6. El Acebo de San Miguel to Ponferrada. 18 kms

 

The Last Autumnal Crocus

They poke their heads up on the Pilgrims’ Way,

The last autumnal crocus. One chance have they

To live, and breathe, and see the light of day,

Before the pilgrim treads them in the clay.

Ever since I read the line in one of Wordsworth’s poems I have been fascinated by this game little flower which pokes its head above the ground and lives but a short time if it’s lucky. I remember seeing them on the hospitales route on the Primitivo, high up in hills, struggling to stand upright against the wind, before being blown over. I’ve been noticing them along the sides of the trail on this walk as well, but this morning I saw them growing on the path itself in the very dirt. They were not long for this world.

Yesterday might’ve been the last post you would’ve had to read, had I not stopped a couple of hundred yards beyond the village to take off my jacket and pack it. I noticed that my iPad was not there. I returned to my room at the albergue where the lads were still sleeping. Out of consideration for them, I had not turned on the main light to the room when I arose this morning, and consequently didn’t see it on the bunk above. Now had I remembered to say my mnemonic, I would have checked.

Please, God. Where am I? Help a lonely traveller.

It was a fairly easy day, mostly downhill, but treacherous at times. In one part, I inched my way down a very treacherous slope, not scree this time, but dirt, worn smooth by pilgrims’ feet.

Halfway down the hill was one of those places that you wished you’d stayed in. Molinaseca has been voted one of the most beautiful villages in Spain. I crossed over the Roman bridge into a slightly winding street with stone buildings on each side, mostly devoted to pilgrim habitation and restauration. And I saw a sign for the breakfast I wished I’d had: “Two eggs, bacon and baked beans”

Just after Molinseca, as the path followed the road downhill, a group of Spanish cyclists rode by, and one of them stopped and reached up to grab a bunch of grapes from a vine by the side of the road. I was amused, and was calculating whether the bunch lay inside or outside the imaginary property line which extended up into the sky. I thought no more of it, and walked by, but five minutes later, the cyclist came up behind me, stopped, and gave me a bunch of grapes. So once again I quote Wordsworth, and his line that sums up the spirit of the Camino:

[Those] little nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love

The path to Ponferrada follows the highway, a long, dull urban approach to what seems an unattractive city from across the valley: just an extensive panamara a of apartment buildings. But then, of course, when you arrive, there is always the old city.

I am installed in a seven bunk room at the Hostel Guiana. Who should be there but the German trio from Rabanal. This time the daughter didn’t have to surrender her lower bunk to me. I had been already assigned the single bunk in the room.

I have not yet decided whether to continue on the Camino Francés, with its hordes of pilgrims, but shorter distances, or the less travelled Camino Invierno, with its uncertain accommodation.

 My Mnemonic

My forgetfulness is chronic

So I made up a mnemonic 

To help me to remember what to bring.

But I find it quite ironic,

And some would say, moronic,

That I forget to say the bloody thing.

5. Rabinal del Camino to El Acebo de San Miguel. 18 kms

 

The equalizer

A delicate device, much too delicate to detail,

That matches the facility enjoyed by every male.

For every female pilgrim, caught short upon the trail,

Make no mistake about it, this is the holy grail.

I booked ahead for the first time today. It’s a shame, but I just can’t take the chance of getting stuck. When I first walked this Camino there was no booking at all. No private albergues, just the odd monastery and the municipals. And these weren’t always the most hospitable either. I remember the old, former  two-classroom school, adapted as an albergue, men on one side, women on the other, one loo for each, and a primitive kitchen in the middle, where a cockroach (🪳) popped out of the plughole and said, “I live here.”

At breakfast this morning I heard familiar tones from a neighbouring table and thought, What is he doing here? From Downing Street to Rabanal? But no, instead of the golden locks, a bald pate. Just a posh Pom.

As I left the village a cock crew. I began a long climb upwards. And what a climb!

On the road below, I saw the Camino van  carrying the luggage of the packless pilgrims who were passing me by. I am a purist, but today I envied them.

Half way up, I passed a lady standing up against a bush with her back to me. What was she doing, I wondered. Then I realized. She was using a device that allows a lady to remain standing. Rather indelicate to mention it, I know, but I do so only to illustrate the wide range of gadgetry available to the pilgrim. I refrained from saying, “Buen Camino”. But I’m sure that she said, like Francisco,

For this relief, much thanks.

And still I climbed, until at last, just a few hundred yards from the top, I reached the little village of Foncebadon and a welcoming bar where I had a coffee and a piece of real, homemade tortilla. Delicious! Also here were the German lady, Rona, and her dog, whom I first met just outside of León, and Danielle, from the albergue on my first night out of León.

At an earlier meeting, they had asked me how old I was, and when I told them, they asked if they could take my picture. I believe that I have achieved a certain fame as an Aged Curiosity. They always ask how I’m going. I think they’re a bit concerned that I may not make it.

Danielle had visited a famous masseuse in Rabanal. During the massage, the masseuse had detected a great sadness within and  lifted it from her. She was quite overcome by this mystical experience. It wouldn’t have happened to me, but I believe it happened to her. I am a sceptical sceptic. Danielle lives in Portland, Oregon. She must have heard my son-in-law play bass.

This is a journey of such extremes. There are moments of suffering when I say, like Jack Hawkins in that famous film, “Madness, absolute madness,” and then there there are moments of joy when I sit and relax, and look around at these magnificent hills, even if they are marred somewhat by the wind turbines and the transmission lines, but then again, we have to have something to drive the coffee machines, don’t we?

Another kilometre up, and then the Cruz de Ferro, where pilgrims deposit the stones they have brought with them. I remember walking up a steep slope to deposit my stone 19 years ago, and now the mound of stones is no taller than I remember, but much, much broader. Somewhere under there was my stone. I deposited another one today, carried not from home, but just a few hundred yards away, and then sat for some time in silent contemplation, reluctant to move on. And many others were sitting in silence as well.

How many millions of stones and every one a pilgrim! A humbling experience.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

And then down a gentle slope to Manjarin where pilgrims were gathering around a coffee stand, and past the famous refugio, which years ago, the authorities had tried to close down because there were no facilities at all. My Aussie mate George and I had entered to the strains of the Hallelujah Chorus, and I wondered whether this was my Damascene moment on the road to Santiago, but as I waited for the following aria, the chorus began again. The bugger had been playing it all day on a circular tape. It wasn’t a sign from heaven after all.

 And then I was climbing again, and there, ahead, must be the summit, next to the cell tower, for as Edna Everage screeched about Catholic Churches, “They always get the best positions.”

But like every summit, it was always just around the next bend. Eventually, I rounded the cell tower, and after another slight climb of a few hundred yards, I began to descend.

It was on this descent down a steep slope, rather perilous at times, that George and I had encountered an elderly Australian lady who talked and talked. Not as much as the Irishman, but enough that we had to make excuses and escape. She told us that her children had sent her on the Camino, and we understood why.

I could see Ponferrada in the distance, in a valley, and halfway down the slope I arrived at my destination, another Camino village, El Acebo de San Miguel. I am staying at Albergue la Casa Peregrino, a misleading name, and a rather new phenomenon, pilgrim quarters attached to a spar. I am sleeping in a dorm, but enjoying the rather luxurious facilities. I sit here overlooking the hills I have walked over today. This was a great day!

4. Astorga to Rabanal del Camino. 20 kms

Gaudi’s Bishop’s Palace at Astorga

An Electric Camino 

Ease on the throttle and ease off the pain.

No need to suffer aching calves again.

This is our Camino, we’ll do it how we will.

Look at those poor bastards, struggling up the hill!

How much better are my tortillas than any I have tasted so far this trip! My tortilla for breakfast this morning may have been mass produced in Ponferrada.  No onions. Just powdered potato. But typically, as I stopped for a cafe con leche four kms out of town I noticed all the breakfast specials illustrated on the table in front of me. Bacon and eggs and beyond. One lady was even taking a photo of it. The breakfast we might have had! And I could see the onions glistening in the tortilla on the counter.

After refreshment, I followed a long, straight, white stony path heading west. Pilgrims in front of me, pilgrims behind me, as far as the eye could see

Pilgrims in front of me,

Pilgrims behind me

On to their Compostelle

Strode the six hundred.

On through Santa Catalina del Somoza where the bars were doing very well by the pilgrims, who were stopping for a breather and a coffee. I stopped for a break as well.

And then on towards the hills. Every one is kind and helpful on the Camino. Ahead of me, a horse was giving directions to the pilgrims who followed. Here, he was leading me off to the right. Beautifully positioned!

The day ended with a difficult scramble up a rocky trail, and it was getting hot! Eventually, I staggered into Rabanal fearful of not finding a bed. I was even willing to accept a top bunk. I couldn’t have gone on, and was ready to sleep on the floor, or a church pew, or even outside. I arrived at the first albergue as three Germans were being turned away. But just then the host received a phone call and called them back. He had received a cancellation. And then he beckoned me. By yourself, he asked, and sent me after the Germans to be the fourth person in a two-double-bunker room. And a young woman who had already put her stuff on one of the lower bunks, looked at me, and offered it. The Camino really does provide.

Normally, when I arrive, I shower and do my washing, but not today. I stumbled down the stairs to the bar below and ordered a demi-litre of beer.

In the afternoon, all is quiet at Rabanal del Camino. The wave has dissipated, some of the pilgrims having settled in here, the others headed on to Foncenadon.

The village has two churches, representing the two aspects of Christianity. One church you can enter, the other you can’t.

The first, a baroque church, has statuary and gilt carving behind the altar and on both walls of the nave. You can admire the elaborate design, but an iron grill prevents entry.

The other is a simple Romanesque church, unadorned except for a statue of the crucified Christ above the altar. White paint is peeling from the ceiling, exposing the bare stone beneath. You can enter and pray or meditate or relax or think. It was here, 19 years ago that I heard two monks sing Gregorian chant. But not tonight, I am too hungry.

3. Hopital de Órigo to Astorga. 18 kms

Gurgling happily along the Way

He made his first Camino.

For him, no stationary confinement in a pen

Poking curiously at purple toys,

But the open road, the sun and the sky.

A communion of sorts, no solemn white,

But colourful red and white and blue,

Nor priests nor holy water;

Just the natural world

Divine, unappropriated by man.

Out at a bright and early hour, I followed my shadow across the plain, managing to keep up with it quite well. 

I have walked with many pilgrims over the years, and have seen them use different kinds of locomotion — feet, bicycles, donkeys, wheelchairs. Once I saw a man walking with his backpack while his woman was harnessed to a cart laden with gear.

This morning I walked with my youngest Camino companion, only he wasn’t walking at all: he was being wheeled by his parents in a pram/cart. I won’t tell you the age gap between us. It was his first Camino, and my last!

As I slogged up the hill after Santibañes de Valdeiglesias, I witnessed a new phenomenon. A pair of bicycles raced by me. Electric bikes, I realized. The buggers! Normally cyclists have to cover 200 km to get their Compostela, but perhaps there should be a new requirement for those on e-bikes. 400 km?

Further on, half way up another hill, I sat down on a hump of earth and rested. A steady stream of pilgrims passed me by. I was in compositional mode, but greeted them as they walked by. Only I had forgotten to turn off the recorder on my phone, so here’s an unedited live take from the Camino:

 lol ha ha ha ha how’s it going good yeah I’m fine ha ha good morning one Camino 

I got up with some difficulty, pressed on, and just over the hill an enterprising fellow had set up his stall in front of his rural shack. A nice place to rest.

This has often been my experience. It’s time for a rest, so I sit down on an anthill while just around the corner is a bench. I once arrived at the outskirts of the village, desperate for a coffee and consumed by far the worst cup of instant coffee I have ever drunk in my life. Around the corner was a bar with an expresso machine.

But then, just over a rise, there in the distance was Astorga with its prominent cathedral — not a glorious golden brown like the Cathedral de Leon, but a rather foreboding gray.

Five kilometres later, I was there. I had overdone it yesterday, so I decided to stay. I had been told the albergues were full so I walked another two kilometres looking for a cheap hotel. Completo!

Getting a little worried, I returned to the albergue. There was room. But I was fearing the worst: a top bunk. I once walked an extra ten kilometres to find a bottom bunk. But I couldn’t do that now.

On the top bunk, I worry about stepping on the delicates of the person beneath as I make my several nocturinal visits to the bathroom. Sometimes there’s a ladder at the end offering a hazardous descent, but often you have to swing over the side, your foot hoping for landfall on the bunk beneath, while trying to avoid the inhabitant. 

But I was lucky. Perhaps it was my age which she would have ascertained as she perused my passport. The hospitalera led me past several dorms full of young people to a small empty four-bed room where I installed myself on a bottom bunk.

Unlike last night, I did not keep the room to myself. An Irishman arrived and talked and talked and  talked until finally I escaped by saying I had to wash my clothes. Quelle experience! 

And then I was a tourist. Astorga is a magnificent place! I walked past the foundations of the old Roman buildings, and then up into a typical Spanish town. Plaza led into plaza, and all around people were sitting outside in bars and cafes, enjoying life and their beer. Euphoria enveloped me as I sipped my cervesa. Yesterday was misery. Today was joyous!

2. Oncina de la Valdoncina to Hospital de Órigo. 25 kms

In the east the rosy dawn,

And in the sky above

Wisps of cloud, tinged with pink,

Clear and crisp and pure.

I enjoyed some sleep last night, but awoke at 5:15 and then set out just before dawn. Up a steady rise and then on to the plain, lonely and beautiful.

Harvested hay fields, scrubby land with occasional majestic oaks, and cultivated fields.

After ten kilometres, I stopped for coffee at Villar de Mazarife, and then began a long dull trudge through dried-up corn, crossed over a canal, and then continued on an even duller trudge through more dried-up corn. This was the very worst of vistas, the road stretching out ahead in a long line forever. No bend, no surprise, just more of the same. However, one of us, Spotty Dog the Dalmatian, was running free, bounding this way and that, unencumbered by his saddle pack. You may just spot him in the photo above.

Pilgrims like to write on the El Camino de Santiago road signs that adorn the highway. On just one sign, for example, these ranged from the religious (“At peace with the Lord Jesus Christ”), to the spiritual (“Loving yourself is the beginning of love”), to the personal (“We are back. G and V”), to the practical (“I need to pee”). No obscenity or blasphemy. I remember a quotation (“I am the way, the truth, and the light”) on the path into Santiago that anywhere else would have provoked a blasphemous rejoinder. But some one had scribbled: “Not the only way.”

Eventually, five kilometres further than I thought, I arrived at Hospital de Órigo,
where I’m the only person in a four-bed room. Private luxury! Accommodation, by all accounts, is going to prove a problem later on. Here, I’m on a variant, but tomorrow I join the main stream. I will probably book ahead, something I’ve never done before on the Camino.

At Oncina de La Valdoncina yesterday, I noticed on a bell tower In the distance, the largest stork’s nest I have ever seen. As I approached, what I thought was the stork turned out to be a cross. I guess the inhabitant was out delivering babies.

León to Oncina de la Valdoncina. 12 kms

Who Would Fardels Bear?

Dual pack,

Saddle-like upon her back,

A heavy burden carried she, 

To weigh her down across the scree.

Somewhat miffed,

She should have sniffed 

Her way along the Way,

Conjuring visions of canines past

Assessing them from first to last,

On every wall, bush, tree and stone

A message for dogs, and dogs alone.

Jet lagged. Fitful sleep. Not the best night, not until four o’clock anyway, whereupon I fell into a deep slumber, not to wake until ten-thirty. Not an early start! But having breakfast in front of the cathedral, my spirits revived.

Earth has nothing to show more fair... (Wordsworth)

An inspiring view in full sunlight, no scaffolding, just glorious brown stone! And all the other majestic churches and convents in the old city as I made my way west, before passing through industrial wasteland with its graffitied, dusty white concrete buildings and the occasional abandoned warehouse, roof gone, rafters exposed. A long trudge to the outskirts of the city. The tourist pilgrims would avoid this, alighting from their coach just out of town, but the long, dull stretches are part of the Camino too.

Strange how my pack is heavier, even though I packed less.

At La Virgen del Camino I had to choose the shorter historic route along the N120 or the variant. A desire to escape the highway led me on a track across dry, brown terrain, eventually to the little village of Oncina de La Valdoncina, where I’m staying at Albergue El Pajar. I have walked only 12 kms, but that’s enough for today.

I met two pilgrims on the way, a female couple, the taller one carrying the lighter burden. They had begun at Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, and had a terrible time crossing the Pyrenees. What is the word for something worse than a storm? she asked. Tempest, I ventured. Well, it was so bad they were lying flat on the ground to avoid being blown away, she said. The dog was injured and had to go to the vet in Pamplona.

I wonder whether the cathedral office in Santiago makes any allowance for dogs. Some days off curgatory, for example? Or perhaps if she doesn’t  make it, the ultimate reward? I am reminded of the bishop of York, who said that if his dog Katie wasn’t going to heaven, nor was he.

 

León

Here I am in the town of León,

Once more to walk, a hapless peon.

There’s just one thing we will agree on,

It’s been a rather dismal eon.

I’m exhausted after two long flights and a long bus ride, not to mention an hour’s wandering around trying to find the León Hostel.

What am I doing in León? Well, three years and a half years ago, I stopped at León after walking the Camino de Madrid with my daughter Rach. So I thought I’d pick up where I left off. I’m bringing my hiking poles this time, and thereby hangs a tale.

I was prepared to check them in as luggage, and having bound them heavily in plastic, I arrived at the AirCanada counter. But the very helpful young person  wondered whether I could carry them on. She spent a good 15 minutes checking the regs, for there was no one behind me, and then gave a Eurekean chortle, and said, “Sporting gear! Take them with you”

I was a bit dubious but decided to give it a go. Having whisked his wand around the contours of my body, producing a sequence of beeps that sounded like R2-D2, and investigated those, the security guard looked at my encapsulated poles in the tray, turned to me, and said one word: “Mobility?” I nodded, and was through.

Oh, and one more piece of advice. Avoid seat 39B. It’s right next to a loo. Very handy for me, but I wasn’t the only one to use it. All through the night: Rattle-click-click as they open the door. Crack, as they slide in the lock. Oop-arssshh, as they flush, that unique sound of an aircraft toilet. Not much chance of snoozing.