet, quite probably in response to my sweaty and fatigued appearance. Over the next ten miles I keep crossing paths with the Zubiri French woman until four miles from Pamplona we find ourselves walking side by side entering the quiet suburbs of Pamplona. To supplement the provincial provision of route signage many towns and villages provide their own personalised way-marking to help the pilgrim through the winding streets. Pamplona has a population of 200,000 which is comparable to Aberdeen and navigating through such towns is a different prospect when compared to the clear well-trodden countryside paths such as the one over the Pyrenees. Pamplona's answer to the challenge is to sink metal scallop shells into the fabric of the pavement every five metres or so. A bread crumb trail to keep you where they want you and lead you to the commercial centre where you can spend your meagre pilgrim euros. This was day two, though I had covered a distance that would usually take three days and my earlier anxiety over navigation had passed. Yes, you had to scan the horizon, walls, signposts, roads and pavements for the scallop shell or yellow arrow but they were there if you kept your radar turned on. I am flagging and it helped to walk in to Pamplona with someone else to act as pace maker and share the trail finding duties. A rather sad game emerges as each of us points urgently and hails 'fléche jaune' when we spot the next marker like a couple of bloodhounds on the scent. Together we make our way to one of the many hostels in Pamplona, Jesus and Maria, near the cathedral.
To my relief, my short-term companion spoke some Spanish, asked for two beds and fired off a barrage of questions concerning the location of bathroom, laundry and kitchen. Our bed linen was duly placed in the centre of the counter by the receptionist. I am aware that French culture can have a certain level of formality and the close proximity of our bed linen may not have met with approval. She glared purposefully at our host and said one word. 'Solo'. This multi-purpose Spanish word can be used in many situations such as café solo for an espresso, or solo to mean only. In an exaggerated gesture, the receptionist quickly slid our respective linen to opposite sides of the counter and we paid singly which was perhaps my companion's intent. The protocol in this albergue was that you received a numbered bed ticket in exchange for nine euros. Good value for city centre accommodation. Today is my first day in a large albergue, by which I mean mixed-sex dormitory bunk bed living and mixed-sex bathroom. Jesus and Maria is a former monastery and had a modern steel and glass floor and staircase inserted within its august heavy masonry to provide ground and first floor space for 114 beds. Like most albergues there is a bed and just enough space for your packed rucksack under or alongside the bed. You can unpack on your bed, dry a towel on the bed end, put your boots in the communal boot rack at the entrance. And that's it. I am unsure if I was allocated the hated top bunk or the hotly contested bottom bunk but I needn't have worried as the French woman asks politely - in a tone that suggests 'No' is not an option - if she can take the bottom bed. I make my bed to signal to any bed-less vagrants that it is now occupied and continue with what would quickly become the albergue routine. Skipping the optional recovery beer, next comes a hot shower so you recover enough to do your laundry in the butler sinks they have with a ceramic wash-board, followed by food combined with a walk about town. Laundry is a daily chore as everyone brings little more than a full set of cloths and extra lining socks, underwear and t-shirt so these three items as a minimum get washed daily. In addition to the aforementioned sailing knife, my other luxury is a smart casual short sleeved short for the evenings. I had seen it on a discount rail just after booking my camino and as it was dark blue with a pattern of white scallop shells - the motif of St James - I bought it. Though the shirt borders on naff it felt like too much of a coincidence to pass up and would later offer me the chance for one of my few bad French jokes. You can get away with bad jokes in any language after a day on the way.
The pilgrim passport gets me a discounted ticket to visit the cathedral and the French woman appears as if by magic and snaffles my credential to get her discount and disappears again. Pamplona has a lovely feel to it and in the main plaza I sit to rest and enjoy a Basque band playing pipes and drums on the bandstand. They are all in white t-shirts with red berets and red sashes. The local young girls dance briefly with their mothers and there is a relaxed festival feel. Pamplona is well know for the running of the bulls, or the encierro, and this happens as part of the week long festival of San Fermín in mid July each year. I had missed it this year but would later encounter a smaller version of this Navarre festival in Cirauqui the following night.
It has turned out to be another long day and I naively determine to take things easier in the days ahead starting with an early night. Returning to the albergue I collect my laundered clothes which have dried in the evening sun, update my journal and organise myself for the following morning. My routine mirrors that of others. I sleep in the underwear and t-shirt I'll wear the following day, pack my rucksack and leave day clothes handy to grab and go. This allows me to get up, dress, roll-up my sleeping bag and move out to some lit communal area where I have space to finish my morning preparations and finalise packing. I go to bed quite early while there is still light and I have time to reflect on the day. I don't dislike being in the top bunk. I hate the process of getting up there and dread the challenge of getting down again without stepping on the person below. Ladders are provided. In the real world, the normal ladder protocol is to climb at an angle, on three inch wide steps, wearing stiff soled shoes or boots. The rules change when bunk beds are involved. The ladders are vertical and the steps are made of what feels like taught wire as you are expected to climb in bare feet that, being on the camino, are already sore from walking fifteen to twenty miles each day.
In Pamploma it is the third night for many pilgrims and this is evident in the noise and chatter in the dormitory. Everyone is still getting used to the routine, chatting excitedly, making their plans for the following day and generally creating an almighty din. 10:00 pm is the normal lights out time and this is self-regulated, by which I mean somewhat random. The large monastic stone hall separated into two floors with glass and steel turns out to be the perfect echo chamber for the noise which starts as unavoidable going to bed sounds and creaking bunk beds, transitioning to excited late night chatter, then culminating in a symphony of snoring. While I wait for sleep I mull over these early camino days and I am happy that my free range approach is working and even happier that I have broken the ice with my fellow pilgrims. My utterances of 'buen camino' do trouble me though. This is the mandatory greeting when you pass any pilgrim so its a phrase you use a lot. When spoken by the Spanish and French it has a soft feel like a warming blanket over your shoulders on a chilly night. To my ears, my version of 'buen camino' with it's hard vowels from the north of England sounds more like a threat and so I have been trying out 'bon chemin' and that sounds like a better fit for me even if it's relevance will tail off as we stray even further from France.
The thirteenth of September and I am up at 6:00 am and walking by 6:30 am with the start time determined by the other early walkers; I get up when the first rush has passed. The night before I had checked out the camino signs for the first few streets as I knew I had to both re-find the way and then follow the signs in the half light of dawn. Walking out of Pamplona I chat briefly with a Welshman recognised from the day before until he stopped off for breakfast, and then I enjoy that early morning feel towns often have before the tourists and workers hit the streets.
From Pamploma there is an eight mile gentle climb up a dirt track to the pilgrim monument (monumento peregrino) at Alto del Perdón which the guide book calls a steep climb. It's all relative. The monument depicts a group of weary pilgrims tramping the way and is constructed from wrought iron, now rusted to a reddish brown. My concession to technology is that I brought a basic point and shoot camera. As the monument is a classic image of the camino I try and get a clean shot of it though there are twenty other pilgrims doing the same. Looking back at my photo I see firstly my long shadow in the picture and secondly Pierre and Luis posing and grinning at me having photo bombed the shot. On the way up I had sat at a view point and shared my grapes with Luis and his wife Lucille. Then Pierre, a French Canadian who was loosely walking with this French couple joined us. They were reluctant to take too many until they tasted them - délicieuse - then tucked in heartily arguing they were doing me a big favour in lightening my load. The three were good humoured, humble, polite and having shared their level of English (Luis passed the buck claiming 'my wife's English is better than mine') the French couple stuck to speaking French and it soon became clear that the bi-lingual French Canadian was not there to act as interpreter. With a certain dread of forgetting the little Spanish I had learnt I commit to dusting off the French learnt many years ago and I would mostly do this in my bunk at night while I wait for everyone else to get organised. Two approaches are employed. I walk through basic vocabulary and phrases that might be useful and I also think of things I want to say or ask and search out the French for that. This I was to do for about a week and I silently thank my French teacher and old fashioned teaching methods that enable you to remember.
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| The pilgrim monument (monumento peregrino) at Alto del Perdón |
The decent down from Alto del Perdón is slightly steeper than the uphill section and being downhill it feels steep. The guidebook and I are in agreement. I get to chat to Pierre. He had walked from Le Puy en Velay to St Jean Pied de Port two years previous and was now back again to finish his camino. For those starting in France the route from Le Puy is well established and popular. Pierre looked to be in his late 50's and was simplifying his life, working as and when he wanted, enjoying his golf, seeing his children and generally being content. More than the simple words he used, his attitude reflected that of many pilgrims and seemed to say 'I have been on the treadmill and I have taken the brave step to get off it'. I was later to discover that the French woman from Zubiri and Pamploma had walked from Le Puy having started on the sixteenth of August. This was very humbling as she was very modest and got on quietly with her own camino which would cover approximately one thousand miles when complete. I find out later from Lucille that the other French woman is called Colette. No need for surnames.
Today I get the choice of a detour. This is a relatively short one adding two and a half miles though you never really feel like making any day even longer than it needs to be. This detour takes in the charming twelfth century Romanesque Church of Santa María de Eunate often referred to simply as Eunate church. It is a small simple octagonal structure that sits mostly alone in the middle of agricultural ground. I arrive hot and weary and pay my one euro entry fee then force myself to rest before taking in this architectural gem of unknown origins. Some suspect Knights Templar involvement as the Knights Templar had been charged with overseeing the safety of pilgrims and were responsible for a number of building projects including the octagonal Iglesia de Santo Sepulcro in Torres del Río. For the first time I get to feel some of the history of the camino.
Feeling rested and inspired I walk on and arrive at the small town of Cirauqui. Passing a well signed albergue at the outskirts of town I walk uphill through narrow winding medieval streets to the town centre and start to become aware that most of the townsfolk are in the streets and wearing white with red neckerchiefs and I deduce some festival is due to start. I find a hostel in the centre close to the church and the main square and a notice on the albergue door directs me to the adjoining bar round the side. Hot and tired I locate the proprietor who has just hung up the phone having taken a booking. He asks me with a solemn look if I'd called ahead to book. Replying in the negative with a look of utter dejection I am relieved to see his face change as he announces he has one bed left. This tense ritual of suspense was to repeated many times in the course of the next few weeks and I wonder if the operations manual for albergues includes these instructions under the section on customer care. I hand over my credential to be stamped and twenty-four euros; eleven for the bed and thirteen for a three course meal with wine; slightly expensive by pilgrim standards. Having received the traditional recovery beer and the less traditional security code to the albergue I have just sat down in the bar to regain my strength when in come Pierre, Luis and Lucille. Luis and Lucille are mid-50s, tall, and being runners have a slender athletic build. Pierre is not a runner, does not have an athletic build and like me looks hot and bothered. His appearance does not improve with the news there are no more beds, it declines further and gains a frown when he hears who got the last bed, and finally has to be mollified by Luis who gets the beers in for their gang of three. The three move on to find somewhere else to sleep. I move on to find my bed.
The albergue Maralotx has 28 beds over two floors and four rooms. There is no attendant so I use the security code to get in, find my allotted room, see there is a bed free and start to get organised. There is a walking group already in the room so I start my unpacking in the spacious hall. I locate the various facilities. Here there are separate bathrooms for men and women though it's not obvious which is which from the stylised signage. The two showers in the men's bathroom are both occupied, one by a man and one by a woman. I wait outside. A fellow pilgrim comes and suggests I use the women's bathroom as it is free though I elect to wait to avoid any later embarrassment. I don't mind the shared facilities but I did not want to be the man in his mid-50s in the wrong place at the wrong time. Showered and refreshed I find the group in my allotted dormitory has shrunk in size and without prompting they helpfully make space for me and my rucksack and I make myself at home. It was to become a common theme that pilgrims would look out for each other and offer assistance when required.
Communal living provides scope for people watching. There were two main characters in the dormitory at the Maralotx. There was the person lying in her bunk looking forlorn; it was her job to be the slow one on the way, the one with blisters, the one with a headache and in need of help but not wanting people to fuss. Her face said 'just leave me here to die; my ailment is beyond diagnosis or treatment'. There was also the helper and person responsible for providing medical aid in the group. She was patient and business-like as she tried to coax her companion into a state where they and the group could survive the following day without any murder being committed. I would meet many tired yet positive souls and this forlorn body was certainly the exception.
Colette must have passed me on today's travels when I diverted to Eunate church as I notice she is here and she was suitably impressed that I walked the extra miles to visit Eunate. I pass a pleasant half hour drinking machine dispensed coffee out of a plastic cup chatting to a woman from the Netherlands. It is the earlier part of a long pilgrimage and people are still quite keen to talk as the novelty has not worn off. At this time, the UK is on the brink of leaving Europe and though it would still need an election to gain the required government majority to push it through parliament, the UK was set to leave Europe. Brexit comes up as it often does and I try and move the conversation on. We talk about wilding (or re-wilding) as there are experiments happening in both England and the Netherlands to revert portions of landscape to be more natural and less manicured with minimal intervention from the custodians of the land. This wilding process mirrors to a degree a common theme among camino walkers who want time to simplify, reflect and let their thoughts flow as they flow slowly through the Spanish countryside. People are spending five weeks or more carrying everything they need on their backs and doing this mostly in self-imposed solitude.
A common phrase in the camino literature is that the camino can be transformational; with all the pressures and distractions removed the pilgrim is free to see themselves in their raw state and from this position it is then natural to contemplate the future and how you may wish to live it. Moreover, that process can happen naturally on the way. I am almost a year into retirement and only three days on the camino but I start to understand how the solitude of the camino can help you see what is truly important in life for you as an individual. I am more than a little intrigued to see how the following weeks will play out in this regard.
On a more prosaic note, a noon inspection of my feet that day had revealed a small blister on my left heal which I had drained with help from a safety pin and applied a blister patch from my supply. I see the blister had formed where the rigid lower portion of the boot heal meets a softer cushioned material. When it comes down to it you walk a camino on your feet and whilst you need to take advice on the ideal kit list boots are key. My old boots where showing their age with failing heal padding and new boot purchased four months before my departure date. I had plenty of time to walk them in as I trained. With two weeks to go and with the mileage and summer temperature increasing I realised that the right foot when subject to long miles and heat was (under normal foot swelling) pinching and the boots would not work for the heat of Spain in September. I buy new boots with ten days to wear them in. Not an ideal way to start but I am lucky as the boots work despite the heal blisters. Today's medical report reads 'Feet and legs holding out apart from blister though shoulders starting to ache'.
Getting back to albergue Maralotx, the evening peregrino (pilgrim) meal consisted of a salad followed by a delicious chickpea and king prawn stew topped off with a vanilla custard all washed down with wine. Like so many of the peregrino meals this was the type of home cooked regional food you fantasise about when you travel. It was served in a cellar dining room and there were ten of us with the usual mix of nationalities including German, French and Italian. The early effort to share stories and translate to as many of the assembled group as was possible did dwindle but it was a jolly crowd. After a filling meal people filtered out towards the main square as the festival was in full swing. There was a nine piece Spanish equivalent of a mariachi band on a small stage, guest singers, guest dancers, a parade with two twelve foot gigantes; large wood-framed figures with papier-mâché heads. This small town was too small to host an actual running of bulls though as a nod to this ritual I noticed a small hobby bull (a bull version of a hobby horse) being used by the smaller children. When checking-in to the Maralotx they were, unusually I thought, happily dispensing free earplugs with every bed. I guessed why when the music started up at 6:30 pm and I certainly knew why on hearing it was set to continue into the early hours.
The fourteenth of September and I am walking by 7:00 am in one of those magical mornings with a full moon against a sky studded with bright stars and a sun still preparing itself to make an appearance. The street lights provided pricks of light that acted as the nucleus for large orange orbs suspended in a faint morning mist. It was like a firework display in suspended animation. I have navigated the Pyrenees and have yet to reach the grapes of Rioja so the fertile fields here are rich in produce. There is asparagus ripening, sunflower not yet harvested, peppers plump and shiny, brown tasselled sweetcorn and the ever present scent of fennel. Today is my fourth day and stage six by the guidebook and there is an option, a diversion if I wish, to take a longer higher path which would be quieter. I opt for the main route. After the first day when I started late and passed many people I've been able to start my days at a normal time and go with the flow of pilgrim traffic.
One of today's companions was a man from the Netherlands. We walked together for ten miles either chatting or in comfortable silence. In common with a number of pilgrims he had opted for a long wooden staff - many use a pair of modern walking poles - and like most men on the camino he limited himself to solid practical technical talk. He was making a notch in his staff for every day walked and early on had replaced his heavy boots with lightweight walking sandals which are increasingly popular. One of the must-visit sights on the camino is the wine fountain, Fuente be Vino, on the outskirts of Estella. Though not a fountain in the English sense of the word a local bodegas provides two smart taps, one dispensing water and the other wine. There is no control over the volume any pilgrim takes, though the custom appears to be to treat it as a tasting. This is a good example of the generosity of the Spanish people to pilgrims and how history lives on. In medieval times pilgrims would leave home with little and would be fully reliant on hospitality.
My other companion today was an Australian woman who, true to gender stereotypes, did not want to talk about the technical benefits and disadvantages of walking equipment. She was in her mid-60s and her forty-three year old son had just left home to move into supported accommodation. As her husband had died over thirty years ago her life had been defined by being the sole carer for her son who had special needs. Our brief chat was disrupted by her friend phoning from our shared destination for the day - Los Arcos. It had been a busy evening the night before and I had started walking today with no hint at where I would stay and I found that strangely soothing. Rather than worrying about where to sleep my experience was that - with no destination set - I just didn't worry about getting to a set place. It was the Australian who suggested Los Arcos might be a good place to stop as we'd be there around 3:00 pm and I was happy to take the suggestion.
It is a long hot walk today and the second half of the day is along hot parched gravel paths. This feels like a taste of the dreaded high flat plains of the meseta after Burgos so I cannot pass the pop-up drinks van that I find, ever so conveniently located, in the middle of no-where. Though many of these ventures are run on a donation basis to support weary pilgrims this one is very much a commercial venture. And why not. Many of the villages in northern Spain are in decline and the re-animation of the Way of St James has acted as a life line for some individuals and families. One individual who was making use of the pilgrim footfall was an elderly woman sat on the side of a remote stretch of gravel track. She had an accordion and a small box for donations. She started playing as I approached and I dropped a euro in the box; you would have to be heartless not to. She continued playing until I was out of earshot and I was grateful for the temporary distraction on that hot dusty day.
On arriving at Los Arcos I walk through town and stop at albergue Abuela (Grandma's hostel). In front of me at the reception desk are two women who are asking for their couriered suitcase to be carried up to their room though no help is available and the two women keep reception tied up as they contemplate their dilemma. I should say that it is de rigueur for pilgrims to be more self-sufficient than this. To speed the process I offer to take the baggage up in the hope of then gaining access to reception and securing a bed. The suitcase supplements the women's day to day clothes, is very large, and of odd weight distribution as if they have stowed some dumb bells or a dead body. I carry it up to the third floor on surprisingly sprightly legs and with my good deed for the day done, hurry down to secure a bed. Naturally I am unprepared and this boutique hostel is full already and I am referred to the municipal hostel round the corner. The municipal albergue looks like a converted school, the hospitaleros are welcoming and show me the facilities and to my bed. I am in a room for four though because all the doors have been removed I am really on a floor of around sixty beds. For the first time I notice just how many people take to their bunks for a mid-afternoon rest after their day's tramping. On the bunk below mine a middle-aged man is asleep and snoring loudly. The hospitalera instructs me to kick him sharply if his snoring disturbs me. I look at her with indecision and by way of demonstration she gives him a firm nudge with her foot. He grunts, stops snoring and she beams at me proudly.
Though not planned, Pierre, Luis and Lucille arrive and I see Colette has joined them. We all arrange to cook and eat together and I feel, temporarily at least, part of the French group. After the usual routine of beer, shower and laundry followed by a shopping expedition, the French couple cook pasta and salad, I provide the wine and we eat together outdoors in the cooling evening. In the post-meal discussion Luis mentions that he lost both his parents in the last two years and this is his reason for the camino. Discussion, in French, is wide ranging and I manage to keep up with some of it though contribute little. After a while Colette exclaims 'Ah! Le chemise de Saint-Jacque!' while pointing at me as I am wearing my smart but naff shirt reserved for evenings with its scallop shell design; My Saint James shirt. As ever I pause while I process this and realise it has taken Colette three days to notice my scallop shell shirt with its arguably tacky nod to the camino. 'Oui' seems too simple a response so I reply with a repeated exclamation 'Tois jours! <dramatic pause> Tois jours!'. Lucille gets the joke and repeats 'Tois jours!' with much laughter; the number of evenings Colette has failed to make the shirt-camino link. Walking twenty miles a day with all your belongings in hot conditions is exhausting and it doesn't take much to raise a smile. This shared camino experience is different to walking other long distance trails and some people will develop and nurture their 'camino family' and it was Pierre who had brought this small group together. I later encountered one person who set up an online social media group to keep in touch with his small group over his camino.
The fifteenth of September and I have the option of joining Luis and Lucille for an early start or Colette and Pierre for a slightly later hike. I am ready early and walk on with Luis and Lucille. Having covered six stages in four days I am feeling the physical effects and am grateful that we have decided to stop at Logrono today which means seventeen miles. We have all circled a preferred albergue and a secondary albergue to meet up at in the evening in our various guidebooks. Early on I have a blister and stop for coffee and tortilla (a Spanish potato omelette), my preferred brunch, thereby losing the French couple. Everyone walks their own pace and it is freeing not to be constrained by staying in contact.
I walk into Viana and see they are making preparations for their festival. The side roads off the main street all have large solid wooden gates and I assume they will have a running of bulls or a procession later on. I feel like continuing on my way and walk on trusting if I miss out on a festival something else will appear. Stopping outside Viana for a light lunch of apple I get an energy boost by picking some local figs that grow in abundance on the side of the path. With fig juice dribbling down my chin, Luis and Lucille pass by with bright smiles, a wave, and 'bon appetite'. This is day five and I already feel like a seasoned pilgrim; finding a bed where I can, foraging in hedgerows for autumn fruits, and walking as I please with faith that the path ahead will reveal itself.
South Korea is seventy percent uplands and mountains so hiking is something of a national pass-time. Additionally, for those South Koreans professing a religion, nearly two-thirds are Christian. Perhaps for these reasons the camino is hugely popular with South Koreans whose motives, not surprisingly, mirror those of other pilgrims. Enter my next companion, a single South Korean man who had learnt about the camino from an American TV documentary and was walking the camino in memory of his parents who had both died over the course of the last six years. In his words he felt like he 'was carrying the weight of his parents on his back'. In various discussions with people the South Koreans on the camino appear to have their own special place. Like the Spanish they tend to walk in groups rather than solo, uniquely they can walk into the communal kitchen and come out with an aromatic banquet made from whatever the local store has to offer, and one of the albergues on the way serves South Korean cuisine for the evening meal. Later in my adventure I was to stay at the English run albergue where they offer afternoon tea and rich tea biscuits and a breakfast consisting of bread and jam. Whilst this basic fare was a deliberate reflection of an authentic pilgrim's experience of basic living, it does dent the national pride if you choose to make comparisons.
The South Korean man and I drifted apart after a while and I was walking down a gentle incline when I observed an elderly man walking up past me. He was wearing homespun clothes and a canvas bag on his back. With his tanned and sun creased face and bleached hair, he had the air of a corfiot shepherd or goat herder I had observed in Corfu earlier that year. What most struck me was his approach to walking. He walked slowly and deliberately as if thinking about the effort involved in each step - and if it was worth it - and would pause every few steps as if performing some straight line dance. And slowly, one-two-three-rest, and slowly, one-two-three-rest. There was something of a beast of burden about his gait though he travelled light and looked athletic for his age. Dragging my inquisitive gaze from this gentle man I then noticed his companion following ten metres behind walking with the same slow one-two-three-rest gait. I puzzled over this odd tableau for a while before realising that the donkey walking ten metres behind was setting the pace and the man was mirroring the donkey's progress up the slope. Neither in a rush and neither in charge of proceedings. It was hard to know if they were pilgrims or just going about their daily business. Though walking is the main means of travel on a camino there are quite a number of cyclists, horseback riders are allowed, and some very small number take a donkey to help with luggage though the practicalities of food and stabling can be a challenge.
Approaching Logrono at the end of the day I see Luis and Lucille ahead so I speed up just enough to meet them as we enter Logrono itself and lazily I leave Luis to survey the handy street map that appears just as we enter the town. This shows the town's albergues and I follow Luis's lead to our agreed (though second choice) albergue. After the usual albergue routine I have shopped for my share of the evening meal (wine and cake) and return to the albergue just in time to see Pierre and Colette checking in. We agree to eat at 7:00 pm and get on with our own plans which for me was a tour of the town including a photo exhibition and some journal writing. With the French group re-assembled we all enjoyed a relaxed meal though Luis did appear to be getting over-confident with my level of French. Though I have spent some time re-learning the little French I once knew it is not enough and as Colette points out, the 'avec' I learnt gets pronounced 'aveth' in her regional French.
For the following day Pierre, who I suspect had originally orchestrated our loose group, now wants a slower day; Luis has apparently been driving him too hard out on the road. Luis and Lucille will stay at the next big town for reasons of accommodation security and Colette will push on to Azofra as she needs to be in Santiago to meet her husband on the fourth of October. I leave my options open and make a note of the various albergues people are heading to in the realisation that tomorrow was perhaps a new phase in my journey.
Chapter 4. Rioja