5. The Meseta
The twentieth of September and the start of the meseta, though this is not on my mind as I squirm out of my sleeping bag and fall out of my bunk to join the early risers. It is a feature of the larger albergues that there will be a few early birds who get up before dawn and act as the catalyst for a small avalanche of pilgrims scrambling out of their sleeping bags and groping around in the dark with or without headlamps. Going through the morning routine I go to the communal kitchen-cum-dining area to complete my packing and hydrate ready for the day ahead. There are a lot of people getting ready; around forty. There is an atmosphere of quiet anticipation as everyone makes their own preparations. Water bottles filled, food eaten, feet treated as required, and creams applied. Boots found, put on, laces tied then re-tied.
As I learnt when buying boots for this trip the simple act of tying laces is a dark art. Was I so clueless that I didn't even know how to tie my own laces? It seemed so, and the expert boot consultant in the outdoorsy shop near Piccadilly was not going to let me do anything so dangerous as walk without full instruction. Apparently, as soon as you put on your boot you lift your foot, toes up, and tap the heel so the heel of your foot is pushed back against the heel of the boot. Prepared in this way you then need to keep the lacing on the front section (the toe box) fairly loose to allow room for your feet to swell as they warm up and to help the toes to stop rubbing, then make the last lace crossing on the flat section tighter to ensure that your heel does not ride up and rub on the heel of the boot. Then a lace crossing on the vertical section needs to be tight enough to stop your feet sliding forward and the sole of your foot rubbing as you walk downhill. To ensure the laces don't re-adjust themselves during walking to create an overall average tension, you loop the lace ends over each other as in the start of a normal lace-up but you do this three times to create enough lace-on-lace friction that the lacing tension remains as you intended. In this way your boots are done up tighter than you might normally expect near the ankle but this stops your feet moving within the boot and stops rubbing which is the cause of those retched blisters. Instructed thus I am then allowed to take the boots for a test drive around the shop taking in the mandatory double ramp which allows me to walk up, and then down, thereby demonstrating that I am a competent walker. I pass the test with flying colours and am allowed to purchase the boots with an implied promise of unlimited mileage. Though this strict walkers code on lacing turned out to be more like a set of guidelines, people would re-tie their laces if their feet swelled during the day, take their boots off over any longer stops to let them dry out, and tighten the laces if they were about to hit a downhill section of path. Given you might wear a lining sock then a thicker sock it is not unusual to buy a boot that is a size up from your normal shoe size. Complicated stuff this walking.
Back in the albergue, the next phase of stretching and warming up begins as if before a park run or a half-marathon. This sense of a race-about-to-start is heightened as the doors today are locked shut until 6:30 am so the numbers swell and people gravitate to the exit waiting for the starter's pistol. I hang back and when the doors open promptly at 6:30 am there is a surge forward and around fifty pilgrims spill out onto the street. Emerging into the street after the first rush I expect to see a single stream of people on a route march heading out of town. I forget that most pilgrims are somewhat more prepared than me in their day to day planning and the stream has split into two as if pre-arranged by the pilgrim sergeant major. One group sprint over the road into the cafe for breakfast with the other cohort starting their hike for the day. I am surprised to see this artificial group of early walkers quickly evaporate into the early dawn with the speed-walkers disappearing into the distance ahead and others peeling off the main route either to another cafe or thinking they know a better route out of town. I had checked out the way back onto the camino the night before and pick my way through the streets and over Burgos's substantial river. Despite the surfeit of walkers leaving the hostel I find myself mostly alone already. The sun has not risen and the moon is no longer providing much light so finding the way-marking becomes harder and I pause at the entrance to a park. A pair of French women turn up with guidebook in hand and are discussing the way. All I hear is an animated dialogue of 'Oui! Oui! Oui!' and the other 'Non! Non! Non!' and they eventually cut through the park along a main thoroughfare. I follow their lead being too lazy to extract my guidebook which is still in crisp one-careful-owner condition. At the park exit I locate again the vital camino signs and try to signal the way to the French women with 'fléche jaune' supplemented by exaggerated pointing. They ignore me and prefer to continue their conversation with 'Oui! Oui! Oui!' and the other 'Non! Non! Non!'. Not for the first time I ponder the merits of solo travelling and the perils of trying to tackle a camino with a group. I would meet friends, couples, sisters and brothers all making a successful pilgrimage together though the wrong companion choice could destroy a partnership, a camino or both.
Once out of Burgos, the sun rises and I find myself walking in step with a pair of welsh women. Conversations still takes the familiar course. Where are you from? Where did you start from and where will you finish? I am eating breakfast as I walk and offer them some. Liquorice is not everyone's first choice for breakfast but I had bought a bag in Logrono on impulse. Realising that at 400 grams the weight of liquorice I was carrying was disproportionately high I'd decided to make a sustained effort to actually eat them rather than carry them all the way to Santiago. The Welsh women decline but acknowledge my meal choice with one commenting 'Ah yes, liquorice, the breakfast of champions!'. I smile my appreciation and soon discover that liquorice is third on my list of preferred breakfasts. Second place still goes to Sri Lankan fish curry and first place to a memorable breakfast at a lost-in-time hotel while walking the South Downs Way. This included pastries, kippers, porridge with cream and whiskey, and traditional English breakfast, all in a series of relaxed courses with waitress service. This breakfast was mostly memorable because one of our fellow diners, when presented with the long menu asked for a tomato. The waitress perused the subject and eventually teased out the full breakfast choice. A single tomato. Uncooked. And just to be adventurous, the chef was welcome to cut it into quarters.
After thirteen miles I reach Hornillos del Camino which is a normal stage by the guidebook. Reading back the place name, Hornillos del Camino, I assume this is no recent re-branding to cash in on the current popularity of the camino but simply that the village of Hornillos was created some centuries after the camino in the same way that the river Thames had been around long before Kingston upon Thames. It is still only 11:00 am and as usual it feels too early to stop for the day but a great place for a café con leche.
As I learnt when buying boots for this trip the simple act of tying laces is a dark art. Was I so clueless that I didn't even know how to tie my own laces? It seemed so, and the expert boot consultant in the outdoorsy shop near Piccadilly was not going to let me do anything so dangerous as walk without full instruction. Apparently, as soon as you put on your boot you lift your foot, toes up, and tap the heel so the heel of your foot is pushed back against the heel of the boot. Prepared in this way you then need to keep the lacing on the front section (the toe box) fairly loose to allow room for your feet to swell as they warm up and to help the toes to stop rubbing, then make the last lace crossing on the flat section tighter to ensure that your heel does not ride up and rub on the heel of the boot. Then a lace crossing on the vertical section needs to be tight enough to stop your feet sliding forward and the sole of your foot rubbing as you walk downhill. To ensure the laces don't re-adjust themselves during walking to create an overall average tension, you loop the lace ends over each other as in the start of a normal lace-up but you do this three times to create enough lace-on-lace friction that the lacing tension remains as you intended. In this way your boots are done up tighter than you might normally expect near the ankle but this stops your feet moving within the boot and stops rubbing which is the cause of those retched blisters. Instructed thus I am then allowed to take the boots for a test drive around the shop taking in the mandatory double ramp which allows me to walk up, and then down, thereby demonstrating that I am a competent walker. I pass the test with flying colours and am allowed to purchase the boots with an implied promise of unlimited mileage. Though this strict walkers code on lacing turned out to be more like a set of guidelines, people would re-tie their laces if their feet swelled during the day, take their boots off over any longer stops to let them dry out, and tighten the laces if they were about to hit a downhill section of path. Given you might wear a lining sock then a thicker sock it is not unusual to buy a boot that is a size up from your normal shoe size. Complicated stuff this walking.
Back in the albergue, the next phase of stretching and warming up begins as if before a park run or a half-marathon. This sense of a race-about-to-start is heightened as the doors today are locked shut until 6:30 am so the numbers swell and people gravitate to the exit waiting for the starter's pistol. I hang back and when the doors open promptly at 6:30 am there is a surge forward and around fifty pilgrims spill out onto the street. Emerging into the street after the first rush I expect to see a single stream of people on a route march heading out of town. I forget that most pilgrims are somewhat more prepared than me in their day to day planning and the stream has split into two as if pre-arranged by the pilgrim sergeant major. One group sprint over the road into the cafe for breakfast with the other cohort starting their hike for the day. I am surprised to see this artificial group of early walkers quickly evaporate into the early dawn with the speed-walkers disappearing into the distance ahead and others peeling off the main route either to another cafe or thinking they know a better route out of town. I had checked out the way back onto the camino the night before and pick my way through the streets and over Burgos's substantial river. Despite the surfeit of walkers leaving the hostel I find myself mostly alone already. The sun has not risen and the moon is no longer providing much light so finding the way-marking becomes harder and I pause at the entrance to a park. A pair of French women turn up with guidebook in hand and are discussing the way. All I hear is an animated dialogue of 'Oui! Oui! Oui!' and the other 'Non! Non! Non!' and they eventually cut through the park along a main thoroughfare. I follow their lead being too lazy to extract my guidebook which is still in crisp one-careful-owner condition. At the park exit I locate again the vital camino signs and try to signal the way to the French women with 'fléche jaune' supplemented by exaggerated pointing. They ignore me and prefer to continue their conversation with 'Oui! Oui! Oui!' and the other 'Non! Non! Non!'. Not for the first time I ponder the merits of solo travelling and the perils of trying to tackle a camino with a group. I would meet friends, couples, sisters and brothers all making a successful pilgrimage together though the wrong companion choice could destroy a partnership, a camino or both.
Once out of Burgos, the sun rises and I find myself walking in step with a pair of welsh women. Conversations still takes the familiar course. Where are you from? Where did you start from and where will you finish? I am eating breakfast as I walk and offer them some. Liquorice is not everyone's first choice for breakfast but I had bought a bag in Logrono on impulse. Realising that at 400 grams the weight of liquorice I was carrying was disproportionately high I'd decided to make a sustained effort to actually eat them rather than carry them all the way to Santiago. The Welsh women decline but acknowledge my meal choice with one commenting 'Ah yes, liquorice, the breakfast of champions!'. I smile my appreciation and soon discover that liquorice is third on my list of preferred breakfasts. Second place still goes to Sri Lankan fish curry and first place to a memorable breakfast at a lost-in-time hotel while walking the South Downs Way. This included pastries, kippers, porridge with cream and whiskey, and traditional English breakfast, all in a series of relaxed courses with waitress service. This breakfast was mostly memorable because one of our fellow diners, when presented with the long menu asked for a tomato. The waitress perused the subject and eventually teased out the full breakfast choice. A single tomato. Uncooked. And just to be adventurous, the chef was welcome to cut it into quarters.
After thirteen miles I reach Hornillos del Camino which is a normal stage by the guidebook. Reading back the place name, Hornillos del Camino, I assume this is no recent re-branding to cash in on the current popularity of the camino but simply that the village of Hornillos was created some centuries after the camino in the same way that the river Thames had been around long before Kingston upon Thames. It is still only 11:00 am and as usual it feels too early to stop for the day but a great place for a café con leche.
Though my camera has mostly stayed packed away I have made an effort to pick out some shots of the meseta, its villages and the various forms of signage. Most notable is that in addition to the way-marks the very fabric of the built environment is influenced by the camino. Walls, bridges, gates, and houses will have the scallop shell emblem built in to them in a very solid and lasting manner, carved in stone or cast in bronze. Despite this being the unrelenting meseta there is much to interest me and I enjoy the soft swell of the landscape as it rises up then dips away underneath my feet. The swell reminds me of my sailing days and the few occasions I ventured to sea; though without the uncontrollable vomiting.
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| "Hi, I am an albergue. Stop here if you like. If you are walking through then turn right." |
There are a lot of cyclists in evidence today which should not surprise me as they represented about six percent of the 350,000 pilgrims in 2019 who arrived in Santiago and received a compostela. I pass a South Korean man who is sat resting at the side of the path playing melodic tunes on a taegum (also spelled daeguem) which is a type of Korean woodwind instrument. My tenth day walking and I am in reflective mood probably brought on by the meseta. Hopefully I will see Pierre again as he was at the last albergue. Though he tends to walk more slowly he does put in the miles and I know he has a deadline to meet a friend in Madrid. I think Luis and Lucille are ahead of me now and it is doubtful I will see them again. Colette remains and though she very much does her own thing she still appears as if from nowhere and will provide me with a suggestion for the next town or albergue before vanishing again. Her mileage recommendations suit me and as she studies the guidebook she finds good places to stop and stay. I realise that despite the time spent on preparation and research on recommended albergues I had not really tuned into where to stay.
The sun is out and as we have entered the meseta it is a day for sun protection. Like many I rely on a large wide brimmed hat as my main defense whilst some opt for an umbrella or parasol with jury rigging to attach it to their rucksack. As it is autumn the wheat, barley and oats have already been harvested to leave eight-inch high straw stubble in the endless rolling fields. No swaying fields of ripening grains to wonder at for me, though the sunflowers have gone over to seed heads and are at the point of harvest. I find I can chew on the grains and spit out the husks as a tasty and healthy snack if there are no better option such as figs or brambles.
The large expanse of the meseta is punctuated by small valleys which are home to the various small towns and villages along the way such as today's end point which is the small pilgrim town of Hontanas and the albergue El Puntido. Being accustomed now to the various formats of albergue I am not surprised that this one is part of a bar-cum-restaurant with accommodation above. I pay for a bed and pilgrim meal and go through the afternoon ritual until my clothes and I are relatively clean. I lose patience with my soap. One of my few attempts at lightweight packing was to acquire some soap leaves. These one inch by two inch rectangular slips of soap look and feel like soapy rice paper. Each leaf quickly clogs into a sticky mess as soon as it comes into contact with water and is then hard to use. The effect is sticky smudges of chewy soap on the shower wall, soap dish and on which ever part of my body one of the leaves happen to stick to. I had been discussing my hygiene challenges with the person at the sink next to me the night before and with a subtle wrinkling of the nose she had provided some simple advice, 'acheter du savon', so tonight I would do just that.
Unusually, today is a day of English speakers. There is a Canadian who is desperate to inform us that he is walking forty kilometres (twenty-five miles) a day whilst at the same time trying to be modest about the fact. He is in his early 60s and in his own words at a transitional point in his life. Aren't we all? When he feels he has a large enough audience (four will do) he agrees reluctantly to read out some of his journal entries though no one is quite sure who had made this demand of him. From the segment he reads, the journal is his interpretation of the characters and national stereotypes of the people he has met along the way. I cannot criticise the approach as most would struggle to write honestly about themselves and their journey let alone read it out loud and we all secretly love people watching; that is my admission that I spent my camino observing people. He has not mentioned the British so far and I wonder at how the next day's entry will read. Note to self, don't complain about the excess of sun in Spain or the lack of builder's tea. There is a couple from Colchester in the audience as we stand in a cluster in the dormitory and when the Canadian's entertaining monologue is over they chat about their experience so far. She has just given up teaching and will go back to teaching if she gets bored of retirement. I recognise and sympathise with the 'I am retired but not retired' status from when I gave up work. They usually cycle on holiday and walking is a new mode of travel for them which has meant that - although they are fit and healthy - the continual pounding along gravel tracks has caused problems for their feet and she especially is looking deflated though she tries to be positive.
The evening pilgrim meal is not until 7:00 pm so I attend to the daily checklist. First some shopping, and I walk back to the small bar-cum-restaurant-cum-shop I had noticed on the entrance to town and buy two apples for the follow day and a large bar of lemon scented soap. Next, a visit to the local church which would also provide mass later in the evening. This is a town used to catering for pilgrims and an area at the back of the church has been decked out as a meditation area with mats, cushions and candles. Someone is meditating in the Hakini Mudra yoga pose and the ever-efficient Colette is already there and at work on her journal. I find some quiet space and complete my daily journal entry ready for a hearty pilgrim meal and back to church for the pilgrim mass. Though Christian by birth I am not practicing and not Catholic. On the camino however the occasional pilgrim masses do provide some of the space and support to help you on your way. Blessings are provided to everyone and can provide the 'come on you can do this' support you need.
The twenty-first of September and it is an early start as I hit the road at 6:15 am. It is still dark when I pass through the Arco de San Antón (Saint Anthony's Arch) where bread was left for pilgrims in medieval times. Just as daylight is breaking on the camino I stop to admire the church of Our Lady of the Apple with its stained glass rose window. Though it is early, this is the camino and the church is open and an attendant is ready to take a donation. Today is a walk through the beguiling meseta and with little to distract me I walk continuously for twenty-one of the twenty-two miles planned for today; this takes around seven hours. The landscape today is flat and featureless, and the path joins a canal where a side wind picks up. Whether it is the effects of the meseta or my error in not resting a while, my mind decides it has had enough. My body could push on I am sure, but with a mile to go to the albergue my mind has decided enough is enough and when I reach a small brick hut I sit down and shelter from the lazy wind; a lazy wind because it does not bother to go round you preferring the direct route straight through you. This is not an obvious stopping place as people hurry on to secure a bed at the next town so the few people that pass all inquire after my well-being in some way. It is a blessing and a curse that everyone helps each other on the road to Santiago. 'Are you OK?' one asks, another asks if I would you like a banana. I reply politely that I am OK with enough conviction to be left in peace where I sat. I must have looked totally dejected as the next voice is vaguely familiar and inquires with a degree of polite formality 'es-tu mort?'. Realising I am slumped at the side of the path propped up by a small wall like a discarded scarecrow, I simultaneously try to rally myself for another polite response while trying to translate this new phrase. Again, and with more urgency, 'es-tu mort?'. Are you dead? I now recognise the no-nonsense voice and realising that a response was required I slowly get up, slowly swing the dead weight of my rucksack on my back and without a word allow myself to be led into Frómista, and the municipal albergue near the town centre. Once safely delivered my rescuer disappears and when I am rested and showered I wander the streets and view Frómista's charming Iglesia de San Martín with its pure eleventh century Romanesque architecture molded in soft yellow stone, and then the fifteenth century Gothic Iglesia de San Pedro. Looking back on my journal notes I see I managed barely a page and wonder at why day eleven brought so much mental fatigue. Maybe it was the power of the meseta. The weather has closed in with cloud and drizzle and I hear the forecast for the following day is confused; the weather will be either good or bad. The normal stage is twelve miles to Carrión de los Condes which is a short day, then the next albergues are in Calzadilla de la Cueza which is a another ten miles making it a long day. According to my adviser that night the weather will determine tomorrow's walking and I am happy with that.
The twenty-second of September and I see my hand-written journal reflects on the fact that the French group has now lost itself in the dust of the camino and I feel alone again for the first time since that solitary hotel room in Bayonne in France. Oddly, I am still bumping into Colette occasionally though even she did not know what today would bring. Quoting directly from my hand-written journal I see that '...The first half of today was a soulless tramp from Frómista to Carrión, and while Carrión is a fine town and boasts churches and shops it is a Sunday and the town is quiet with no food readily visible'. I visit a Romanesque church more out of a sense of duty to the camino than interest and, because the weather has held fine, I decide to walk on through Carrión and make it another long day.
My journal entry must reflect my down-beat mood on day twelve as my camera was busy taking snaps and looking back, I see Carrión is a beautiful medieval town which in its heyday boasted fourteen hospitals to support the large numbers of pilgrims. Of course the medieval hospital was about basic hospitality and not health care; a simple affair of a roof, water and basic sustenance. The modern-day pilgrim is guided through town with brass plates with the word Carrion above and a scallop shell below, all proudly embedded in the pavement. In the centre of town, a small seat encourages the tired pilgrim with the news that there is only another 401 Km to go to Santiago de Compostela as if this is good news.
It is a long day and with no obvious food options in Carrión I am conscious of a growing hunger as I leave the town. Naturally the camino delivers what you need and I come across an open, if unpromising, petrol station. This being Spain however, I can buy some excellent bread, ham and cheese and soon after I am sat in a ditch at the side of the path enjoying a sandwich lunch. The second half of day twelve was more gravel tracks across the flat meseta and already I am longing for the hills of Galicia. I chat briefly to a woman (French of course) I have seen a few times about today's long or short options and also to a Spanish woman who was living in Paris with her husband and young children and doing the second half of a camino she started two years ago. In her words she was taking time out from family and career just for herself. As someone who didn't take a gap year after university or anytime after until I retired, I had a lot of admiration for the few mid-career people I met who had the thoughtfulness, conviction and wherewithal to taken time out.
I check-in to the albergue Camino Real in Calzadilla at 2:00 pm following the usual routine. Smiling the hospitalero says 'Have a chair you look exhausted', then frowning he asks 'Did you book?', and smiling again he confirms 'What luck we have a bed free'. Even at 2:00 pm the albergue was nearly full and this was the quieter shoulder season. Having survived the bed allocation roller-coaster routine I shower, recover and coax the washing machine - with the help of four euros - to bring my laundry up to date and hang it out to dry. Today was a curious day and I feel as if I had been hung out to dry by the meseta. A real foot slog over flat gravel tracks with little on offer other than glorious Carrión which was closed. Food today was an excellent pilgrim meal with unlimited wine though today's protocol at the independent restaurant was to sit people in their respective groups and for me today that meant a rather glum table for one when a little company would have been welcome. However, rested and with the promise of a shorter day to come I am feeling uplifted as I rest my head for the night.
The twenty-third of September and I had studied the guide book the previous night as I had no one to guide me on today's journey. I started walking at 7:00 am as the terrain looked rougher and I did not want to walk too long in the dark and risk injury. Reaching the next village by 9:00 am I stop for café con leche and a tortilla. This is Terradillos de los Templarios and an approximate half-way point on the five hundred mile camino. Though this is a real landmark on my adventure I guess I am now feeling lost in the open and empty meseta. That is the whole point of the meseta, to put you in a position of solitude with very few distractions, prompting introspection and nudging you to make that 'five hundred mile journey to yourself' as the poster keeps telling me. It has been easy for me to live with no TV, radio, internet, reading material or constant company on the camino, but the lack of hills and varying scenery was taking its toll as was the daily mileage over the last twelve days. As I type up hand-written journal notes I have the benefit of hindsight and I can see that - contrary to some of my earlier statements - I was missing music and had been humming Madam Butterfly badly for some days now and struggling to remember the little poetry I know. I wished I'd had the foresight to bring a few pages of Christina Rossetti or Elizabeth Barrett Browning. If you can recall any film where the luckless hero walks in delirium across a dessert, prairie or other barren landscape then that was me, only without the hero element. Being deprived of any mobile device was to be a good thing for me though it does leave you alone and you feel that on the meseta. The camino as a whole is often described as a therapy road and I would agree with that statement with the addition that the meseta is the section that tells you what therapy you need if you did not already know.
Back in the cafe in Terradillos de los Templarios, I stand at the counter and place my order when the woman stood next to me asks if I can look after her rucksack while she visits the toilet. It is Colette and when she returns, she quickly suggests an albergue for the end of the day and promptly leaves. Our paths cross again as we enter Sahagún and we sight-see then lunch together on empanada in the main square before walking our own way again.
The sun is out and as we have entered the meseta it is a day for sun protection. Like many I rely on a large wide brimmed hat as my main defense whilst some opt for an umbrella or parasol with jury rigging to attach it to their rucksack. As it is autumn the wheat, barley and oats have already been harvested to leave eight-inch high straw stubble in the endless rolling fields. No swaying fields of ripening grains to wonder at for me, though the sunflowers have gone over to seed heads and are at the point of harvest. I find I can chew on the grains and spit out the husks as a tasty and healthy snack if there are no better option such as figs or brambles.
The large expanse of the meseta is punctuated by small valleys which are home to the various small towns and villages along the way such as today's end point which is the small pilgrim town of Hontanas and the albergue El Puntido. Being accustomed now to the various formats of albergue I am not surprised that this one is part of a bar-cum-restaurant with accommodation above. I pay for a bed and pilgrim meal and go through the afternoon ritual until my clothes and I are relatively clean. I lose patience with my soap. One of my few attempts at lightweight packing was to acquire some soap leaves. These one inch by two inch rectangular slips of soap look and feel like soapy rice paper. Each leaf quickly clogs into a sticky mess as soon as it comes into contact with water and is then hard to use. The effect is sticky smudges of chewy soap on the shower wall, soap dish and on which ever part of my body one of the leaves happen to stick to. I had been discussing my hygiene challenges with the person at the sink next to me the night before and with a subtle wrinkling of the nose she had provided some simple advice, 'acheter du savon', so tonight I would do just that.
 |
| The small pilgrim town of Hontanas |
Unusually, today is a day of English speakers. There is a Canadian who is desperate to inform us that he is walking forty kilometres (twenty-five miles) a day whilst at the same time trying to be modest about the fact. He is in his early 60s and in his own words at a transitional point in his life. Aren't we all? When he feels he has a large enough audience (four will do) he agrees reluctantly to read out some of his journal entries though no one is quite sure who had made this demand of him. From the segment he reads, the journal is his interpretation of the characters and national stereotypes of the people he has met along the way. I cannot criticise the approach as most would struggle to write honestly about themselves and their journey let alone read it out loud and we all secretly love people watching; that is my admission that I spent my camino observing people. He has not mentioned the British so far and I wonder at how the next day's entry will read. Note to self, don't complain about the excess of sun in Spain or the lack of builder's tea. There is a couple from Colchester in the audience as we stand in a cluster in the dormitory and when the Canadian's entertaining monologue is over they chat about their experience so far. She has just given up teaching and will go back to teaching if she gets bored of retirement. I recognise and sympathise with the 'I am retired but not retired' status from when I gave up work. They usually cycle on holiday and walking is a new mode of travel for them which has meant that - although they are fit and healthy - the continual pounding along gravel tracks has caused problems for their feet and she especially is looking deflated though she tries to be positive.
The evening pilgrim meal is not until 7:00 pm so I attend to the daily checklist. First some shopping, and I walk back to the small bar-cum-restaurant-cum-shop I had noticed on the entrance to town and buy two apples for the follow day and a large bar of lemon scented soap. Next, a visit to the local church which would also provide mass later in the evening. This is a town used to catering for pilgrims and an area at the back of the church has been decked out as a meditation area with mats, cushions and candles. Someone is meditating in the Hakini Mudra yoga pose and the ever-efficient Colette is already there and at work on her journal. I find some quiet space and complete my daily journal entry ready for a hearty pilgrim meal and back to church for the pilgrim mass. Though Christian by birth I am not practicing and not Catholic. On the camino however the occasional pilgrim masses do provide some of the space and support to help you on your way. Blessings are provided to everyone and can provide the 'come on you can do this' support you need.
The twenty-first of September and it is an early start as I hit the road at 6:15 am. It is still dark when I pass through the Arco de San Antón (Saint Anthony's Arch) where bread was left for pilgrims in medieval times. Just as daylight is breaking on the camino I stop to admire the church of Our Lady of the Apple with its stained glass rose window. Though it is early, this is the camino and the church is open and an attendant is ready to take a donation. Today is a walk through the beguiling meseta and with little to distract me I walk continuously for twenty-one of the twenty-two miles planned for today; this takes around seven hours. The landscape today is flat and featureless, and the path joins a canal where a side wind picks up. Whether it is the effects of the meseta or my error in not resting a while, my mind decides it has had enough. My body could push on I am sure, but with a mile to go to the albergue my mind has decided enough is enough and when I reach a small brick hut I sit down and shelter from the lazy wind; a lazy wind because it does not bother to go round you preferring the direct route straight through you. This is not an obvious stopping place as people hurry on to secure a bed at the next town so the few people that pass all inquire after my well-being in some way. It is a blessing and a curse that everyone helps each other on the road to Santiago. 'Are you OK?' one asks, another asks if I would you like a banana. I reply politely that I am OK with enough conviction to be left in peace where I sat. I must have looked totally dejected as the next voice is vaguely familiar and inquires with a degree of polite formality 'es-tu mort?'. Realising I am slumped at the side of the path propped up by a small wall like a discarded scarecrow, I simultaneously try to rally myself for another polite response while trying to translate this new phrase. Again, and with more urgency, 'es-tu mort?'. Are you dead? I now recognise the no-nonsense voice and realising that a response was required I slowly get up, slowly swing the dead weight of my rucksack on my back and without a word allow myself to be led into Frómista, and the municipal albergue near the town centre. Once safely delivered my rescuer disappears and when I am rested and showered I wander the streets and view Frómista's charming Iglesia de San Martín with its pure eleventh century Romanesque architecture molded in soft yellow stone, and then the fifteenth century Gothic Iglesia de San Pedro. Looking back on my journal notes I see I managed barely a page and wonder at why day eleven brought so much mental fatigue. Maybe it was the power of the meseta. The weather has closed in with cloud and drizzle and I hear the forecast for the following day is confused; the weather will be either good or bad. The normal stage is twelve miles to Carrión de los Condes which is a short day, then the next albergues are in Calzadilla de la Cueza which is a another ten miles making it a long day. According to my adviser that night the weather will determine tomorrow's walking and I am happy with that.
The twenty-second of September and I see my hand-written journal reflects on the fact that the French group has now lost itself in the dust of the camino and I feel alone again for the first time since that solitary hotel room in Bayonne in France. Oddly, I am still bumping into Colette occasionally though even she did not know what today would bring. Quoting directly from my hand-written journal I see that '...The first half of today was a soulless tramp from Frómista to Carrión, and while Carrión is a fine town and boasts churches and shops it is a Sunday and the town is quiet with no food readily visible'. I visit a Romanesque church more out of a sense of duty to the camino than interest and, because the weather has held fine, I decide to walk on through Carrión and make it another long day.
My journal entry must reflect my down-beat mood on day twelve as my camera was busy taking snaps and looking back, I see Carrión is a beautiful medieval town which in its heyday boasted fourteen hospitals to support the large numbers of pilgrims. Of course the medieval hospital was about basic hospitality and not health care; a simple affair of a roof, water and basic sustenance. The modern-day pilgrim is guided through town with brass plates with the word Carrion above and a scallop shell below, all proudly embedded in the pavement. In the centre of town, a small seat encourages the tired pilgrim with the news that there is only another 401 Km to go to Santiago de Compostela as if this is good news.
It is a long day and with no obvious food options in Carrión I am conscious of a growing hunger as I leave the town. Naturally the camino delivers what you need and I come across an open, if unpromising, petrol station. This being Spain however, I can buy some excellent bread, ham and cheese and soon after I am sat in a ditch at the side of the path enjoying a sandwich lunch. The second half of day twelve was more gravel tracks across the flat meseta and already I am longing for the hills of Galicia. I chat briefly to a woman (French of course) I have seen a few times about today's long or short options and also to a Spanish woman who was living in Paris with her husband and young children and doing the second half of a camino she started two years ago. In her words she was taking time out from family and career just for herself. As someone who didn't take a gap year after university or anytime after until I retired, I had a lot of admiration for the few mid-career people I met who had the thoughtfulness, conviction and wherewithal to taken time out.
I check-in to the albergue Camino Real in Calzadilla at 2:00 pm following the usual routine. Smiling the hospitalero says 'Have a chair you look exhausted', then frowning he asks 'Did you book?', and smiling again he confirms 'What luck we have a bed free'. Even at 2:00 pm the albergue was nearly full and this was the quieter shoulder season. Having survived the bed allocation roller-coaster routine I shower, recover and coax the washing machine - with the help of four euros - to bring my laundry up to date and hang it out to dry. Today was a curious day and I feel as if I had been hung out to dry by the meseta. A real foot slog over flat gravel tracks with little on offer other than glorious Carrión which was closed. Food today was an excellent pilgrim meal with unlimited wine though today's protocol at the independent restaurant was to sit people in their respective groups and for me today that meant a rather glum table for one when a little company would have been welcome. However, rested and with the promise of a shorter day to come I am feeling uplifted as I rest my head for the night.
The twenty-third of September and I had studied the guide book the previous night as I had no one to guide me on today's journey. I started walking at 7:00 am as the terrain looked rougher and I did not want to walk too long in the dark and risk injury. Reaching the next village by 9:00 am I stop for café con leche and a tortilla. This is Terradillos de los Templarios and an approximate half-way point on the five hundred mile camino. Though this is a real landmark on my adventure I guess I am now feeling lost in the open and empty meseta. That is the whole point of the meseta, to put you in a position of solitude with very few distractions, prompting introspection and nudging you to make that 'five hundred mile journey to yourself' as the poster keeps telling me. It has been easy for me to live with no TV, radio, internet, reading material or constant company on the camino, but the lack of hills and varying scenery was taking its toll as was the daily mileage over the last twelve days. As I type up hand-written journal notes I have the benefit of hindsight and I can see that - contrary to some of my earlier statements - I was missing music and had been humming Madam Butterfly badly for some days now and struggling to remember the little poetry I know. I wished I'd had the foresight to bring a few pages of Christina Rossetti or Elizabeth Barrett Browning. If you can recall any film where the luckless hero walks in delirium across a dessert, prairie or other barren landscape then that was me, only without the hero element. Being deprived of any mobile device was to be a good thing for me though it does leave you alone and you feel that on the meseta. The camino as a whole is often described as a therapy road and I would agree with that statement with the addition that the meseta is the section that tells you what therapy you need if you did not already know.
Back in the cafe in Terradillos de los Templarios, I stand at the counter and place my order when the woman stood next to me asks if I can look after her rucksack while she visits the toilet. It is Colette and when she returns, she quickly suggests an albergue for the end of the day and promptly leaves. Our paths cross again as we enter Sahagún and we sight-see then lunch together on empanada in the main square before walking our own way again.
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| Sahagún with its mix of building types |
Though it was another day of meseta stretching out to the horizon in all directions with endless fields of stubble after the grain harvest, the bird-life was out in full vocal force and though there were no brambles or figs to delight me the ripe sunflower seeds offered a light snack. I tramp along a dusty gravel track and having checked in to one of the albergues at Bercianos del Real Camino I take a walk around this nondescript village which is made up of a mix of ancient derelict buildings, new builds and everything in between. It is large enough to warrant some signage but has few signs so I wander the empty maze of streets and find a small supermarket which promises to open later at 5:00 pm; I stroll on and sit in a small park. An elderly Korean woman comes along and starts playing the taegum to an upbeat tinny backing track and is soon joined by her husband who enjoys the simple pleasure of a swing in the park. I enjoy this small concert and am intrigued when I recognise the Irish tune "Oh Danny Boy" flowing from the taegum. A ancient South Korean lady playing an Irish classic tune in a sleepy Spanish farming village; it must be the camino. 5:30 pm and I head back to the shop and buy sardines in olive oil, cucumber, tomato and a rather large bar of nut chocolate to celebrate passing the half-way mark. My mood improves once I have eaten, and having shared my chocolate and conversation with some fellow pilgrims by 7:40 pm feeling fully rested I do a final tour of this unassuming village which is now surprisingly full of surprising life. The men are grouped playing a Spanish version of boules, the women are assembled in a hall, and a lively card school is operating in a garage.
The twenty-fourth of September and I wake feeling in good spirits. I realised over-night that the meseta is my opportunity to do some of the grieving for my mother that I have always found so hard to do. I say opportunity, when really the meseta is forcing it on me, in good way, so I give in and get on with the walking. Stopping to apply a plaster to a rare toe blister I get to talk for a while to a woman from Hong Kong. She is walking alone, usually works in administration for a concrete testing company and knew about Brexit. She had blister problems at the start of her camino and a new pair of boots a full two sizes bigger than her shoe size had fixed the problem. This was quite typical of the passing conversations you have with people as you make your way to Santiago.
Having missed breakfast, I stop in Mansilla de las Mulas for a rare midday vino tinto and the Spanish version of a greasy spoon. I have a combination plate of salad, chips and veal. I have seen these combination plates a few times and suspect they are a made available for tourists. It is 12:10 pm when I have finished brunch, too early for my restless feet to stop so I push on still undecided where to stop that night. Naturally, by 2:00 pm I have had enough, I have run out of water and I stop at a rest shelter which has a convenient drinks vending machine. Two cans of fizzy pop later and, not for the first time, Colette turns up and we walk on for two miles to the next albergue in Puente Villarente. Colette is still not minded to speak English and pointing at our respective guidebooks is one way we can communicate. I am getting better at understanding her French which she is good at simplifying for me, and I have recalled much of my very limited French by now. Though I had not thought that far ahead, Colette mentions that we will be in León the next day with time for sightseeing and she is on track to reach Santiago for the fourth of October to meet her husband. I am way ahead on my unplanned schedule and I realise that, as I did again today, I am pushing forward for no good reason. Though Colette and I had never actually walked together other by accident on occasional days we have crossed paths from the first night so after the pilgrim meal I mentioned I would walk more slowly from now and thanked her for her help by way of a first and final goodbye. She said farewell and apologised for not making more effort with her English, but, as she explained, handling the Spanish language was enough for her.
The hostel is on the deluxe end of the spectrum and it is a welcomed sanctuary with a walled garden, beds and not bunks, modern bathroom, vending machine with beer and relaxed social areas. The pilgrim meal that night was excellent and the wine plentiful. There was a predominance of English speakers that night which made for easy table conversation. An interesting Canadian who had the air of as repeat pilgrim and who promoted the practice of making signs in the sand by the side of the path to signal he had passed that way to his group of companions. There were two women from Wiltshire who come and do the camino in two week stints each year and they had the air of characters from a 1970s sitcom as they chatted brightly. They were so Middle England they could be used to define the term. We are past the half-way point and maybe it was natural that conversation should turn to the arrival at Santiago and people's plans for the finish, who they will meet, and where they will go from there. Even if I slow-up I will have a lot of time in hand and I decide to walk on from Santiago to the town of Finisterre on the Atlantic coast with its famous lighthouse.
The twenty-fifth of September and today is a short seven-mile hop into León though it is not the best walking as you enter and leave León along the side of busy roads with some guide books recommending you just take a bus for those stretches. Lack of sleep and a tough two weeks have caught up with me and I sleep soundly from 8:30 pm to 7:30 am by which time everyone else has left.
Reaching León by 10:30 am and there is a pilgrim help stand as you enter the main town so I pick up a town map which the helper marks up with the location of my chosen albergue for that night. I stop off at a chemist for my chapped lips and find myself in a temple to the foot sore pilgrim. An Aladdin's cave of blister treatments, knee supports and foot care products. Tonight I stay at a convent near the city centre, a bargain for six euros; in recent years albergue prices have been creeping up though even the private and smarter albergues are around twelve euros. While waiting for it to open I get to say hello to the woman from Hong Kong, the taegum player and the pair of ladies from Wiltshire. Whilst the monasteries allow mixed-sex occupation this convent had strict rules and quickly separates the sexes into their respective dormitories. This gave the men a false sense of masculine freedom until they realise the nuns where happy to invade the male sanctuary. The way from Burgos to León had been a tough one for me and I look forward to a relaxed afternoon enjoying the bustling city centre and the magnificent architecture after a week of picking my way across the meseta and staying at the quieter villages. Though I believe the geographic meseta extended a little further I notice some contour lines on the outline map for the next day and I desperately needed León to be the end of the meseta for me. I draw a line in the sand and mentally start afresh.
León really delivers on architecture as it has the stunning Gothic cathedral, Gaudi's Casa de Botines and a host of other built gems.
Having missed breakfast, I stop in Mansilla de las Mulas for a rare midday vino tinto and the Spanish version of a greasy spoon. I have a combination plate of salad, chips and veal. I have seen these combination plates a few times and suspect they are a made available for tourists. It is 12:10 pm when I have finished brunch, too early for my restless feet to stop so I push on still undecided where to stop that night. Naturally, by 2:00 pm I have had enough, I have run out of water and I stop at a rest shelter which has a convenient drinks vending machine. Two cans of fizzy pop later and, not for the first time, Colette turns up and we walk on for two miles to the next albergue in Puente Villarente. Colette is still not minded to speak English and pointing at our respective guidebooks is one way we can communicate. I am getting better at understanding her French which she is good at simplifying for me, and I have recalled much of my very limited French by now. Though I had not thought that far ahead, Colette mentions that we will be in León the next day with time for sightseeing and she is on track to reach Santiago for the fourth of October to meet her husband. I am way ahead on my unplanned schedule and I realise that, as I did again today, I am pushing forward for no good reason. Though Colette and I had never actually walked together other by accident on occasional days we have crossed paths from the first night so after the pilgrim meal I mentioned I would walk more slowly from now and thanked her for her help by way of a first and final goodbye. She said farewell and apologised for not making more effort with her English, but, as she explained, handling the Spanish language was enough for her.
The hostel is on the deluxe end of the spectrum and it is a welcomed sanctuary with a walled garden, beds and not bunks, modern bathroom, vending machine with beer and relaxed social areas. The pilgrim meal that night was excellent and the wine plentiful. There was a predominance of English speakers that night which made for easy table conversation. An interesting Canadian who had the air of as repeat pilgrim and who promoted the practice of making signs in the sand by the side of the path to signal he had passed that way to his group of companions. There were two women from Wiltshire who come and do the camino in two week stints each year and they had the air of characters from a 1970s sitcom as they chatted brightly. They were so Middle England they could be used to define the term. We are past the half-way point and maybe it was natural that conversation should turn to the arrival at Santiago and people's plans for the finish, who they will meet, and where they will go from there. Even if I slow-up I will have a lot of time in hand and I decide to walk on from Santiago to the town of Finisterre on the Atlantic coast with its famous lighthouse.
The twenty-fifth of September and today is a short seven-mile hop into León though it is not the best walking as you enter and leave León along the side of busy roads with some guide books recommending you just take a bus for those stretches. Lack of sleep and a tough two weeks have caught up with me and I sleep soundly from 8:30 pm to 7:30 am by which time everyone else has left.
Reaching León by 10:30 am and there is a pilgrim help stand as you enter the main town so I pick up a town map which the helper marks up with the location of my chosen albergue for that night. I stop off at a chemist for my chapped lips and find myself in a temple to the foot sore pilgrim. An Aladdin's cave of blister treatments, knee supports and foot care products. Tonight I stay at a convent near the city centre, a bargain for six euros; in recent years albergue prices have been creeping up though even the private and smarter albergues are around twelve euros. While waiting for it to open I get to say hello to the woman from Hong Kong, the taegum player and the pair of ladies from Wiltshire. Whilst the monasteries allow mixed-sex occupation this convent had strict rules and quickly separates the sexes into their respective dormitories. This gave the men a false sense of masculine freedom until they realise the nuns where happy to invade the male sanctuary. The way from Burgos to León had been a tough one for me and I look forward to a relaxed afternoon enjoying the bustling city centre and the magnificent architecture after a week of picking my way across the meseta and staying at the quieter villages. Though I believe the geographic meseta extended a little further I notice some contour lines on the outline map for the next day and I desperately needed León to be the end of the meseta for me. I draw a line in the sand and mentally start afresh.
León really delivers on architecture as it has the stunning Gothic cathedral, Gaudi's Casa de Botines and a host of other built gems.
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| León's Gothic cathedral |
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| Gaudi's Casa de Botines |
I enjoy an afternoon wandering the
streets of León, a cathedral visit, and take in the general bustle of people
and this helps me break out of the grip of the meseta. Returning to
the convent for mass I am delighted that the convent has an excellent choir and the camino, not for the first time, gently leads me through the grieving process I have always found so hard to master since the death of my mother. Following mass, I sit in the square behind the convent and the elderly Korean lady from two nights ago comes along and starts playing her taegum again. She is quickly joined by a small fan base who gather round to sing or sit quietly enjoying the moment.
As I go through the evening routine at the convent, my feet are getting itchy and I know that tomorrow I will walk before dawn again and not take that rest day I had secretly promised myself. I am done with the retched yet awesome meseta.
Chapter 6. Sarria; In sight of Santiago
As I go through the evening routine at the convent, my feet are getting itchy and I know that tomorrow I will walk before dawn again and not take that rest day I had secretly promised myself. I am done with the retched yet awesome meseta.
Chapter 6. Sarria; In sight of Santiago