An old man labours up a hill,
A daily trek, for come what will,
Whatever fate the gods bestow,
A man must have somewhere to go.
Fortune smiled on me this morning. A couple of hundred yards down the hill from the albergue, the Hungarian pilgrim was stopping to adjust her pack. As she picked up her poles, I realized, bloody hell, I’ve left mine at the hostel. That would’ve been the second pair of hiking poles I’ve left behind on the Camino.
Today was an easier day and I was going to take it easily. I was the last to leave at 8:45.
A few kilometres along the highway, and then off into the woods. In the distance, I can see the wind turbines on the ridge, all turning today, nine out of nine. Perhaps the ones I saw yesterday hadn’t broken down at all, but were just taking a day off. Twenty minutes later, I see them again. Sixteen this time, but one is idle.
A very pleasant stroll along the bank of a river and then up into the woods again. I notice very beautiful, delicate gossamer webs in the gorse bushes, occasionally in the broom, but they seem to prefer the gorse. I guess the tiny spiders attach the webs to the prickles. That’s the reason, of gorse!
I can hear the silence. This is what I need today. No spectacular views, no historic monuments, no interesting diversions. Peace and calm and quiet. Just a walk in the woods. Frost would have written a poem about this. And I may have miles to go before I sleep, but they are easy miles.
I pass through the first hamlet of the day, the only sound, the click clack of my poles and the dogs’ response, and then the humming of machinery, perhaps milking. An old man with a stick labours up a hill. Wasn’t that the riddle of the sphinx? What goes on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and three in the evening?
I pass a sign telling pilgrims to wear a mask. I remember reading that in the early days of the pandemic, the people were wary of pilgrims bringing the plague to their village. Not for the first time in history.
A tractor crawls up the hill, carrying a bale of hay to cows in the field above. Two dogs run along side, enjoying the jaunt.
Up the road for a bit and then off across the field again on an old road. Across the creek again and then along an interesting stretch: a regular fallen stone wall on one side, keeping out the forest, but on the other, a row of taller stone pillars. What was that all about? Was a nobleman’s worth was measured by the size of the fence posts?
A serious road this, cobbled, still in use, for a tractor comes up behind me.
And then, in successive villages a tale of two cemeteries. In both, the tombs above ground, of course, but in one, the crosses rise above, of equal height. Death is the great leveller. But in the other, the statues of the dead stand tall as if to outdo each other. One man, perhaps the most important in the village, stands in a suit and tie on the wall above the rest, gazing out on the land that once perhaps was his.
It was time for lunch. I find a place to sit down, but notice the barbed wire just in time. A little further on, a smooth rock. Across the stone fence, a dozen cows graze in the lush grass, and in the field beyond an old man is walking up the hill, carrying a net. What is he trying to catch? Another figure in black, perhaps a woman, is brushing at the bushes with her hands. What is she doing? This could be a scene from any century, except for the eucalypts on the horizon. I remember the historical novel I read, set in Roman times, when Hannibal or somebody is passing under the eucalyptus trees. Big anachronistic blunder, that one.
I am half way. Time to move on. I press on, my pack, a little lighter for the lunch I have eaten. I made a mistake yesterday at the supermarket and somehow ordered a pound of ham and a pound of cheese, enough to get me to Santiago.
I pass five crocus, only one pointing the way to Santiago. I realize now why some of the fences are made of large slabs of stone. It was simply the way they were quarried. These slabs could be embedded in the earth, like fence posts, and up to my right on the hill I see a quarry with they probably came from. Some of these slabs must weigh a tone. What a job to construct this fence!
I pass through another village with a fine stone horreo dated 1852. Few of them are functional now, and have become ornamental features. This one has polished wood on the sides.
Along the highway, and then off on a minor road to the left and then, what a gem, a mediaeval bridge, not artistic, but practical, just as it was for nigh on a thousand years, stones worn down and covered in cow shit. The only thing out of place is the anachronistic gum tree in the background. A rural scene, indeed, always the stink of cattle in the air.
I pass a stand of young eucalyptus, salmon gums perhaps, their leaves a characteristic blue-green against the darker green of the trees behind. But wait! Those behind are the same tree. These amazing gum trees undergo a metamorphosis. The saplings have wide blue-green leaves: those of the older trees are thinner and green-brown. But sometimes the older trees retain a few of the younger sprigs, a reminder of their lost youth.
I have been reading that these eucalyptus have proved highly inflammable in the fires that swept through Spain.
Even the long climb at the end of the day with the cool wind, blowing down on my sweaty T-shirt, is almost enjoyable. A great day!
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