I could not have realized more than sixty years ago, when I worked as a student at a Rio Tinto mine in Broken Hill, New South Wales, that one day I would pass through the town where it all began. Relics of the old mine are scattered throughout Riotinto de Minas and just north of the town are the huge open cuts which had been mined for copper, silver and gold for thousands of years. Serious exploitation of these deposits began with the Romans, and reached a peak with the British Rio Tinto mining company in the mid-20th century. That company has gone, but we noticed that parts of the open cuts are still being exploited, if only for road metal.
Two of us walked a short distance today; the others made a detour, but we all arrived at the same destination. For me it was short, but not easy.
I have been led astray by a guide book before. Some years ago on the Chemin de Piedmont, I was led onto a motorway by M. Lepère, and was stopped by the French police. This morning as we followed the trail on the Buen Camino app, we were walking along a road which ended abruptly in a 100-foot drop. Had we been able to continue on the non-existent road we would have found ourselves in a lake. Clearly, the old road had been quarried away since the path was traced by the developers of the app. Instead we had to walk along a highway which bridged the huge open cut mine. We quickly and apprehensively crossed the bridge against the oncoming traffic. After that harrowing experience, we stopped for a second coffee at a convenient bar.
The Spanish always shout at each other in bars. This time, one very loud fellow shouted at us, jabbing me in the legs, and the one word that I think could understand was “danger”. Was he warning us about bulls? This area was famous for its bullfighting. No, we concluded, he was warning about the traffic on the highway, which would be “charging” us if we continued the way we were going, for we had now given up on the guide and were relying on Google Maps.
We had no choice but to follow the highway as it crossed a lake, probably a flooded area of the old mine. Sometimes we had to walk inside the barrier; at others we could walk outside it on the oxidized boulders and charred rocks that made up the embankment. Occasionally, I would see a tiny poppy struggling to survive in the charred leavings of man’s destruction. There was a moral here.
Eventually, we left the wasteland behind, and followed the highway as it climbed steadily up and around the side of the hill. Suddenly, a yellow arrow appeared and sent us off to the left on what was obviously the old road, up and up and up in the most brutal of climbs. The new highway was now far below. I intended to rest at the summit, and around every bend I thought the road would level off, but no, it continued to rise until eventually I collapsed by the wayside in the shade of some spindly conifers. And just as there are painful climbs, there are moments of sheer pleasure. I rested beside the road, revived by the cool breeze. I reflected on the notion that you have to experience pain to appreciate joy.
As it happened, the summit was around the next bend, and then I experienced another pleasure that every walker of the Camino will understand: there was the village, sooner than I expected.
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