Startpoint: Ponferrada; Endpoint: Villafranca del Bierzo; Distance walked: 25.5; Steps taken: 30,924

Leaving Ponferrada this morning, there were more pilgrims than normal on the track. I didn’t recognise a lot of them. I don’t know every pilgrim, but you tend to bump into a lot of the same faces from day to day. It took me a while to figure it out, before I realised that these were new pilgrims, who had only started in Ponferrada. As I passed them by in small scared groups, huddled together for mutual protection, I began to take note of the subtle differences that marked them as newbies.

I first noticed some Peregrinos Neuvos when they loudly greeted me as I passed. They were really far too enthusiastic. “Hel….hola!”, they hailed me, realisinh halfway through that the language had changed. “Where you from?” These were newbie questions, after 27 days of walking, I no longer cared an awful lot where people were from.

Other obvious distinguishing features of Peregrinos Nuevos are the following (all may not apply at the same time):

1. Taking photos of every piece of landscape, building, plant, etc. Particularly noticeable was a couple who took pictures of each other standing in front of a 2-foot wide irrigation canal, hundreds of which I´ve passed in the last week.
2. Stamp collecting. You can collect stamps on your Pilgrim Credential in every hostel, hotel, church, museum, restaurant and bar along the Camino. In the first few days, new pilgrims (me included) go a little stamp mad and grab for stamps wherever they are on offer. One fellow pigrim filled half his credential with stamps from bars before realising after a week, that he was running short on space for the next four weeks of the walk. Today people were queuing up for stamps from an old lady standing beside a large gate wielding something she had carved from a raw potato.
3. Stealing grapes. It´s harvest season in this part of Spain and the grapes are being collected by both farmers and pilgrims. Stealing fresh fruit off the trees is sooo three weeks ago. (I did get tempted at one stage, but a farmer was looking at me, so I skulked off fruitlessly).
4. No clothes. For the past three weeks, every second piilgrim has been drying socks, underwear and towels on the outside of the rucksacks as they walk. You could spot the Peregrinos Nuevos by the lack of damp, worn and greying hiking socks hanging from them.
5. The pilgrim shuffle. Some pilgrims walk fast. Some pilgrims walk slow, but after a week, all of them either lurch, limp, lumber, stumble, shuffle or stagger. We all have a blister, sore toe, tender knee or some reason to walk a little oddly.

I lost something special today. I was feeling peckish at about 11am and went into a small shop, rucksack on my back, walking stick in my hand and ordered a Boccadillo Queso. I left a few minutes later with the largest cheese sandwich I have ever eaten (and it was a small one) and a bar of chocolate. Ten minutes later I was outside the town, carrying only indigestión and wondering why my hands were empty. I left my stick behind and was too lazy to go back and get it. Maybe it will make the first days of some Peregrino Nuevo a bit easier. I think it was worth it though, for that cheese sandwich.

Less tan 200km to go before Santiago now, but we’ll be climbing up into the mountains for the next few days. As I walked through one small town this afternoon, I passed an overweight woman in late middle age as she shaved her legs in a small bucket while sitting on the front steps of her home. As much as I am enjoying the experience, I will also be happy to complete it.

Buen Camino

Startpoint: El Acebo; Endpoint: Ponferrada; Distance walked: 17k, Steps taken: 20,495.

This morning we descended into Ponferrada from El Acebo. Despite the stunning mountain views as the sun rose behind us, we moved quickly on the rocky mountain path. I enjoyed the fun of jumping from rock to rock. Also, we had run out of cash, were desperate for a cup of coffee and couldn’t find an ATM.

Arriving in Ponferrada with empty pockets, we first bypassed the Templar Castle to enquire in the Tourist Office about the nearest ATM. We overheard the pilgrims ahead of being told there was a festival on in town, so accommodation was difficult to find. Hearing the word ‘festival’ and knowing the next hostel was another seventeen kilometres, we eagerly added to the accommodation shortage by deciding to stay.

As it happens, the first hotel we passed had rooms available at a reasonable price, the Templar Castle was free, and the festival was actually a public holiday celebrated by driving seven rally cars into the main square and then driving them out again.

When I visited the Templar Castle, I was quite happy that it was free because it wasn’t very good. The original Templar Castle was only a wall anyway, and had been refurbished out of existence during the last 800 years. The inside of the castle was a handful of bare rooms and a few fields of weeds. Definitely a landmark that is better if it is not visited, as it looked quite impressive from the outside.

Because of the 12th October public holiday, the whole town was closed. I found a kiosk and asked if I could buy stamps, but was not allowed to. She had stamps there, beside the cigarettes and magazines, but was not allowed sell them, unlike the cigarettes and magazines. The receptionist in the hotel sold me stamps only reluctantly, as she did not know exactly how much the postage on my envelope would be and was therefore more comfortable selling more nothing at all, rather than selling me the wrong denomination of stamp.

In my hotel, I got all my clothes, as well as my bedclothes washed and dried. There are many rumours of bedbugs on the pilgrim circuit and something has been eating my right arm. I can’t think of any reason why my arm is being attacked and nowhere else, but I decided to not take any chances. Apparently pale white Irish meat is irresistible to the Spanish insect population, which probably helps slightly with losing a little weight while here.

In the late afternoon we passed time in the main square, watching the locals as they watched the small audience who watched the cars. We drank some not-very-nice red wine and decided that the Camino needed a new guidebook which concentrates on the practicalities of everyday life, rather than the personal, spiritual and judgemental reflections of the author. Some of the required chapters include:

1) How to know if your sleeping bag is trying to kill you, either by strangulation, suffocation and/or slow-roasting.
2) Frustrations of Hostel accommodation, including the rustling of multiple plastic bags at five in the morning and the stuffiness of dorm rooms for ninety people and no windows.
3) Going to the loo when there’s no loo to go to, including toilet paper etiquette, poo-phobias, and timing your walks to match your runs.
4) Strategic uses of a Sarong or large scarf: a picnic blanket, privacy divider, bedbug shield and fashion accessory.
5) Using local flowers, herbs and leaves to make your backpack smell less like a damp kennel.

Buen Camino

Startpoint: Santa Catalina de Sonoza; Endpoint: El Acebo; Steps taken: 36,795; Distance walked: 29km.

I named yesterday’s post after a donkey, but forget to say much about it. The donkey we had first seen at a little impromptu coffee shop later reappeared outside our hostel for the night. They wouldn’t let him stay. Today as we walked, we initially wondered what nature of beast had caused the hoof marks on the path and the quite substantial piles of dung blocking the narrow track through the woods. When we realised, we stopped wondering why the donkey hadn’t been allowed stop in our town.

We lost someone today. We don’t know where. They may be ahead of us, or they may be behind us – the previous town had a hostel with no electricity or hot water. If you’re out there somewhere, third musketeer, get back in touch, but have a shower first.

Our morning’s walk today was a long hike up a steep mountain in freezing cold, very thick mist. We were getting cold and all our clothes were wet. After 3 or 4 hours, we reached a small village near the summit. We couldn’t see more than 20metres in any direction, so initially the village looked like a ghost town – just the occasional grey outline of an empty building. After about 500meters we heard music from the side and found a little restaurant. We opened the door, not knowing what to expect.

We were the only people in the place apart from a large bearded man in old-fashioned clothes who stood behind the bar, looking gruff. It was a dimly lit basement, and as we walked down the steps we saw swords hanging together with animal skins and tapestries on the stone walls. The furniture, fixtures and fittings were hand carved out of old bog wood. A hot stove burned in the corner. It looked like that Mongolian bar from Indiana Jones and the Lost Ark.

We walked to the warmth of the stove like adventurers in a rough tavern in some wretched hive of scum and villainy. I removed my soaking hat and hung it on the chimney to dry in the heat, while we ordered two cafe-con-leches. Soon after our coffees arrived, the owner ran over to our table looking stressed and annoyed. My hat had caught fire.

Luckily, he caught it quickly, but now the (once quite nice) baseball cap that has kept both the sun and rain off my bald head has a scorch mark on the front. It’s also a little warped and the leather strap is shrivelled like an out-of-date sun-dried tomato. It’s part of my camino story now, so I’ll keep it.

Today we passed le Cruz de Ferro, the highest point of the Camino. Pilgrims traditionally leave a stone they’ve brought from home to represent something they’ve left behind by walking the pilgrimage. I was carrying a stone from my parents’ garden. It represented 300grams of weight I wouldn’t have to carry any further. As we left the cross and mound of stones, the most lifted and the sun shone for our descent to El Acebo down a rough rocky path. That could have been meaningful or it could have been lucky. I had my sunblock handy, so I’m counting it as lucky. We found a lizard and an odd-looking insect basking in the sun on our descent and pestered them with cameras. For them the change in weather was not lucky.

Coming down the mountain we were greeted with views over the foothills into Ponferrada, which we’ll pass through tomorrow. With the large cooling towers of the power plant pumping steam into the blue sky, it looked a lot like the opening credits to The Simpsons, so I hummed the theme tune as we walked into town. I would have moved onto The Bartman, but we hit town earlier than I expected.

Buen Camino.

Startpoint: Hospital de Orbigo; Endpoint: Santa Catalina De Sonoza; Distance walked: 27k; Steps taken: the pedometer is upstairs – I’ll tell you later.

We left the hostel late this morning. We met a large black dog before we left. Its owner was brining it to Santiago – it was the most enthusiastic pilgrim I’ve seen so far. But it wasn’t wearing any boots or carrying a pack.

We overtook lots of pilgrims in the first few hours. The two of us who were walking together congratulated ourselves on our youth, speed and stamina. As we stopped for loo-breaks, coffee, lunch, loo-breaks, clothes-changes and loo-breaks, they all overtook us again.

The dinner and breakfast in yesterday’s hostel was a donativo, so we could pay whatever we felt like. After donating all my small change after breakfast, we passed a shed at about 11pm where three young shirtless men sold fresh fruit, bread+cheese, juices, and teas and coffees for a donativo. I made myself a little cheese sandwich and washed it down with juice, then begged other pilgrims for enough small coins to ease my guilt. In the end, I only mustered up seventy cents. One of the other pilgrims had a laden donkey. The donkey wasn’t asked for a donation.

We had lunch in Astorga and reformed the little travelling group that had split so regrettably the day before. The three of us who’d met every few nights and walked and talked every few nights discussed other pilgrims we’d met and gossiped about their friendships and cliques.

In the afternoon, we went to visit a reconstructed Maragato village. The Maragato are a ethnic group in this region of Spain for which Wikipedia gives very little information. The town was cobbled, old-fashioned, picturesque and a little bit boring. As we walked through it, a collection of Spanish pensioners passed by us, all with white carrier-bags. The bags contained a bottle of wine and a large bag of (as it turned out), dried chick-peas.

We found the focus-point of the old-town – a courtyard artisan restaurant and artisan shop. The entire establishment was decorated with large bags of dried chick-peas with ‘Do Not Touch’ signs on them. We considered buying some bars of chocolate, but realised that the artisan chocolate was about the same price as a hostel bed for the evening, so decided against it.

As we left, we discussed whether the two kilometre had been worth it. We decided that the extra walk had been worth it just to know that we hadn’t missed anything worthwhile. Maybe if we’d got a bottle of wine and a kilogram bag on untouchable chick-peas to take home, we would have felt different.

As we approached the village where we’d hoped to stay for the night, we were approached by a frail old-man with white hair and a walking stick. In a mixture of broken English and laboured Spanish, he made it clear to use that the municipal hostel had closed down, but that one of the private hostels was very nice and worthy of our custom.

I don’t know if that old man was genuine and misguided or malicious and on the payroll, but we’re now staying in a fifteen-metre squared sweatbox with ten beds. Three of our roommates left the dinner table at half-past eight to go to bed so they could get up at four in the morning to hit the road early.

As I began writing this post, I was sitting in the bar, drowning my sorrows, watching a Spanish period drama on TV. The year appeared to be around 1850, but as the characters wore period-clothes combined with 21st century make-up, hairstyles, and high-heels, it was a little difficult to tell. As far as I can figure out, the main-character (a 20-year old heiress wearing bangs and Jimmy Choo’s) has just found out that her neck-brace wearing husband has been having an affair with her comatose mother. In a side story, a man in a v-neck t-shirt and goatee has been taking boxing lessons from a sailor.

As I finished writing this post, I was hiding in a bathroom cubicle. It’s the only place I can turn the lights on without people complaining. Outside the door in the bathroom proper, the hand dryer starts blowing periodically as the flies fly beneath the sensor.

Tomorrow we reach Cruz de Ferro, a 600meter climb to where pilgrims traditionally leave a stone from home to symbolise some emotional burden they have brought on the pilgrimage and mean to leave behind. My pack will become 300grams lighter, which is good enough for me.

Bien Camino.

Startpoint: Leon; Endpoint: Hospital de Orbigo; Distance walked: 36k; Steps taken: 45,237.

As I begin to type this, I’m sitting in a hammock, swinging back and forth and watching the sun go down. The yoga class has just finished, and we’ll all be called in for the communal vegetarian dinner very soon.

We were all a little sad leaving Leon, as we’d had a great time and it meant the end of our little group, at least for the time being. As we left, we discussed sweating, being judgemental and breakfast. It was a nice way to leave things.

It was a long walk today, we didn’t stop, and the sun was very hot. I was wearing my new shorts and got a lot of grit and small stones in my walking shoes. We passed fields of tall corn, heavy with ears ripe for harvesting. I spent a lot of time imagining aliens making crop circles and peering out from amongst the stalks. We passed fields of cattle; I commented on the size and whiteness of the cows’ ears. I mooed at one of the cows. The cow did not moo back. The grit in my boots was beginning to bother me and I considered for a while the possibility of a piece of grit being transformed into a beautiful pearl through being coated with layers of bootjuice. After thinking about aliens, mooing at cows and anticipating feetpearls, I realised I should probably find some shade and have a sitdown.

At one stage along the walk, the fella I was travelling with rescued a small insect from a fluffy white dog. We decided it was some form of mantis. The dog looked a bit lost and confused after we took away its toy.

As we walked on, I considered the pilgrims’ relationship with wildlife. Another walking companion had saved a small mouse from being trodden on and now another companion had saved a rare and interest insect from becoming dogfood. I began to wonder when my time would come. I’d saved a wasp from my coke a few days ago, but arguably that was really quite a selfish act. I just wanted to drink my coke and a throwing a half-drowned and angry wasp into the middle of a crowded street where most people are wearing flip-flops and sandals is not particularly responsible.

I thought that my turn to rescue some defenceless animal must come soon. Then as we entered a small town, I heard mewling in a hedge beside me. I was walking alone and seized the opportunity to rescue the poor kitty who’d become stuck in the thorny brambles. In my brand new shorts, showing off my milky white legs, I strode confidently into the bushes, making miaowing noises as I went. ‘Here kitty kitty kitty’, finally I found where the cat had been, but the cat had moved. ‘Poor pussy got confused’, I thought, and scrambled back through more thorns to the new source of the mewling. The cat moved again.

Four times the little furry bastard moved away as I got closer to him. Four times! Then I gave up. Either that cat is a sadistic little furball (and just wanted to watch the scratches on my legs multiply), or it’s beyond hope anyway. My snazzy new expensive walking shorts have tiny tears all over them and my calves and ankles look like a bad imitation of a map of the London underground.

After-dinner note:
The dinner was very tasty. This eco-, yoga-, buddhist-, meditation-hostel doesn’t serve any alcohol, but instead the owner sang us a song of thanks to the whole of existence to bless our meals. The song was in Spanish; some people who don’t speak Spanish closed their eyes, smiled serenely and nodded earnestly in agreement to the lyrics. This is one of the nicest hostels I’ve stayed in on the Camino, but I’m leaving tomorrow.

Buen Camino

Rest day…

After catching up yesterday with a few pilgrims we started with back in St Jean, we decided to make today a rest day. The same three people are in the same two-bed room, but the beds have been reallocated. We’re watching SpongeBob Squarepants in Spanish and debating how far we can walk tomorrow.

We visited the Parador Hotel today. It’s the snazzy place that’s featured in The Way when they treat themselves. It’s a luxury hotel built out of a medieval monastery. We waited until the security guard turned his back and sneaked past him to view the cloisters. Please don’t tell anyone – they might take away our pilgrim credentials.

We took advantage of the big town to buy a few English books to keep us busy during the afternoons after walking and before dinner. We checked two bookshops before finding a shelf in the back with English novels. Most were dismissed as being too heavy (both the content and the weight). The books had been on the shelves so long, they were priced in Pesatas. The staff used two calculators and a computer before making up a random Euro price to charge us.

I found a little key and shoe-repair place in a large shopping centre. When I approached the counter, the small round bearded man behind the counter ignored me while he chatted for five minutes with the customer ahead of me. He finally asked me what I wanted and I showed him my belt and indicated I needed an extra hole on it. He said something in Spanish and I made it clear I didn’t understand – the two men laughed and laughed. For another five minutes they chatted, occasionally looking at me and laughing. I was furious. I considered saying something nasty and making do with the belt as it was. Every minute or two, he’d address me and say something in Spanish before muttering ‘no espanol’ or something similar and giggling.

When his friend left, he took my belt from me. Looked at it, put it down, looked at me and said ‘ingles?’. I said ‘yes, English’. He raised his hands in a point above his head and moved his head from side to side. ‘Ding dong ding dong’. Then he looked at me, ‘Big Ben, si?’.

I said ‘no, I’m from Ireland’
‘Ah, Holland!’, and began kicking an imaginary football.

‘No, Ireland’, I repeated, ‘Irlanda!‘
‘Ah, Irlanda!’, he raised his thumb to his mouth and lifted his little finger as if taking a drink.
‘Hah, yeah, Irlanda’, I said.

He picked up my belt, looked at it, put it down again and then reached around behind a shelf and took out an open can of beer. ‘Irlanda!’, he said and took a drink then scribbled 1,000,000,000 on a piece of paper, apparently to indicate that in Ireland much beer is consumed.

He picked up my belt, looked at it, put it down again and then pointed at my blue t-shirt. He indicated that the colour was wrong for my country. I showed him my green flipflops and he seemed satisfied (he didn’t notice the Brazilian flag).

During the next ten minutes, I found out that his name was Javier, he was from Santiago, the only English he knew was the first line of ‘Yellow Submarine’, and he had a terrible singing voice.

He finally added three holes to my belt. I asked him how much it cost and he waved me away. He charged me nothing except 25 minutes of my time for 25 seconds of work. I expressed my gratitude, both for doing the work, and believing that I would need two more holes on my belt than I had requested.

After getting my belt done, the three pilgrims went to get Chinese food. Earlier today, we’d eaten McDonalds, a huge egg and cheese sandwich, and a double helping of ice-cream from an Italian who used to live in Ireland. In review the food and exercise we got today, getting an extra hole to make my belt tighter may have been somewhat premature.

Tomorrow we hit the road again: 319km to Santiago, more mountains, more rain, more tortillas patatas ans no more rest days.

Buen Camino!

+++

Optional Reading:
I’m not technically doing this walk for charity, but a few people have asked if I am. If you’re enjoying the blog and have a few bob to spare, there is a fundraising page to donate to Concern’s work with eradicating poverty (link below). If not, no worries, keep enjoying the blog!

http://www.concern.net/yourconcern/dermot-magee/camino-de-santiago-de-compostela

Startpoint: Reliegos; Endpoint: Leon; Distance walked: 25km; Steps taken: 31,648.

I’m sitting in a hotel room in Leon, drinking rum and coke from the minibar, discussing attitudes to climate change and giggling at the noises our stomachs our making. We had kebabs for lunch.

I’m sharing a twin room with two other pilgrims: one person has to sleep on a campbed in the corner. We had a democratic vote and the two lads decided the girl should take the campbed. Chivalry is not a core tenant of our pilgrimage.

At the hostel yesterday, two of us clubbed together to get our laundry washed (in a washing machine!) and dried (in a tumble drier!). We were given out to by the landlady for trying to use the drier without calling her first. Apparently we had forgotten to insert the carefully folded piece of cardboard in the right place to hold the ‘on’ button pressed in. Having clean pyjamas last night followed by clean towels today is almost more luxury than I can stand.

The shower in our hotel bathroom has a massage function. It feels like two small children squirting lukewarm water-pistols at your back.

We arrived in Leon after climbing through dusty boring industrial estates and a couple of sleepy suburbs. The walk today was not fun – 25km beside highways and past car dealerships. But the last kilometre through the old town made up for a little bit of it.

In Leon, we caught up with one of the Irish lads from early on. We spent the afternoon reminiscing and gossiping about hostels and pilgrims. We raided the minibar after checking into our hotel, but it didn’t take us very long.

There’s a hiking and outdoor shop right on the route through the old town – that man must make a fortune. Good English, no competition and a captive market of rich tourists desperate for clean clothes. We went in for a look around: One lad took about 2 minutes to pick out a new micro-fleece (the mornings are quite cold); it took me about 4 minutes to choose a pair of shorts (the afternoons are quite hot); then we waited an hour and a half for a girl to choose a pair of shoes (her feet were sore).

Not a let else happened during the walk. I was going to put in a story about a wasp nearly drowning in my coke as we ate lunch, but that would be just clutching at straws.

Buen Camino.

Startpoint: Sahagun; Endpoint: Reliegos; Distance walked: about 31km; Steps taken: no idea, probably about 40,000 – the pedometer first said 88888 and then said 0.

Today was a long day. The Camino splits shortly after Sahagun. My book of maps recommends leaving the main highway and taking the old roman road which shows off the beauty of the Meseta region. This option, it says, also allows the pilgrim to see some Great Bustards and Hoopoes. Never having seen even a mediocre bustard, I thought this was my chance. (They’re types of birds apparently, but just small brown chirpy ones – nothing sexy or fun).

What my book of maps did not explicitly point out, is that the old roman road is a rough stony country track and that the beautiful Meseta offers minimal shade, no villages and no food for seventeen kilometres. Luckily, I was prepared for this: I had a huge bag of nuts, some raisins and a banana in my bag. Bear Grylles has nothing on me.

As I marched through the stony mud of the roman road, I imagined myself walking in the footsteps of legionaries from two thousand years ago, before Saint James (just), before the cathedral and before the pilgrimage. Then I came across some tyre tracks and remembered I was just walking through someone’s farm.

I remembered an incident from a few nights ago in Burgos, when I’d been having a beer on my own and Bob Dylan came on. “How does it feel, to be on your own, a complete unknown, like a rolling stone”, and I thought ‘pretty good, Bob, pretty good’. I sang Rolling Stone to myself as I walked. I couldn’t see anyone ahead of me or behind me, so I sang at the top of my voice. Then I sang some Pink Ffloyd for some variety. I wonder what the romans did for entertainment with Dylan and Pink Ffloyd to sing? Poor bustards.

At one point, a small bird perched on an old gate post and watched me as I walked and sang. He seemed to enjoy it. I appreciated the company, so threw him a few raisins. He ignored them. I looked closely to see if he was a Hoopoe or Bustard, but I don’t think he was. ‘Just some kind of tit’, I thought to myself. The bird looked at me in a way that suggested he was thinking the same about me.

While singing loudly, I passed a large bush on the path and a pilgrim eating his lunch in the shaded shouted ‘Buen Camino’. I stopped singing after that.

Later in the afternoon, as I began to get hot and tired and my water started getting low, the path split. There were no signs to show the way and my map-book was too vague to be of any use. I took my best guess and kept walking, hoping I wouldn’t get lost and keeping my eyes peeled for the yellow arrows or scallop shells that usually show the way, but I saw nothing. But while scanning the vegetation, I saw something else: toilet paper! Someone has been here, I thought, and used this bush as a loo! Perfect, I realised, like a modern version of Hansel + Gretel, I can follow the used loo paper trail all the way home and I started off again more confidently. And it wasn’t just loo roll: an orange skin here, a sweet wrapper there, occasionally a water bottle. The Camino is not badly littered, but there was just enough to know you’re on the right track. I played the good pilgrim and added my own marker to the trail, but throwing my banana peel into the bushes but close enough to the path to still be visible.

Later again, I found a stone picnic table under a shady tree and treated myself to a siesta. I woke to find myself being overtaken by another pilgrim. Knowing it was getting late and that we were close to Reliegos, I started walking again as quickly as I could. The earlier pilgrims get the lower bunks. I only caught him as we entered the town, but luckily he took a wrong turn, so I got to the Albergue first. Result! I checked in and was led to my bed: the final top bunk in an already full room. He was given the next free bed: a bottom bunk in a totally empty room. Lesson of the day: I should have continued my siesta under the tree.

Buen Camino