I started my first pilgrimage, although I did not feel like a pilgrim at the time, at Saint-Jean-Pied-du-Port on 26 May 1997. My wife, a friend, and I drove there the previous day from Madrid. We had taken two days for the trip, stopping in the town of Santa Domingo de los Silos for the night.
I had hoped to get off to an early start but good-byes and obligatory photographs prolonged my departure. Then I made several errors in getting out of town. They basically stemmed from directions that referred to the N-133, whereas the road was sign posted D933 č the French designation. After an initial start down the D933, I decided it was not the route and back tracked and started following signs for the pilgrims route along the Route de Napoleón.
It was Market day in Saint-Jean-Pied-du-Port and my path took me by the meat market where there was a truckload of sheep. I could hear their cries as I walked by and could not understand for some time what they reminded me of, the lamb in the Wallace and Grommet video, “A Close Shave.” It was not until I took a break after completing an arduous ascent, that I realized that I was on the alternate route that I did not want to take. Fortunately, two local people were able to help me get back on my desired route without having to retrace the entire route. However, because of my mistakes, I was further along the D933 than I wanted and due to lack of a bridge, I had to walk along the verge of the highway and not on the walking path on the other side of the river.
Because of my late start and subsequent delays, it was getting hotter. The last two kilometers to Valcarlos were very difficult because I was getting tired, it was hot in the sun and the slope was steeper. I had started out resting every hour but I usually did not have a real place to rest and did not take the recommended ten minute break but would push on after five minutes. When I finally reached Valcarlos it was about 1 PM and I rested for ten minutes in the first shaded place with a seat I encountered. It only took three more minuets to reach the Hostal Maiten, a one star hotel. Never have I regarded a four star hotel with such joy!!
After a shower and clean clothes I soon joined the other patrons in the restaurant. I chose a soup over salad because I knew I needed to replenish my fluids. Although I had wine, I primarily drank water, draining the pitcher over the course of the meal. My main course was trucha a la navarra (Trout stuffed with a slice of mountain ham and sautéed) which was quite good. I ended my meal with chocolate ice cream and café con leche. By that time I was more relaxed and refreshed. Earlier, my arms were even somewhat shaky. The view from the dining room was lovely with green hills rising steeply, mixed hues of green from the trees, grasses and bushes, scattered white buildings with red tile roofs, white cows grazing on the hillside, chestnut horses in a field with a clear blue sky topping it all.
The next day’s trip to Roncesvalles took about five hours. I was up early but I had forgotten to pay before I went to bed and had to wait for the innkeeper to rise. The ascent from Valcarlos to Ibañeta was very difficult. Earlier I had thought Valcarlos represented half of the 1000 meter gain from St. Jean to Ibañeta but that was not the case. In addition to the net 2000 feet elevation change, there must have been at least 1000 feet gained and lost going over intervening terrain. At times the path was less than 18 inches wide with a steep drop to the side — a slip would have had serious consequences, particularly since I was walking by myself. Several portions seemed like an unimproved goat trail. I arrived at Roncesvalles at 12:30 but had to wait until 4 PM for the refugio dormitories to open. I simply waited, a trait I developed during the camino. It meant a lot of dead time, but I was dead tired and uninterested in sightseeing.
While en-route to Roncesvalles, I had ample opportunity to look down into the valley below and could understand how the Basques could wipe out part of Charlemagne’s army by throwing rocks from above. Pursuit would have been difficult. I also reflected that what the French had considered an act of treachery was a brilliant tactic when viewed from the Basques’ perspective.
Between Roncesvalles and Zubiri, I realized that merely noting the distance was 22 kilometers does not give a true sense of the magnitude of the journey. It omits the uphill and downhill climbs, many on treacherous rocky or muddy footing. It does not convey the feeling of crossing, several times, a wet area turned into a quagmire by passing sheep and cattle.
In Arre and several towns along the way, I saw something that always gave me pleasure to watch. Between six and seven in the evening, mothers would come together in a plaza and sit and have their afternoon snack (meriendas) while their children played in the plaza. During their stay many fathers would join them. The parents would sit on park benches or at cafe tables to talk. They seemingly ignored their children but would act if a serious problem arose. The children, ranging from 3 to preteens, would play with each other, across age groups. It was noisy but everyone seemed to be relaxed.
From Puenta La Reina to Villafranca de Bierzo, almost every town had at least one stork’s nest. Many had several. I counted over six nests on one church. I always found the storks fascinating to watch. They make a very distinct clacking noise. Outside of Astorga, I noticed one in a recently mown field, busily looking for food. I often spent several minutes watching their nest activity, as they fed their young or sparred with each other.
It rained the previous evening and the entire day I walked from Puenta de la Reina to Estella. The result was very difficult walking and I arrived in Estella soaked to the skin and I had felt the water sloshing in my hiking boots for several hours. I had already planned to stay in Estella so the next day’s rain did not bother me until I felt its effect in the mud I encountered the following day, en-route to Los Arcos.
I left Los Arcos at dawn because more rain was expected and I wanted to cover as much ground beforehand as possible. It started off nicely with a pleasant temperature and a gentle breeze. As soon as I was clear of the town, I realized there was a thunderstorm in the area and I would have no cover. However, I was soon able to determine that the storms path was away from me. After an hour it started to sprinkle and the rest of the day was marked by showers and light rain. A front passed and the temperature dropped.
I had planned to stay in Viana but made a bad decision and decided to push on to Logroño after I realized I had passed the refugio. I had reached what I thought was the location of the new refugio and was consulting my guide and maps, trying to figure out what to do. Then, from across the street a window opened and a woman stuck her head out and pointing down the street called out “Santiago!” I had been wondering whether to retrace my steps or continue on so I took that as a sign to keep on going. That meant three more hours of walking in muddy, wet conditions. I was again soaked and my ankles were hurting when I arrived in Logroño. The sign on the door to the refugio said it was closed until 4, meaning a several hour wait, and I did not want to linger in my wet clothing and wet boots until then. It took three tries before I found a hostal with a room. I was so wet and bedraggled I did not blame the others for sending me to another place if that was why it took so long. The entrance to the hostal I finally settled in was on the third floor and my room was two floors above that, all walk-up. But there was a warm and pleasant cafe across the street, where I was soon found sitting at a table ordering hot food.
The next day, although my right ankle was still bothering me, I decided to walk the short (12 km.) distance to Navarrete and stay at the hostal there because the weather, sunny but cool, seemed right for walking. That was another mistake. My guidebook indicated there was a very poor refugio but several rooms in the hostal. When I arrived, I learned the hostal was fully booked. I could not find a bus to the next town, Nájera, so I ended up walking there. I tried to minimize the stress on my right ankle by using my walking stick as a crutch, shifting weight off of it with each step. I arrived in Nájera at 7 PM, almost 11 hours after leaving Logroño, now with both ankles bothering me. I stayed in Nájera the next day to rest and recover but pushed on the short distance to Azofra the following day. Both ankles still bothered me the following day, but I continued to Santa Domingo de la Calzada. However, Monday, at Redecillo I finally admitted to myself that my ankles were getting worse and I needed medical advice. I caught a bus to Belorado, a small town with a health center where I saw a doctor. She advised me to take several days of rest. I felt that Belorado was too small for me to stay several days so I took a bus to Burgos.
Burgos is a small city with a river running through it, with a park and pedestrian walkway on each side. There are many small plazas with cafes and shops; it has enough activity to keep one from being bored but the pace is slow and the atmosphere tranquil. In short it was just what the doctor ordered. I needed something to read, in English and soon found myself buying several English classics used by the local university to teach English. I stayed five days and left early Sunday morning. My walk that day was very short, to Trabajos, only fifteen kilometers.
My walk from Trabajos to Castrojeriz was one of the most pleasant I made, even though I ended up walking longer than expected. It was a sunny but cool day with a gentle breeze blowing. The camino consisted mostly of good farm roads running between green fields of barley and wheat. The landscape was generally flat so one could see a good distance but there were also hills. The fields were of different shades of green and the breeze caused them to shimmer. Overall, they gave the appearance of velvet, soft to the touch. The roads and fields were demarcated by walls and piles of rocks removed from the fields; some were yellowish but many were white. These were brightened by masses of red poppies, which also appeared in many of the grain fields. In turn other wild flowers added to the feeling of a giant flower garden containing hues of violet, purple, blue, white, pink and yellow. Even the birds seemed to feel the magic of the day and sang from the bushes and from the air. Such days are a matter of luck and timing. For a while, I walked and talked with another pilgrim . He had been through about the same time the previous year and said it had been very hot and dry with mostly dead flowers and brown vegetation except where the fields were irrigated.
I started off early and went wrong as I left Castrojeriz when I missed a yellow arrow that marked a turn. I didn’t realize it at first but the longer I walked without seeing the reassuring yellow arrows, the more uncertain I was. I had covered about a kilometer before I decided that I really had made a mistake and had to turn back. I had no problem finding the path—seeing other pilgrims helped—and was soon headed in the right direction. It was a beautiful day, slightly cool, which made the steep climb that soon followed much easier. After climbing about 500 feet on what seemed to be a 30% grade, I reached the plateau. Although it was rocky with a only thin layer of soil, there was a wheat field nearby, I remember thinking about how determined one would have to be to farm this sparse land.
After about another kilometer, following a flat stony path, I reached the other side of the ridge and started a steep descent. After the problems I had walking up from the other side, I was astonished when a cyclist on a mountain bike, soon followed by another, came past me heading down the path. It was steep, rocky and full of ruts but these two men seemed to have no problems. After reaching the bottom it was a long flat walk before I reached the Rio Pisuerga, which I crossed over an old narrow bridge. It was only a short walk into the pueblo of Itero de la Vega, where I hoped to find a bar and get my morning “café con leche.”.
Shortly after entering the village, there was a bar on the left side of the camino with three fellow pilgrims sitting at an outside table. I removed my pack and went inside to place my order. When I came out, I joined them at the table. One of them was a man I subsequently became friends with, Herman. One of the others was Christian, also known as Speedy. I left walking with them but Speedy soon said good-bye and started moving out ahead of us.
I liked “Speedy” from the beginning although there was something about him reminded me of a weasel. He always had a slight stubble and a cigarette in his mouth. My image of Christian is still fresh because it was repeated often over the next week. He was wearing a light-colored shirt, well worn denim shorts, which had a ragged tear just below the right seat, and a medium-sized dark backpack. He walked on long lanky legs with an effortless stride that slowly but surely opened up the distance between us. Herman commented on how fast Christian walked and referred to him as Speedy, the name I adopted for him. Herman explained that he had been walking with Speedy since Nájera, several days back. Christian said he was from Strasbourg, where he was a furniture restorer. He only worked for six months each year because he didn’t like to pay too much income tax and he had used his off time to make several trips on the Camino, this being his eleventh. Herman, a retired railroad engineer from Koblenz, was very interesting so I walked with him the rest of that day.
Herman and I reached Frómista in a few hours, talking as we walked. We ran into Speedy near the refugio, where he said that it was closed until 4 PM. We joined him and a couple of other pilgrims at the outside section of a cafe for a beer and a bocadillo. After we paid, Christian became very agitated and explained that he need to get some more cash but could not find his bankcard. This was a matter of discussion for a while, then Christian shrugged it off and said he would call his bank and make arrangements to get a replacement card. Herman said he could understand his predicament because someone had stolen 25,000 pesetas from him at the refugio in Nájera, but they had left his bankcard. Herman said he would loan Christian some money until he could get a new card.
I left Frómista on my own and continued to walk by myself for the next several days. However, I would encounter Herman and Speedy at one bar or another as I passed through pueblos. Depending on the time of day, Herman would be drinking a café con leche or a beer but Speedy always drank wine. Speedy spoke English, German, French and Spanish and was very useful at finding an inexpensive place to eat and dealing with minor problems. He smoked a lot and we would usually leave him sitting at a table, finishing his glass of wine and smoking as we walked off. Later, he would catch up with us, chat for a few minutes as we continued to walk, then pick up his pace and leave us. In El Burgo Ranero he organized a meal for a group of us in the refugio. It was ad hoc and somewhat disorganized but we all enjoyed it. Twelve of us contributed money and Speedy bought the ingredients for a lamb stew, which several people cooked in the kitchen. The only problem was that there was only enough silverware and dishes for six people, so we had to beg and borrow the rest from the nearby cafe and other pilgrims.
The next day Herman and I walked to Mansilla de las Mulas. We encountered Speedy in Religeos where we enjoyed freshly cooked doughnuts with our morning coffee in one of the pueblo’s two bars. In Mansilla de las Mulas, because of Speedy’s recommendation, and Herman’s recollection from his 1995 bicycle trip, of the industrial area we would have to walk through, we decided to ride rather than walk to León. We looked into taking a train but decided on a taxi instead. Once we reached León, Herman and Speedy went off in one direction and I, in another, to find lodging. We agreed to meet in Villadangos del Parmo Tuesday. Although, as it turned out, we stayed a block from each other, I only sighted them once during the day and a half stay. We arrived on Sunday and León was in the midst of their double fiestas of San Pablo and San Juan. I enjoyed myself thoroughly, sightseeing as well as taking time out to deal with personal problems, such as repairing a pair of glasses I had sat on.
Tuesday, Herman arrived at the refugio in Villadangos del Parmo after I did. He asked me if I had seen Christian. When I said I hadn’t, he explained what had happened. Monday night, they had agreed to meet in the morning but Speedy never showed up and when Herman went to Speedy’s room, it was empty. Speedy had left without repaying Herman his 33,000 pesetas loan. In subsequent reflections, Herman came to the conclusion that Speedy was the person who had robbed him in Nájera. He thought Speedy had left him his bankcard but befriended him and stayed close so Speedy could get more money once he spent the stolen 25,000 pesetas.
Herman and I had become good friends and we walked together the rest of the way to Santiago and then bused to Finisterre. Starting in Villadangos del Parmo another man, Reinier, walked with us. Reinier, a Dutchman, started his pilgrimage in Eindhoven, on 20 March. At the refugio in Villadangos del Parmo, we met two Finnish women traveling “a pie.” We gradually got to know them more over the next few days but one became ill at O'Cebreiro and they had to stop for a while. It was a pleasant surprise when we saw them next at Palas de Rei, but they did not walk the following day. We felt we had encountered long-standing old friends when they arrived a day after us in Santiago. There was one man, a Frenchman, that I never got to know but could recognize from a distance because of the way he walked. He had a fast pace despite problems with his shoes — he was wearing shoes similar to running shoes but his feet projected forward and his toes were sticking out on both shoes where the seams had split.
The camino from Frómista to Carrión de los Condes follows the highway and for safety, a wide path of crushed stone has been constructed parallel to the highway. My guidebook advised that this was a good place to use the kilometer posts to determine your speed. I found I was doing slightly over 5 kilometers/hour when I was fresh and slightly less as the day wore on.
Leaving Frómista, an overpass takes you over the railroad, and as I was preparing to start over it, I saw a little old lady at the top, approaching me. She turned around as if she had forgotten something and started back. She was dressed in black, slightly bowlegged, and used a cane, but that didn’t slow her down. As she walked, she would stop for a few seconds from time to time to speak to a friend she would meet, and then move on. She started out about a hundred yards from me but the distance widened continuously and she was out of sight by the time I reached the next village, about 4 kilometers away. It was a blow to my male ego to have this little old lady with a cane leave me in her dust.
That day I chose to stop in Calzadilla de la Cueza, a small village rather than walking for a very long distance. The refugio was locked but had a notice that the key was available at the one cafe/bar in the town. After looking at the place—dirty, mattresses on the floor, no showers, I opted to rent one of the rooms above the cafe. That night I and other pilgrims who had made that same decision ate together in the cafe. Our table of six consisted of a Belgian, a Frenchman, a Portuguese, a Dutch couple and me. We managed to have an interesting conversation without a common language. The Dutch couple were biking and I never saw them again but saw the others several times and became friends with the Frenchman, even though we did not speak the same language. This forming of friendships across nationalities and communication despite language barriers is an important part of being a pilgrim, now as it was in medieval times.
I wished the weather had been better when I went over the pass at Foncebadon. There were several places where I was certain there would have been lovely vistas but for the fog. Near Foncebadon, the clouds lifted long enough for a short look down a small valley with a village tucked into its top. Shortly thereafter, we received a glimpse forward into the valley and saw Ponferrada and on beyond, the next range of mountains - the entire valley seemed to be blazing in the sunlight.Many times the reward for climbing the hills was the vistas one had at the top.
The trip from Ponferrada to Villafranca del Bierzo was characterized by an atmosphere of abundance. The vegetable gardens were lush and we passed by many grapevines and small orchards with trees laden by plums, pears, apples, figs and cherries. The cherries were ripe and we found many trees that were not tended and available for picking by the passerby. There were sweet and sour ones of different sizes and colors. I ate my fill.
Herman, Reinier and I walked together to O'Cebreiro from Villafranca del Bierzo. We stopped in a small store that included a bar and met a very friendly woman who wanted to know where we were from. She was quite surprised and pleased to learn that we were from the United States, Holland and Germany, walking together. She brought out the book that she keeps for pilgrims to sign and insisted that we make our entries.
It was nasty and cold in O'Cebreiro and the refugio was crowded. When we ran out of hot water, we decided to leave it and moved into rooms at the nearby meson. I shared my room with a Frenchman from Nantes who spoke English and we enjoyed talking to each other at dinner.
The next day, from O'Cebreiro to Sarria, started out very nasty, cold, foggy and rainy. Herman and Reinier left early and I ended up starting out on my own. It was very difficult. At one point, after climbing up a very steep, rocky but muddy path, I emerged into a cleared area by the highway to find a small bar with an open door. It was filled with other pilgrims, seeking a brief shelter from the elements, rest and food and drink. As they finished and donned their packs and rain gear and set forth back onto the camino, I had to laugh at the sight of all of the hunchbacked monsters walking away. The fact that one had placed a plastic bag over each shoe to protect it from the rain just added to the sense of absurdity.
I had intended to stop in Triacastela. However, for several reasons decided to push on after a quick lunch. I planned to stop in the beautiful historic Benedictine Monestary in Samos but when I got there I still felt good and decided to push on. I knew there was a good three-star hotel in Sarria and if I went that far, I could rest the following day. My image of the hotel grew better as I tired and help me keep going.
When I finally reached the cathedral at Santiago, I did not experience the great emotional feeling I had expected. I was hot and thirsty and my first priority was finding a place to sit down and get a cool drink, first water and then a beer. My next priority was linking up with friends that had gone ahead and were making arrangements for us to stay in a hostal. It was only after a shower and fresh clothes that I was able to start relaxing and experiencing a sense of satisfaction. Later several of us sat around a table near the cathedral and drank the local white wine while we nibbled on “pulpo” (octopus) and fried peppers. It was a celebration but a quiet one.
My Daily Routine
I developed a very simple daily routine. Because I was traveling in June, and the days were beginning to be hot, I rose very early, got dressed without showering and left; a couple of times before down. I often left without eating anything and always looked forward to the first bar where I would be able to get a cafÄ con leche and something to eat. I usually carried some fruit that I could eat during a rest break but I did not worry about this unless I did not expect to find any villages or towns along the way. I assumed that I would be able to buy something for a store along the way. I tried to take a short break every hour and would vary the interval somewhat so that my stopping place would have shade and a place to sit. Since I could not foresee when that would happen, sometimes the intervals were almost two hours.
Before I set out, I knew where I planned to stay and would stop when I reached it. I decided to push on a few times but they were the exception. My priorities when arriving were to find a bunk, take a shower and change clothes, and wash the clothes I’d been wearing so they would be dry by morning. Only then would I look for something to eat and rest before doing any sightseeing.
It was such a simple, stress-free routine. I realized how nice it was after I returned home and found myself having to decide what to wear, what to eat, setting priorities on my daily activities. On the Camino, I wore the same clothes and knew what I was going to do when I woke up—walk towards Santiago.
Every town in Spain has a church with a bell tower; many have more than one. Each bell tower has a clock with a bell that chimes the hours, and half hours - all day, all night. While some have a pleasant tone, most sound as if the bell were cracked - perhaps caused by a disgruntled neighbor who took a shot at it one night. I seldom slept the entire night and could hear the bells ringing. There was a comforting quality to the slightly imperfect sound.
I visited many churches and cathedrals along the Camino. Of them, the Cathedral at León is the most beautiful and compares favorably with those at Chartes and Metz. The beauty of its stained glass brought tears to my eyes. The 11th Century church of St. Martin in Frómista is one of the best Romanesque churches I have ever seen. It now serves as a museum.
What I Learned about myself
I was pleasantly surprised to discover that I could walk farther than I anticipated. There were several 30 kilometer days and one 43 kilometer day that involved a lot of ascents and descents. After I had arrived in Santiago and had a chance to rest, I really felt good. I walked down one flight of steps near the cathedral with my pack on, practically skipping, feeling I had conquered the world.
I was reminded that I have to listen to my body and not push too hard. Early on, I got carried away and walked further than I felt I should but I was feeling good. Then when my ankles started to protest, I kept on going; even the following day, when I had to use my walking stick as a crutch. When I finally decided to see a doctor, she promptly advised me to rest for several days. I did and eased back in and soon made up for lost time.
Although I am still trying to understand and sort through my experiences, traveling the camino was a very positive experience. I do not expect to repeat this walk, although many do, but I would enjoy backpacking for a shorter distance.
Spiritual Matters
I was surprised that, despite the religious nature of the Pilgrimage, religion and spiritual matters were seldom discussed. There were several special masses for pilgrims but normal conversation was about day to day problems of the camino and personal interests.
I attended a mass at the cathedral in Santa Domingo de la Calzada. This is where they have a cock and hen in a pen located high in the wall in the back of the cathedral to remind people of the miracle that occurred there. It was a good service, and the occasional crowing of the cock seemed to add to, rather than detract from it. However I noticed the neglected condition of the building and the repairs needed. Later, during the mass for pilgrims in the cathedral at Santiago, I noticed the tourists moving in and around the cathedral, seemingly oblivious to the services; but the service of the mass ignored the tourists. It caused me to reflect on that and earlier services. The distractions seemed to provide a metaphor for faith; people can keep their faith and remain focused on their beliefs despite the distractions of life. The state of the building and the number of members in the congregation are not important so long as the people are there to be ministered to and keep their faith. In a sense the deteriorating condition of many of the churches is appropriate as resources are limited and there are other needs to be fulfilled. In many cases the construction of these buildings came at a high price, involving great sacrifice for many people.
Walking versus Riding
After the first few days, during which I was really getting in shape to do what I was doing, I was better able to enjoy walking. I could see how steady walking toward a distant point gradually cut away at the distance. Where once 15 kilometers seemed like a reasonable distance for a day, it became a minimum. I felt good and took time out to visit churches between the end points of my day’s travel. I took longer breaks, not because I felt I needed the rest, but just to enjoy the moment or the place. I enjoyed things that are not possible from inside a car—listening to the birds, seeing the bushes rustle and looking to see a muskrat or baby ducks scuttle away, feeling the breeze, pausing to savor a clump of wildflowers or a particular view. It was even easier to make a decision to stop at a bar in a small town or village. If it was there, and I was thirsty or hungry, that was good enough. I stopped in many places I would have bypassed in a car because from the outside, they did not look like much - and indeed, they were not much but the people were nice, the food was good and the stop was refreshing.