Startpoint: Villafranca Montes de Oca; Endpoint: Atapuerca; Steps taken: 24,283; Distance walked: 18k; Conditions: a grand soft day (i.e. wet as hell, if hell were wet).

When we left our hostel in Viloria de Rioja on Saturday morning, we were warned that rain was expected for the weekend. It would be coming from the west, the landlady said, from the ocean, from where we’re heading. My Dad called it a present from Galicia.

Yesterday, we got some drizzle and a few light showers after we arrived in town. But today, the present from Galicia really arrived. I guess in Spai, even the weather turns up a bit late.

We started this morning with a 13km climb into the mountains and a trek through pine-forests back down to San Juan de Ortega. Unlike the last few stages, there was nowhere to stop or find shelter along the way. As predicted a day earlier, the wind was from the west, blowing straight into our faces and it was heavy with rain. Heavy, driving, cold, hard rain. It was a horrible day. And we were flying!

We realised that this is what we were built for. This is what we trained for. This is what we trained in! The wet pine needles and soggy pine-cones mixed with the red sandy clay of the path to make a muddy gravely slush. Little rivulets cross the path running from puddle to puddle through twigs and loose stones. We could have been walking through a Coillte forest up in Tibradden or Cruagh. The Irish boys were in their element.

We stormed past the Spanish, the French, the Americans and the Australians. The sallow-skinned striders who’d left us sweating in the sun on previous days couldn’t keep up with our furious march into the driving wet! We hummed and whistled marching songs as we strode past them. They looked on and listened in amazement as snatches of “It’s a long way to Tipperary” and the theme tune from “The Great Escape” reached their sodden ears whenever they found the courage to look up from staring at their mucky boots in dejected misery. They weren’t eating our dust. There was no dust, but they were munching our mud.

Dad was wearing summer shorts under his rain-poncho and I was carrying sunglasses in the neck of my t-shirt, just in case. If there was a competition for walking through wet weather in inappropriate clothing, the Irish would be unstoppable. Dad and I might not make the team, but we’d certainly be on the squad.

As we walked, occasionally Dad or I would murmur ‘I think it’s brightening up a bit over there’, while pointing a shivering blue finger at a random patch of uniformly grey sky. It didn’t brighten up, and we just laughed at the storm’s persistence.

The cold and wet seemed to ease our sore feet, sprained ankles and tired knees. This is what we’d been missing – the home ground advantage. We covered the thirteen kilometres to San Juan in just two hours and twenty minutes.

Bring it on, Galicia! I’m coming for you and I can take any weather you can throw at me!

During our walk today, Dad and I discussed the differences between moose and elk; Lucy, the pre-human remains found in Ethiopia in the 70s and the underlying spiritual message to be found in the Gruffalo books. I took the books quite literally, while Dad believes there is a deeper metaphysical message which I’ve been missing. In fairness, he has been studying the books longer than I have.

We also helped a Spanish lady find her little white dog. She was walking through the little town of Ages, whistling and calling. As she gave up and turned around, Dad and I noticed her little white dog. It was behind a bush. We whistled and called it until it came over and then walked it back to its owner. I don’t know what she would have done without us. We’re heroes really, but we don’t seek any reward. We’re good like that.

We stopped sooner than we intended to today. We changed our intended destination yesterday, but both forgot that we’d decided to give ourselves a shorter day tomorrow by going further today. We only realised after we’d showered and unpacked, so a long walk tomorrow it is.

I like our hostel today. Every bed has both a shelf and a power outlet, so no more scrambling for phone chargers while other pilgrims are changing their underwear with their backs turned. Not tonight anyway. Tomorrow, Dad and I are sharing a twin room in Burgos. We don’t know how many power sockets it has, so all bets are off. I have youth on my side, but he has experience on his.

Buen Camino.

Startpoint: Viloria de Rioja; Endpoint: Villafranca Montes de Oca; Steps taken: 27,959; Distance Walked: 21km. Conditions: bit dreary, drizzly and cold.

We had dinner in the hostel last night with two Americans, one of whom spoke Spanish; a Canadian who spoke German; an Austrian who spoke Spanish; a Spaniard who also spoke Spanish and the hostel owners: a Brazilian and (I think) a Spanish lady, both of whom seemed to speak every language out there.

Dinner was very good and very plentiful. Soup, salad, rice and beans, and lots of wine. As I was a vegetarian, I was requested by the landlady to finish off the salad. I would have preferred to finish off the wine, and did my best to achieve that, but everytime we finished one bottle, another one appeared. It was a thoroughly enjoyable and totally impossible goal. I went to bed defeated and cheerful.

When we were leaving this morning, the landlady mammy’d us out the door. She made sure we hadn’t forgotten anything, warned us about the wet weather, held my camera as I ran back to get the pedometer, helped Dad on with his poncho and finally sent us off into the light drizzle with a sad smile and a concerned look. Dad doesn’t know, but I snuck an extra donation into the money box before we left. I was quite impressed with how the two owners had welcomed us, cooked for us and eaten dinner with us, for only €5 a head.

As we walked away in early morning twilight, the sun rose behind us and our shadows appeared in front. Dad pointed out that the concrete floor was a safety hazard and it was only a matter of time before some poor pilgrim stubbed their toe. I kept the extra donation quiet.

About six kilometers down the road, we realised that we’d left a mobile phone and charger back at the hostel. Once we reached the next town we took a taxi back, covering our faces like celebrities in case any fellow pilgrims thought we were cheating. The landlady handed us the phone when we got there, and waved us off again, like a pair of schoolchildren who’d forgotten their lunch money.

Technically that means we’ve travelled about 39k today, but we’ve decided to strike that 20 minutes of air-conditioned, leather-seated, Volvo-goodness from the official record. After all, the taxi-driver didn’t even stamp our little booklets!

In Belorado we came across a very frightening sight: a giant hand print and footprint were recorded in a bronze paving slab beneath our feet. The footprint was from a bare foot, but was still an inch and a half longer than my size 9 boots. Dad and I huddled together in case this giant of a man would suddenly lurch out at us from an alleyway. I didn’t recognise or remember the name engraved above the footprint, so who knows if the giant foot belongs to a cannibal from hundreds of years ago, or a modern day small-town serial killer!? Scary.

We fearfully made it to the next street and found even more bronzed footprints. Luckily, after a few hundred meters we found something to help us relax – Emilio Estevez’s booted print stamped in the ground. I compared my boot with his and laughed heartily. If Emilio ‘tinytoes’ Estevez can survive a walk through BigFoot’s town then we would be okay. Thanks Emilio – bless you and your (small) cotton socks!

Today, Dad and I discussed the hierarchy of chefs, my Junior Cert Art project from 1994, the situation in Syria and the Middle East, and the fashion dos and don’ts concerning Crocs and flip-flops. Dad insists that he will bring Crocs next time he travels on the Camino. I’m not sure I can take the shame. I bought myself some flip-flops for using in the hostels. They have a small brazilian flag on them, so I know they are fashionable.

The place we are staying in Villafranca Monte de Oca is half-hotel and half-hostel, meaning that for an extra €50 a night, other people aren’t allowed eavesdrop on your conversations. As I document all of our conversations here, Dad and I decided to save the money so he can buy some decent Crocs when he goes home. We did spend an extra tenner to sleep on snazzy single beds, rather than bunks, so we’re really living it up.

When we arrived in the hostel, we heard lots of Irish accents. When we made ourselves known to the diaspora, none of whom we’d met before, they looked at us and exclaimed delightly: “you’re the father and son!”. Apparently word of us is being passed back and forth between the Irish on the trail. We won’t let the fame go to our (already oversized) heads.

We overheard the Irish lads arranging a place to stay for tomorrow night. They are travelling with a German man and every time the price of a hostel is mentioned, they ask him to seek authorisation from Angela Merkel for the spend.

As we went to dinner earlier, we passed the lads in the hotel lobby, gathered around a mobile, drinking pints and listening to the All-Ireland replay. It’s so strange to be so far from home.

As I went into the bathroom earlier this evening to wash my socks, I met a Frenchman and a Canadian. The Frenchman was coming out of the showers, the Canadian was going in. Both were naked. They were discussing the D-day landings in Normandy and the large numbers of German tourists who attend the commemoration ceremony each year. They both agreed it was a good thing as we were all part of one big happy international family now. I would have found this display of reconciliation and forgiveness quite heartwarming had either man been wearing underwear.

The Frenchman was able to guess my nationality from the colour of my t-shirt and laundry bag (both green). In turn he asked me to guess their nationalities. Based on their accents, I guessed French (correct) and American (incorrect), having failed to notice the large maple leaf tattooed on the Canadian’s chest.

Note to self: when in the showers and a large naked man with a shaved head and a tattoo on his chest finishes a discussion of his military career by asking you to guess where he’s from, if he’s Canadian, it doesn’t really matter if you get it wrong. Canadians are so damn nice and easy-going.

Buen Camino.

Startpoint: Cireuña; Endpoint: Viloria de Rioja; Steps taken: 26,794; Distance walked: 20km. Conditions: a little overcast but still bright, warm but not too hot, perfect for walking. It´s begun to get a little cloudy and windy now and we´ve been told there may be rain tomorrow. 

I´m typing this from a big comfy armchair in our hostel in Viloria de Rioja. Dad and I were the first pilgrims to arrive. We were waiting outside when the landlady opened the doors at 2pm. She knew us as the Misters Magee when I said I had reserved two beds. She greeted us in perfect English and invited us inside where there was music playing and incense burning. It´s not hard to enjoy this. 

Last night, we had dinner in the local pub in Cirueña with two Bulgarian ladies, two Spanish gents (one from Catalonia, one from Andalusia), and a man from Brazil. Much was translated and much was lost in translation, but everyone enjoyed the meal. One of the Bulgarian girls is also writing a blog and has nearly 700 fans. But she is able to write with both hands at the same time, which probably explains her popularity. Dad and the Catalonian man discussed the economic logic behind Real Madrid´s signing of Gareth Bale for [holds little finger to mouth like Doctor Evil] a hundred million Euros, but they were unable to figure it out. Dad gave the Brazialian man the name of an Irish bishop he used to know, in case they find each other. Brazil only has 205 million people, so it is possible.

After dinner, our grumpy landlord came to the pub to remind us all that the hostel closes at 9.30pm, so we better get back and go to bed, which we did. 

Shortly after lights out, the couple sharing with us turned on a machine. It was some form of breathing apparatus, which lead me to wonder (in my sleepy, tipsy state), whether the guy was actually Darth Vader in disguise. The machine made a noise like a large industrial vacuum-cleaner gargling wet concrete. When I got out of my squeaky top-bunk bed to get my earplugs, I was told to keep the noise down.

I had an odd dream during the night. I dreamt that I was a shapeshifting superhero cat/ninja and was fighting off my evil enemies. At one point in the dream, I gave Darth Vader two super-fast karate kicks right to the face. Unfortunately I was actually kicking the bars of my bunkbed, which woke up my Dad. My foot hurts now. 

I was told today that the machine was a sleep apnea machine and if the man hadn´t used it, he would not have been able to breath in his sleep. I feel bad for trying to super-cat-ninja-kick him in my sleep.

I often have difficulty finding places to charge my mobilephone in the hostels. I wonder does Darth Vader have difficulty finding places to plug in his Vader machine.  We met the same couple on the road today. They were very nice. I hope we never meet them again. 

The grumpy landlord gave us toast for breakfast this morning. Very hard, very old toast. Out of spite, we ate lots of it. 

At ten o´clock, after about thirteen kilometers, we stopped to have an orange juice, a cafe-con-leche and a slice of cake. We bumped into two Irish lads and an Australian girl we´ve been seeing every so often. They´d stayed in Santo Domingo overnight and were moving on to Belorado, from one decent size town to another. We stayed in Cirueña last night (a small villlage) and we´ve now  moved on to Vilora de Rioja (a second grade hamlet). Getting back on the big town circuit would require a very long day or a very short day, so we´ll be staying in small places until we reach Burgos on Monday. 

Staying in smaller places means we need to ring ahead and book beds in advance. When I called our current hostel yesterday, she told me they open at 2pm, so we should eat before we arrive, as there is no bar in the town to get food. I took this to mean that we would have access to neither food nor drink from 2pm this afternoon to 10am tomorrow morning. As such, we stocked up in Grañon. For the last seven kilometres of today´s walk, in addition to my already overweight pack, I carried a tin of tomatoes, a bag of pasta, some sweetcorn, four cans of beer and small bag of olives.

We arrived in Viloria de Rioja to find that the hostel offers both dinner and breakfast in return for a voluntary donation. They also sell cans of cold beer for 1 euro a pop. I made a joke to a Canadian sitting beside us that after carrying my warm can seven kilometers, it would taste extra good. The cold can he carried from the kitchen seems to be suiting him just fine. 

Today we left the Rioja region and moved into the province of Castilla y Leon. We could see changes in the use of the land straight away. Instead of vineyards, we passed by fields of sunflowers, cauliflower, cabbages, onions and wheat. Unfortunately, this means there is far less scope for petty theft of farm produce. 

My Dad says that he thinks they also used to grow oats here, as he could see wild oats growing in some of the ditches. This may have been a double entendre I didn´t understand. 

Today we discussed Dad´s work in the IT industry during the seventies and eighties. At one stage, a typist´s error nearly lead to a computer manual answering the important question ´how many bites can fit on a floppy dick´. 

He also told about an early referencing system once used which would have lead to clients in Ardfert, County Kerry recieving statements during the month of September numbered ArSe01, ArSe02 and so on. 

We had lunch with the Irish lads and Aussie girl in a town called Catildelgado. The local hotel, restaurant and bar was a truckers´rest-stop called El Chocolaterea. They didn´t serve chocolate. Dad wanted a KitKat after his eggs and bacon but they told him he couldn´t have one. Across the road was a place called Club Galicia. It had silhouettes of female bodies painted in bright pink on its blacked-out  windows. I think it was a ballet school or something. Spanish truckers love the ballet.  

There are only ten beds in the hostel we´re staying in now. For the first time since Villatuerta, I am sleeping on a real bed on the ground, rather than the top bunk. It makes me feel like a proper grown-up. They have a decent computer (but no card reader, so no pictures), comfy armchairs, a little library, free first aid supplies, and lovely hot showers. It costs 5 euros per bed per night. 

For some reason, on the wall behind my bed, a heavy metal ring has been hammered into the wall. It looks like something that would be used to restrain livestock. Nobody else´s bed has one. I am trying not to wonder why mine does. Perhaps I´m special. 

We have another reasonable walking day planned tomorrow. We´re planning on walking twenty-one kilometers into Villafranca Montes de Oca. And in this hostel,  breakfast is not served until 7am. It looks like I will be able to have a lie in tomorrow and get up quite late, assuming I haven´t been chained to the wall as I sleep (and assuming Darth Vader doesn´t get me).

Startpoint: Ventosa; Endpoint: Ciruena; Distance walked: 26km; Steps taken: 34,662.

We passed a few distance markers today. We’ve done about 210km since leaving St Jean Pied de Port 10 days ago, and I have 570km left to go to Santiago. Dad only has about 80km left to go before Burgos – the lucky so and so.

Over the past few days, we’ve discussed a variety of subjects. These have included Belgium’s colonial history; the politics and scandals of the Irish set-dancing community; the economics of wine and comparisons between Irish, German, and Spanish retails prices and taxation models; the difficulties in driving an Irish registered the wrong way around a roundabout in Portugal in the 1970s; the story behind the authorisation of the shrine of Knock; and the legal considerations of Intellectual Property Rights, including copyright, trademarks and patents, but focussing on the balance between author’s copyright and commentators’ right to reply. It’s all riveting.

We’re staying in a private hostel tonight. The landlord is making a super-human effort to make everyone single weary traveller feel personally unwelcome. There are abstract paintings covering all of the walls by someone called Petrus. I have decided based on zero available evidence that Petrus is the grumpy landlord. Failed artists have never achieved anything, have they?

One of the paintings on the wall is actually not too bad. It’s an oil painting of a Venice canal. It’s not by Petrus.

Our room is fine. We are sharing a 4-bed room with a couple in their 50s. When Dad walked into the room earlier, the lady was on the top bunk in her underwear stretching her legs to the ceiling. A little later, the man managed to combine a loud snore with a louder cough to make a sound I had never heard before. It made me think of two tubas french-kissing.

The common area of the hostel looks a little unfinished. The ceiling is made of raw grey breeze blocks and is held up by steel girders. Some of the blocks have been adapted to allow the plumbing through. There is a very clever system in place now where the people in the common know when the upstairs loo is free by hearing the toilet waste flow over their heads and down the wall just by their ears. It’s obviously a very effluent place. Or possibly affluent. I’ve forgotten my words.

On the road today, we passed another fig tree and I snaffled a few. They were so ripe they fell off the tree as soon as I touched them. The skin came away easily and the fruit was sweet and soft and rich. I gave my Dad one to try too. A little further down the track, we passed a walnut tree. I used my walking stick (the end without the compass) to knock some walnuts to the ground, but the nut inside was black and rotten. Later on again, we passed acres and acres of turnips. We didn’t steal any turnips.

We came to the local bar to have dinner. We order two beers to start things off and then another two to keep us going until the food arrived. It turns out the kitchen doesn’t open for another two hours, so it is becoming possible that many more beers will be had. We met a Brazilian man and now comparing the property markets in Brazil and Ireland. They’re different.

Buen Camino

Buen Camino, Pelegrino
By
Jack Magee

Fields of Red Soil by the Camino
Windmills on the hills
Eagles in the sky
Slopes up, slopes down

Yellow arrows and scallop shells show the way
The way to Santiago
Pilgrims from here and there
Pilgrims from anywhere

Peace and quiet in Ronscesvalles
Over the bridge to Zubiri
Small towns with big churches
Big town withs bullrings

Sore feet, tired legs
Albergue, albergue, albergue
Peligrino meal, paella in Los Arcos
Zzz zzz sleep

Buen Camino Pelegrino

Startpoint: Logrono; Endpoint: Ventosa; Distance walked: 20km; Steps taken: 25,634; Conditions: sunny again, up to 28 degrees.

After dinner last night, we bumped into a few Irish pilgrims and exchanged various pieces of information and gossip of varying accuracy. It turned out we had just missed the bullfighting, but judging by the looks on their faces, this is not a bad thing. We were in time to catch the tale end of some flamenco dancing (no pun intended) and also saw the act that followed. It was billed as a troupe of local amateur singers, but I’m secretly convinced they were a very convincing tribute act to Edith (Rene’s wife) from ‘allo ‘allo. Edith famously could not carry a tune in a bucket and these ladies mimicked her excellently both in their singing and their costumes. I was thoroughly impressed.

We also followed a crowd of thousands as they moved through the streets to the riverside to watch the fireworks. However, after walking over 200km and crossing the pyranees, my Dad and I were discouraged when we each felt at least seven drops of rain and decided to hightail it back to our hostel before the deluge began. We fought against the thousands of locals coming in the opposite direction before realising there was to be no deluge and we were really just causing trouble. So we behaved like good tourists, turned, looked, and tried to take pictures.

We shared a four-bed room with two street artists who were working the festival. As weary pilgrims with a long walk ahead, we had the lights out by midnight. One of the artists arrived in at about 2 in the morning, turned the lights on, off and on again and then proceeded to noisily change the sheets on his bed. After ensuring, he’d woken us all up, he turned the lights off, got back into his bed and farted loudly. In an impressive display of both defiance and retaliation, the artist’s final fart was a signal for my Dad to immediately begin a cacophony of snoring that rivalled the booms and cracks of the fireworks both in longevity and intensity. I got no sleep, but damn it, it made me proud to be Irish.

Most of the day today we walked through dusty vineyards where the vines were heavy with large bunches of thick red grapes. According to our guidbook, the area used to be a dangerous one for pilgrims due to the prevalence of bandits and wolves. In a nod to tradition, I stole a handful of grapes from an overladen vine while Dad growled at the local farmer.

Dad insisted on getting his fair share of the stolen grapes, so I counted them out: three for him, three for me. I tried, but I just couldn’t enjoy mine after that. They were sour grapes.

As we walked away from the scene of our grand larceny, I considered my anger at losing those few grapes. I wonder if that’s what John Steinbeck was getting at.

The ankle strap I bought a few days ago is certainly helping me walk, but it’s beginning to irritate the soul of my foot. Afraid of blisters, I followed the advice of a fellow pilgrim and wrapped sticky medical tape around and around my feet to protect the skin from the seams of the strap. When I thought of the name for this blog, I saw two meanings behind it: firstly my dad and I are both bald and we’re using our feet a lot, and secondly that when tyres are old, worn and have done too many miles, they’re described as bald, so why not the same with feet. As I pulled the tape off my feet when we arrived in Ventosa, I made a painful move towards a third and much more literal meaning behind the name.

Today we began to meet a new wave of Irish pilgrims; mostly people who walked St Jean to Logrono on a previous occasion and are walking from Logrono to Burgos or somewhere similar this time around. Most of the new Irish walked 30k today as they had to meet their bags at the next hotel in Najerra. Dad and I just did the 20, as we’re carrying out own bags and can do whatever we like.

Myself and Dad have both been badly bitten by some form of insects over the past few days. So we’ve been spraying ourselves liberally with DEET. As we ate our lunch earlier, I could even taste the DEET on our hands. In retrospect, maybe that’s why the grapes were sour.

Buen Camino.

Startpoint: Viana; Endpoint: Logrono; Distance walked: 10km; steps taken: 15,764. Condition: quite nice actually.

We had a very short walk today to end in Logrono, where, by pure coincidence and no planning on our part, there happens to be a festival happening. As Logrono is the capital of the Rioja province, the festival, by pure coincidence and no planning on our part, happens to be a wine festival.

After a lovely pilgrims’ meal in Viana last night, where the vegetarian option was a fried egg for starters followed by scrambled eggs as a main, we got a good night’s sleep and started early this morning. On the road we met a man selling coffees and teas. He had signs up in different languages letting pilgrims know that the bank had repossessed his house. He was trying to earn a bit of extra money by giving coffee to pilgrims and asking for donations. I misread one of the signs that said ‘Vasilevo Donationas Gracias’ or something similar and thought he was also offering free vaseline, which I thought was a very clever idea. Unfortunately I was incorrect, but we gave him a reasonable donation anyway. Who knows if his story is true; he was very enterprising regardless.

We have been passing a lot of ripening fruit over the past few days: blackberries, elderberries, grapes, olives. I thought I had found some blueberries that everyone else had missed; I tasted one. I was wrong. Today we passed some figtrees and a Belgian girl we were walking with took some figs. I didn’t take any fruit; I was too shocked by the small size of the leaves. Whoever wrote Genesis has a future in erotic literature.

Everything was still closed when we arrived in Logrono, so we couldn’t check in anywhere. We had a cup of coffee and planned the walks for the next week. 6 days easy walks should get us to Burgas in time for Dad to catch a bus to Madrid for a day before he flies home. No more short days or festivals till then though.

We checked into a hostel where we’re sharing a small room with a street artist who’s working the festival. He told us he draws caricatures of the people at the festival. He offered to draw one of Dad if he met us on the street, but I think it’s unfair to ask him to try and improve on perfection – Dad already looks like a caricature of Sean Connery. He was also mistaken for Nigel Mansell once, but that was in the Isle of Mann, so it might not count.

Dad brought me into a church today. It was the oldest church in Logrono and had a 30 foot high and 15 foot wide solid gold ornamental wall behind the altar. They offered free biscuits to hungry pilgrims. At the door we were asked for a donation to the cost of keeping the gold polished and shiny.

In the main square this morning they were selling food that was being cooked on the spot. There were two queues: a long one for tripe and a short one for mushrooms. We opted for the shorter queue. For €2 we also got a small bottle of Rioja wine with the mushrooms on toast. That €2 is as close as we’ve come to a rip-off in Spain. We drank the wine as we wandered around the stalls and looked at the buildings.

Later we bought some sweet pastries. We asked the woman what they were and she told us they were six for the price of five, so we bought two. As we left she handed us each a handful of salty nuts with the shells still on. We ate the shells and all, but we’re not sure we were supposed too. They were crunchy.

Dad and I had a disagreement about an item we saw in a shop window. I said it was a clock, but he maintains it was a watch on a stand. We were unable to come to a resolution. This might break the fellowship.

Tonight there will be more wine, music and fireworks, so we found a hostel where there is no curfew. We still have to walk 20k tomorrow, but we may push our bedtime until 11pm or even 11.30pm given the day that’s in it.

We’ve become such a rebellious brace of revelers since beginning our life on the road. Where will the madness end…

Buen Camino + Viva la Rioja!

Startpoint: Los Arcos; Endpoint: Viana; Distance walked: about 18km; Steps taken: about 26,374, Conditions: Weather turned again and was very cloudy this morning, which is not a bad thing at all. It got very hot again in the afternoon.

I´m typing this in the public library in Viana.

We went out last night for dinner with a Canadian couple and an Australian couple and didn´t mention the queen, the commonwealth or the empire even once. Aren´t we wonderful?

Dad and I were staying in an Austrian-run hostel in Los Arcos. It was very organised – they even had signs to tell us where we were allowed to lay our bags (on the bed is not allowed, beside the bed is not allowed, only at the end of the bed is allowed). When we got back to our dorm room, the room was very warm and stuffy and smelled like a tunafish pizza. I don´t like tuna.

We hit the road early as we weren´t sure how far we were going to travel – 18km to Viana or 28km to Logrono. As the bells were ringing for 9am, we reached a place called Sansol and I found a small Farmacia, where I hoped to buy an ankle brace. The Farmacia had a sign outside the door showing weekday opening hours of 9am til 5pm, so we decided to wait. At ten minutes passed nine, an old woman from across the street loudly expressed her concern with the two sweaty foreign gentlemen hanging around outside her window so early on a Monday morning. When she realised we were waiting for the pharmacy to open, she pointed to her watch and indicated (I think) five more minutes. At twenty five minutes past nine, a car sped up the street and skidded to a halt beside us. The pharmacist seemed to be expecting us – I think she was called by the neighbour. She sold me an ankle brace and a tube of deep-heat for €36. The bill presumably included the standard ´getting my ass out of a warm bed´ surcharge.

We had a short and easy enough walk into Viana. With the ankle brace on it, the walking is feeling a lot better. The brace, the walking stick, the neurofen, the deep-heat, the paracetemol and the red wine seem to have done the trick. It´s a delicate balance of treatments. The leg is still a little tender, but I´m moving well enough. We stopped early as the only other option was to do another 10km through (as the guide book puts it) “long slow industrial sprawl” into Logrona. We´ll leave that pleasure for the morning.

Today we forgot one of the lessons we learned earlier in the trip and checked into the first Albergue we found. It´s not a bad place, but we later found a couple of other options including the parochial hostel, incorporated in an ancient church, where the cost of a bad is a donation to the parish of your own choosing. Maybe I could have donated Dad.

In the place where we are staying, the landlady who greeted us didn´t speak any English but seemed to take a shine to Dad. After we registered, she leaned over to take the bag from around his shoulders to carry it up for him. As she did so, she noticed the knee support on his leg. She patted and rubbed it tenderly and uttered some soothing words in Spanish. After she showed us to the dorm, she gave each of our sweaty dusty bodies a hug (his longer than mine, although I´m sure he disagrees) and told us her name was Carmel. Later on, from the shelter of a dark pub, we think we saw Carmel roaming the town in bright red high heels. Looking for Dad, no doubt. Carmel´s got swagger.

I handed our laundry into the hostel to get washed and dried. Unfortunately, due to a miscalculation in the underwear department, I handed all my underwear in to get washed and am now going commando. Does anyone know if there´s a law against going commando in a public library? The library computers still have floppy disk drives and no USB ports, so I think they kinda owe me one.

Unfortunately we saw a few of the Irish people we´d got to know along the way leave us today. They had to make it to Logrono to catch a train to Madrid and a flight home. There were tears, there were sad words, there were photos and the exchange of mobile phone numbers. I´ve met a few people who are going the whole way to Santiago, but the majority (like my Dad) only have limited time and will be leaving at some stage. Sniff…

One of my Aussie relatives made a comment about the Camino a little while ago. With regard to adding it to their bucket list, they thought maybe they´d be well advised to add it to the list, but to add it at the end. At few people on the walk are talking about bucket lists. I´d hate to think “Nah, I´m too old to do that”. I ´d much rather think “Nah, I´ve already frigging done it”.

Tomorrow we head at least as far as Logrono and maybe on to Navarette. Tonight, we´re meeting two Irish lads and an Aussie girl for dinner.

Buen Camino.

Startpoint: Villatuerta. Endpoint: Los Arcos. Distance walked: about 26km. I think we´ve done 149km so far (can somebody else do the math and get back to me?) Steps taken: eh, let´s say another 30,000 or so. Conditions: not a cloud in the sky today and we struggled a bit with heat and the flies in the afternoon. My Achilles tendon (or something down that direction) is giving me some trouble.

A quick poll of our Austrian-run hostel in Los Arcos confirmed that 100% of Pilgrims were supporting the Dubs. Whoop!

We had the pilgrims´dinner in the hostel last night and it was all vegetarian. I loved it. The hostel was fairly small (maybe 25 beds) and run by a (assumed) husband and wife team, who did everything at once: registration, laundry, cooking, cleaning. For the meal, we were sitting at a table with a French man in his mid 70s and a Spanish man in his 60s. At the table, we held an intra-european grandfather show-down. The race was initially tight with Dad taking an early lead of five grandkids compared to an impressive four from each of the gents. Then Dad played his trump card: “…and one on the way!” The crowd went wild, the match was over and Dad left with the admiration and envy of his peers.

Before we had finished the first bottle of (free) wine, we were presented with a second. And when the meal was over, we were given a third bottle to finish off on behalf of a less thirsty table. At about 9pm, we were asked to leave the dining room. They had to prepare the tables for breakfast. They sent us into the garden with our wineglasses and sent another bottle after us to apologise for the inconvenience. On the way to the garden, we recruited another pair of grandfathers (one Scottish, one South African), but neither could come close to Dad´s high score of 5.9 on the Grandkids scale.

The 74-year old Frenchman shared a saying with us, after checking a few words of English. “What are the children of your children called?¨and “When you pay a bill, but you give extra, what is that?” He then announced ¨Grandchildren are a tip from God¨. I think he meant you need to put at least a little effort into producing a child (the unfair division of labour notwithstanding (and pun intended)), but you get a grandchild without having to do anything to earn it.

We left Villatuerta at 7.40am to get as much walking done before the day got hot. We passed Irache (famous for it´s free wine fountain), but in the words of Don MacClean, the levy was dry.

We spent a good portion of the day discussing economics and healthcare with a Texan gentleman wearig a straw hat and blue jeans. To repay us for our insights into the world of finance, he gave us some bread and two types of cheese. I repaid him for his kindness by giving him two Compeed plasters (the sporty version).

Yesterday afternoon, my right leg began to hurt between the heel of my foot and the calf. As it´s Sunday, I wasn´t able to find an open Farmacia, so I wrapped my leg up in my Dad´s bandages and some sellotape and took a Neurofen. I also bought a walking stick in a petrol station to try and take a little of the weight off the leg. My Dad laughed when he saw me with the walking stick, as I´d refused to consider using the walking poles that he has. The walking stick I bought has BOTH a little leather strap AND a compass in the top, so the joke is really on Dad.

We passed the 74-year old a few times today (so he must have passed us too). I felt rather humbled (read: pee´d off) when a man forty years my senior outpaced me by five minutes over a two kilometre track. He then came up to me and without an ounce of condescension, congratulated me on how fast I had walked. He also offered us some ham. I declined; I was still chewing on the greasy rind of defeat.

After arriving in Los Arcos, my Dad and I did our usual wander to find food and beers. As we did, we found the 74-year old. He´d gotten there before us and was just enjoying some spaghetti and meatballs before hitting the road again. He was planning on another 5km in the late afternoon heat before resting. He asked if we would like to join him for a drink, but it was too hot in the square for our delicate Irish selves. He really was a very nice man.

We looked around a little grocers´shop to buy some fruit to snack on tomorrow. In among the dates and plums was a little cardboard packet with a picture of an ankle brace on it’ just what I´d been wishing for all day! Perfecto! I eagerly asked the lady to add the ankle brace to our four apples and two bananas, but the packet was empty. Through a few words of English and a few words of Spanish, she made it clear that she hasn´t actually had any ankle braces in the shop for a very long time, but just keeps the box there to let the thousands of walkers who pass her shop each week know that she used to sell ankle braces and might do so again in the future. What a lovely gesture.

Win a Prize!

We have another decision to make tomorrow: a) 29.5km all the way to Logrono, b) 18.5km to Viane to leave us with a short jaunt to Logrono the following morning, or c) stay in Viane tomorrow and then pass all the way through Logrono the day after without staying over. Put your suggestions in the comments below and the best answer wins a free walking stick with its own leather strap and integrated compass!!* (terms and conditions apply)

We´re meeting a couple of Canadians for dinner tonight. We´re hoping to bump into the Irish gang from the last few days. They took an alternative route today, so we´ll see how they got on.

Bon appetit, Buen Camino & Up the Dubs!

*walking stick will be available from on or around 25th of October. Postage and packing from somewhere in North Spain not included. Compass may or may not actually point North.

Startpoint: Obanos. Endpoint: Villatuerta. Steps taken: another 28,950 or so, bring us up to a total of 160,000 give or take.  Distance walked: 22km, bring us to about 111km total. Condition: very hot day from the off, some sunburn, one insect bite, four sore knees, four sore feet, one sore ankle/calf between us.

Now this is what I expected! It´s boiling, lads – it´s feckin boiling! Probably about 30 degrees today and every Irish person on the Camino is sweating like a fat whale in a small sauna. We were a little late leaving Obanos this morning, partially due to the night out with the Irish crew on Friday. We started walking at about 8.20 and caught up with the five Irish folks just outside Puerte la Reine, shortly after nine. They´d left a good 30 minutes before us, but got distracted by the complexities of life. Despite the mapbook´s instructions, there were quite a few hills on this leg.

Upon leaving Obanos, Dad and I  hadn´t quite decided whether we´d stop in Estella or Villatuerta, so we let the sun decide the matter for us. We passed Lorca at lunchtime and had a bite to eat there and were in Villatuerta by 2.30pm too hot, dusty and tired to go much further.

Today was a day of firsts: the first day we wore sunscreen (but not the first day we needed it); the first day we wore insect repellant (but not the first day we needed it); the first day I ate sunflower seeds straight off a growing sunflower (they tasted exacty like shop-bought sunflowers amazingly); and the first day I got a sunflower splinter embedded in my finger (surprisingly dangerous things, sunflowers, they look so friendly).

As we stopped in Villatuerta, we´re left with a bit of a difficult choice tomorrow. Should we have a very easy day and go just as far as Villa Mayor (13km), or push on and go as far as Los Arcos (25km). I´ll let the ould fella make the call once we see what the weather is like in the morning. Our decision may be (very slightly) influenced by the location of Irache, where the public drinking fountain serves the local red wine instead of water.

After five days of walking, we´re getting into the swing of things. Here´s how a typical day on the Camino is beginning to pan out:

• c. 6am: Dad wakes up and begins mooching about
• c. 7am: Dermot wakes up and begins mooching about
• c. 7.30: we have a bit of breakfast and finish packing the bags (we´re getting good at it now, and each only need one or two repack mulligans)
• c. 8am: hit the road, thinking we should really have left a bit earlier
• c. 9am: pass the first group of people who left earlier than us, but stopped to take pictures of interesting snails
• from 9am to 1pm: pass-out and get passed-out by the same recurring groups of people. Congratulate ourselves on the overtaking and make good excuses for being overtaken. Comment that the hills are steeper than the guidebook suggested. Take some photos of big old churches/castles/monasteries on hills surrounded by vinyards/sunflowers/olive groves.
• c. 2 – 2.30pm, give in to the heat and tiredness and stop off in the next Albergue we find (usually about 4km short of where we´d hoped to end).
• by c. 3.30 – 4pm, have a shower, find a bar, have one beer to rehydrate, another beer to relax and a third to recuperate. Then snooze until the pilgrims´meal at 7pm – 7.30pm.
• c. 8pm, ask for extra (free) wine with the pilgrims´meal. Discuss the steepness of the hills, the value of the meals and the loudness of the Spanish with the other pilgrims.
• c. 10.15pm, realise that you´ve missed lights out and try to sneak quietly to bed.

Someone asked about the five Italian gents who´d been tracking us. We haven´t seen them since Pamplona, but have heard stories of them in the wind, so to speak. There are stories in the Pilgrim community of five men whose talking, snoring and farting habits are more powerful than you can possibly imagine.

Today my Dad and I discovered that Dad is far from the oldest man on the Camino, as a 75-year old French man checked into the Albergue just after us. However, we still believe Dad is probably the oldest man on the Camino who was sent by his wife to babysit his son.

Buen Camino!

D