The Arrival

 My final day of the Camino Frances did not begin on an auspicious note.

Cranky and dazed after the mass exodus at 5am by a room full of (understandably?) excited young people, who made very little effort leave quietly, I packed up slowly and headed out the door, making sure it was closed behind me, already looking ahead to my café con leche.

1 step.....2 steps… 3 steps… 4 steps…

Sh*t. 

My STICK.

Leaning right where I left it. 

Right inside the (very locked) front door. 

The thought of tackling that last day without my trusty companion was simply not acceptable.

Waiting around for hours until someone arrived to clean was simply not appealing.

Then I remembered the window in the laundry room… open… and though the window ledge was above my head, there was a lip halfway up that was enough to hold my desperate feet… and I scrambled in.

Relief. This stick would take me to the end of the earth. 

But first it took me to coffee. 

The mood felt solemn as I entered the woods beyond town, pilgrims lost in their thoughts as Santiago grew closer and closer.

Up Mt. Gozo, then a brief descent, and suddenly I was within the city limits, reluctant and eager in equal measure, feeling the importance of the moment.

Santiago is a lovely city, parks and winding streets, and then… there was the old quarter, cathedral towers spiking up above twisting lines of red-roofed whitewash.

Diving in, I followed signs and loaded backpacks deeper into the maze.

And there it was. 

I followed bagpipe sounds through a tunnel and emerged into the main square, squinting against the sun to gaze up at the façade, finding Saint James presiding over the open expanse of cobblestones. 

I spent a few moments gazing, soaking it up… people milled this way and that, or lounged against pillars, or simply laid down in the middle of the square, rested their heads on their packs and enjoyed the moment of arrival.

I decided to circle around and take in the entire thing before entering. As I paused by the horse-head fountain, I saw Irma and Ivan, who I thought I'd lost days ago... but when I realized the time, I bid them farewell and  made my way up the steps and into the cathedral. 

It was 12:05, and I knew the service had started already, but I knew I shouldn’t squander this chance to experience the pilgrim mass, so I dropped my bag by a pillar and ventured inside, drawn by the sea of humanity and the sound of hymns.

The cathedral soared above our heads, colors faded into gray and white; the main aisle was hidden from my view, but I could feel the the vast size of it lurking around the corner.  The mass was in Spanish, of course, so I absorbed little of the actual content, but as the sweat cooled on my back I let my mind wander back to the journey that had taken me here. 

And as the botafumeiro soared along with the music, releasing its sweet smoke, I walked the line between elation and sorrow, glad I had another few days of walking ahead to process it all. 

After spilling back outside on the tide of worshippers, I headed to the Pilgrim Office for my Compostela, proudly stating that yes, indeed, I had walked every step for the last 306 kilometers. 

 After finding my absolutely lovely hotel and cleaning up, I headed back out to wander the twisting streets, and explore the cathedral under less-crowded conditions. 

Taking my turn at the statue of saint James, presiding over the altar, I took a moment to place my hand on the scallop shell glinting just below the nape of his neck, and say a silent "Thank You." Then I headed below to gaze upon his (supposed) remains, enshrined in a shiny silver box. 

Wandering about in the early evening, I was not really surprised that, even here in this relatively large city, I encountered pilgrim friends from the road, enjoying one last chance to connect and share the Camino experience.

The whole day was at the same time both momentous and ordinary.... but sitting in the cooling evening, I felt the overwhelming sense of being a part of something amazing... something so much bigger than myself.

Sarria to Arca - getting close now...

Sarria to Arca

(Days 10-13)

These four days brought rolling hills and increased company, as many pilgrims joined the Way for the last 100 kilometers, the required distance to receive the Compostela, the official certificate of completing the Camino. 

Portomarin is a white-washed town on the banks of a wide and slow-moving river, visable from above long before it is reachable. As I approached, a group of musicians played their not-quite-bagpipes, sending music out across the water, drawing pilgrims across the bridge. 

Groups of young people added their chatter to the stretch from Portomarin to Palas de Rai, and when it started to border on annoying, I would simply drop back and admire the sweeping views - deep green pine forests, rolling fields, stone walls - and let them pass. 

 One group caught my attention with their midwestern accents, and I had the pleasure of meeting a group of young people from a church in Michigan, who planned and financed the trip themselves; they kept me going through a rather boring stretch of road-side walking.

In Palais de Rai, I cleaned up and headed out into the breezy sunshine. A nap in a churchyard, stretched out on the grass, left me feeling relaxed as I wandered down the streets, looking for signs of pilgrim life. I spotted one of the lovely Irish ladies in the main square, and joined her for a few hours of soaking up the sun, filled with the contentment that comes from living the moment you are in, and moving only to amble across the road for a round of cider or to escape the creeping shadows as the afternoon began to wane.  Sharing the sunshine was a group of pilgrims who were meant to be napping, as they planned to set out at dusk, to walk by the light of the full moon and the fires of the festival of Saint Jean. I had a fleeting desire to join them, as I imagined it will be clear and cold and lovely. 

I left Palais de Rai with the sun rising on peaceful lanes and the full moon hanging in the sky. Delivery vans were lined  up outside the bakery, ready to race off along country roads and deliver fresh-baked goodness to hungry farmers, office workers, and pilgrims. 

Eucalyptus trees became more common, adding a dry-leaved rustle to the soundtrack that also included the rippling waters of multiple river crossings. 

The small villages shifted back to red-tile roofs and whitewashed concrete.

Crosses and fountains.

Fields and cows.

One last incline before my lovely alburgue, just over a river where young people are soaking their tired feet.

A nap under flapping laundry. 

Sampling local specialties (pulpo - grilled octopus - and grilled sweet peppers) with some lovely folks at dinner. 

 After Ribadaiso, there were green groves and rustling eucalyptus, a few small rivers, and one village where the path dodged erratically, under arbors and past crumbling walls.

Arca de Pedrouzo isn't all that impressive, but it has the distinction of being only 20 kilometers from Santiago de Compostela.  Here I had the chance to have dinner with a fellow Minnesotan I'd met along the way, a beautiful and brave woman named Anne. She was one of only 3 other pilgrims in the alburgue that were not part of the large group of young people who made sleeping a bit of a challenge that night... and who I partly blame for the fact that I started my final day on the Camino Frances by breaking and entering.... 

Camino: O'Cebreiro and Sarria

(Warning: this is a long one!)

Day 8: I hit the half-way point between Leon and Santiago, and cross from Leon into Galicia.....

I leave at 7, slipping out along the river, weaving through what there is to see of Las Herrerias, as cowbells stir and roosters crow.  I know I face a climb, and as I head up, I am in conquering mode, with one goal:

Get. 

It. 

Over. 

With.

A wooded track cuts into the dark earth, ferns and trees growing precariously out of its banks, and after more than an hour of following it, twisting uphill, a beautiful valley unfolds, and more views are forthcoming in all directions, even one glimpse of the mountain range crossed days ago. Ahead, the way is cloud-covered, and the wind chills my ears, but it’s perfect for uphill exertion… 

Passing through one last Leon village, the cows milling out of the barn are quite vocal, dogs barking and adding to the ruckus, as I dodge cow pies on the path.

As I pass into Galicia, I take a last look back… but the bells in O’Cebreiro are tolling, calling me on, so I pass into the mist… to my left is oblivion, so I am grateful for the stone wall to my right, leading me into the celtic hamlet. The warmth of the church embraces me, but after a sello I must answer the more urgent need for food. And caffeine.

A fresh-made tortilla and a piping hot café con leche, a beautiful rest, and I force myself back out into the chilling breeze and loitering clouds, knowing I still have 23 kilometers left to travel.

As I leave through twisted pines, the sun does its work, and blue skies prevail; views roll out: a patchwork of green fields dotted with yellow flowers.  

The next few hours blur together.... a sun-drenched stone wall outside a country church. An incline that ends with the handshake of a local brown-robed priest.  Grazing cattle and invisible streams of trickling, life-giving water… and cow sh*t. Everywhere.

Friday, June 21 (day 9)

Sarria, 10:42 pm

The sun just set over Sarria, casting a pink-and-gold glow as the full moon rose on the summer solstice.

Today was a roller-coaster, and there were a few times I would have loved to get off.

As I sipped my coffee this morning, and crunched my crunchy toast, I took a moment to acknowledge my crankiness.

It was threatening rain.

I swear my just-washed clothes got damper overnight.

The room was cold and the mattress hard.

I slept badly.

And other first-world complaints…

 But reality was my legs were sluggish and my brain, like the hills, was foggy.

And when facing a fork in the road, I opted for the longer, but flatter, route, assuming that the extra kilometers were a reasonable exchange for the lack of incline.

I have to say that once I started, I felt better.

The air cool was and damp, and even though I was forced onto the shoulder of the road, I tried to focus on the sounds of the river and the more gentle sounds of rivulets of water seeping from the cut rock faces. I was thrilled when I left the road for a dirt rack shaded by vine-covered trees that followed the river Obrio as it rushed, fell, murmured and meandered. Purple bell-shaped flowers shone with dewdrops and just begged to be brushed with a fingertip.

In a small village, the river met a small stream, and the buildings of the village made no attempt to avoid the cacophony – either abutting or straddling the water, which provided, I imagined,  a constant background noise for daily life.

After an uphill push, the monastery of Samos could be seen, commandeering the valley below. 

Seeing as how the next tour was only 20 minutes away, I figured it would be best to see the inside… 

There were several aspects of the monastery that grabbed my attention, and if I had time and access without a guide, could have held it for quite awhile:

The babbling fountains in the central courtyard gardens. 

The mural wrapping around the second floor hallway: an epic struggle involving monks, nuns, angels, and demons. The scenes incorporated the necessary breaks in the wall: cloaked figures perched above a doorway, a struggling angel clinging desperately to the corner of a window. 

The light slanting through the 3rd floor windows, casting stripes on tiled floors. 

A cathedral, full of echoes and a quiet sense of magnitude.

The scenery remained beautiful – lanes winding through villages, face-to-face encounters with herds of cows, delightful groves of trees, burbling brooks, yellow flowers sending petals drifting into my path... clearing skies and a pleasant temperates.

But, alas, I was an ungrateful pilgrim.

My earlier crankiness returned with a vengence, and I barely registered the beauty around me, seen as it was through a thick veil of negativity. My pack felt awkward and unnaturally heavy, my shoulders aching… the only saving grace was that my legs felt fine.

Finally, the routes merged, and after a quick stop, I (glumly) trudged the last hour into Sarria, and arrived in a dehydrated, cranky state that left the ground shifting under my feet, although I was standing still.

As I berated myself for not doing so earlier, I cared for myself: water, food, shower, sleep; and around 6:00 I was much happier and ready for a wander about town.

 Keeping an eye out for the perfect place to sit and write, I made my way up the cobblestoned streets of the old quarter. As I reached the last set of umbrellas and faced a decision, I noticed Emma and Sarah, the Irish duo from Herrerias, chatting with another american – another Sarah, who walked form SJPP to Portomarin before being sidelined and sent back by an ankle injury. 

We settle in a restaurant at a shady outdoor table, the owner smiling and making comments in spanish that were not directly translated but were clearly welcoming. We had a lovely dinner as an increasingly large crowd gathered… and it soon became clear that something was about to happen in this small square, as microphones were tested; adorably-dressed small children and instrument-toting teenagers began to appear, as did groups of men and smartly-dressed ladies.

Not willing to give up our prime seats, we ate our dessert of Santiago tart slowly, piecing together the fact that today was the festival of San Juan and that the festivities were most likely related to this event. 

Curiously, we watched as bagpipe-type instruments began to play and a parade of large paper-mache figures paraded past… one or two that looked saintly, and another few that looked like the stuff of nightmares. 

The adorably-dressed small children danced in a suitably adorable way, then speeches began from the balcony. I understood about one word in ten, but the crowd-watching kept me entertained when I’d lost the thread completely. (that, and we were firmly entrenched, so getting up and leaving could have resulted in dirty looks - or a rush on our chairs).

Finally, a single firework was lit from the balcony, the teenagers played some sort of anthem, and we slipped out, after the waiter flawlessly remembered our multiple orders and delivered the bill.

Down to the street fair, which was a rather unimpressive row of shopping and carnival food and games, save some hippie jewelry by the river. But it was nice to be out and about in a town with the locals, feeling like a part of not only this pilgrimage, but also the daily goings-on of spanish life.

Saying goodnight and heading back to my hotel, I realized that the day’s earlier exertions were all but forgotten, and I feel refreshed and renewed.  

(Which was important, as it allowed me to merely smile as I realized that some sort of all-night rock fest was happening on my side of town, and my open window was letting in the hazy guitar riffs in all their glory). 

Camino: One week in....

The Ponferrada suburbs try to hold me back as the sun breaks through in fuschia and gold, but eventually I make it out, as clouds break in waves over the mountains behind me and the sky hangs dark and ominous. The way ahead, however, stays clear for the moment. 

After crossing the freeway the asphalt becomes a dirt track, winding pleasantly through vineyards and past rustling poplars.

Reaching the point where I’m ready for a break, but wanting to make it to the next town, I catch up with a familiar, long-bearded figure.

I have seen him here and there since that first night in Mazarife, where he checked in with two other people, all with impressive camera equipment.

His tattooed legs are moving slowly, and dangling from his like-wise tattooed arm is a Canon 5D with a monster lens.

My compliment about this is not received well.

He “hates this f%$#-ing camera”, (and after carrying it hundreds of kilometers, I can hardly blame him.)

One of his legs hates going uphill.

The other one hates going downhill.

And for the next few kilometers, I am fascinated, for this Greek man is a world-traveling photographer, having been to over 80 countries and captured Tibetan monks to war-torn lands.

As we walk the long central street of Cacabelos, passing friendly locals, he begins to look for a place with coffee and an ashtray, dismissing a few before spotting what he proclaimed was ‘his place’.

And that was that, for I had not spied MY place in this town (It is a curious thing, that some locations call out to an individual, compel them to stop there, and others do not). 

On the way out of town, after crossing a lovely river, the road climbs up and I slog along the shoulder, trying to focus on the beautiful breeze and the surrounding scenery, and then celebrate the departure from asphalt onto the ‘camino viejo,’ by taking a moment to stand with my face to the sun and crunch through an apple, with vineyards sloping away before me, sweat drying on my back, birdsong in my ears, and the sheer luxury of having nothing else to do.. 

The next hour is more rolling vineyards and cherry trees dripping with shining fruit, and then I ramble through a little village and find my place to rest – la casa de Estrella, a shady haven with a tiny ‘kitchen’ and wobbly seating options. I am two strides past when I turn about and decide to enter – after all, I am not in a hurry.

The pink rosado in my glass is cool and earthy, the techno-trance music lulls, and poems by the likes of Pablo Neruda are scattered on the walls. My little dish of olives is a perfect snack, and an adorable local couple takes the table next to mine for an afternoon coffee hit… the woman pats my cheek, calls me cute, and tells me to be careful (I think). 

A woman, who I make out to Estrella, comes over and, in lieu of a sello, offers a handful of tiny, pink nuggets of quartz, her gift for passing pilgrims. I carefully lift one from the pile, place it away safely, and wonder if it will make it home. 

My arrival at Villafranca de Bierzo is complicated by some bad map-reading, but eventually I shed my pack next to a bunk in an airy attic room, complete the usual routine, and force myself out the door for a wander. The streets are lovely but lonely, mostly deserted around stately churches, a rushing river, and a beautiful garden, so I make my way to the central square and settle in under an umbrella, to wait for company that eventually happens along; evening falls as I swap travel stories while the chilling breeze swoops into the valley. 

Wednesday, June 19 (Day 7)
Today was lovely.

When I slipped down from my top bunk, my feet hit the floor without pause, my calf muscles loose and relaxed. And as I headed out of town on an uphill path, I felt invigorated by the incline, and my pack felt light. 

The climb  provided views of the unfolding valley behind, with the rising sun slanting across its floor, illuminating the distant hills; red rocks glowing between emerald greens, streams glinting as they fell, clouds frothy like blowing snow… and, as the trail leveled out and began to undulate along the ridge, rain began to fall, drawing a shimmering veil and muting the brilliant colors. 

Beneath me, civilization was still evident – an elevated highway criss-crossing the valley, carrying industry along its merry way; bright spots of pilgrim ponchos on the road at its base.

But for now, I was above it all, at the top of the immediate world. 

The breeze was fresh and insistent, carrying the promise of rain, and I eyed the ominous clouds hanging low and gray over the peaks, made sure my poncho was at the ready, and tried to focus instead on the lightening sky to my right, where scraps of blue were being revealed.

At a rather undignified moment (just finishing up a pee, if you must know), I stood up to see something I had hardly dared hope for – a rainbow. Colors curving out of thin air,  deepening into an arc that stretched from nowhere to nowhere.

I lingered until there was only a small orange-yellow glow, barely visible against the yellow flowers on the slope across the valley.

Rain spattered as I entered a grove of terrible and beautiful chestnut trees, and I donned my poncho; at a fork in the road, a spanish man and I exchanged the universal signs of confusion before choosing a way and, ponchos flapping, walking in companionable silence until it became clear we were on the right path. He outpaced me as the trail begin to zig-zag down into the valley – I was reluctant to re-enter the world of roaring semis and whizzing cars.

The elevated freeway criss-crossed the valley, man’s stark (yet impressive) scar on nature’s beauty, but the Way hugged the old road, following the twists and turns of the river Valcarce, which raises its determined voice to counteract the hissing brakes and roar of tires. The breeze was still fresh, the sun teasing with moments of warmth; rustling poplars soothing, emerald fields rippling in the wind, a castle peering down from a hilltop; rusty locks watching the water flow around them, useless now.

When I see the (relative) opulence of my casa rurale for the evening, I am almost embarrassed... but decide to accept it and make the most of the chance for solitude and reflection. Soon, I am perched in my open window, sipping wine, with only the gentle symphony of rushing water, birdsong, and cowbells to distract me from my journal and my thoughts. 

Eventually, however, I need dinner, and down the road I head, to the only other place in sight, where I happen upon two lovely Irish ladies, and then join a German-speaking trio for dinner. Frank and Michaela are walking together along with their small dog, and Rachael from Switzerland met them this morning. They graciously switch from German to English for my benefit, and I am intrigued to hear that Rachael is going to attempt the morning’s ascent by horseback. 

The sky is still glowing with the sun’s light as I eye the hills I will soon have to climb and turn into my delicious bed.

Camino: Rabanal to Ponferrada

My internal alarm-clock wakes me early today, Day 4 on the road... I am eager, but my muscles are feeling their daily exertions, and I set my feet to the floor gingerly...

I'm out of town in seconds, the dirt track climbing through fields and flowering yellow shrubs, cow bells ringing in the valley, and the sun slanting its rays across the landscape.

I stop for coffee in a village with a sweeping view of the plains I am leaving behind, and a sense of more hills ahead.  At first, the loud music is off-putting, but the hot, fluffy croissant and face-lifting sunshine makes up for it, and as I prepare to leave I find myself in conversation with James and Bethany, and we hit the road together, a pleasant distraction up a winding uphill stretch.

Soon we reach the high point (literally and figuratively) of the day – the cruz de ferro, ­stretching into the blue sky, a stark and simple monument that rests atop a complicated pile of stones and fluttering scraps of fabric.

Pilgrims climb the pile and leave their own offering, a memento of the path already traveled, be it a smooth stone from a far-off homeland or a pebble picked up along the Way. We are leaving a piece of ourselves as tangible proof that we have been here.

Two Italian men carry their wheel-chair bound friend to the top of the pile, perching him on a large stone to smile widely for pictures. I have seen them these past two days, the entourage following him as he uses his arms to power down the road, and I silently wish him well as he heads into more mountainous terrain.

 The scenery unfolds ahead as we leave the cross: rolling hills covered in a patchwork of green, brown and purple and patches of snow on distant summits. Truly, truly stunning, especially under bright blue skies.

Next stop, a ‘hippie’ shack in an almost-deserted village (population:1), with drinks and trinkets for a donativo. Noticing the walking sticks on offer, I mange to communicate my desire for some sandpaper, to further improve my own.

Wanting a bit of time to soak in the scenery in solitude, I let Bethany get ahead of me (I will come to regret this decision later, but it seems right at the moment), and am elated for the next hour, moving upwards through groves of trees hanging with moss, more flowers and more views, and a breeze bringing relief from the sun just when it is most appreciated.

As Ponferrada’s suburban sprawl becomes visible, spreading through the valley, the descent begins: a rocky, dusty endeavor that requires pausing to admire the view, to avoid tripping on a rock while doing so. I reach Acebo, where the overhanging balconies and their houses have been beautifully restored.

Real food seems like too much work at this point, and none of the cafes appeal to me, so I have a quick snack and air out my feet, perched on a rock, and then set off again. (this, too, I will regret later, and will learn from on future days).

 The views remain beautiful. There is another adorable town. A grove of ancient chesnuts spreading shade, their thick trunks twisted and branches gnarled… but by this point, I am tired of downhill, tired of the hot sun, tired of watching my feet avoid tripping hazards… and, just when I would have loved some distracting conversation, there are no other pilgrims in sight.

It is one of those moments where I have to remind myself that I chose, quite deliberately, to be here, doing this. 

Finally, I reach the rushing river in the town of Molinaseca. In front of a church built into the hillside, a Roman bridge spans the water, and brings me to my lovely hostal,  where my room is waiting to welcome me with open arms. Collapsing on the bed, I almost take a nap in all my sweaty glory, but force myself to shower and do some laundry, which makes the nap all the more glorious.

Thus rested, I wander for awhile, then settle in a café by the river, have a beer and write. The clouds have moved in, the breeze is cool and hints of coming rain. It’s Sunday afternoon, and the locals sit and chat amongst the pilgrims, while groups of teenagers wander and splash in the river. Spanish pop music plays from the speakers, the waitress occasionally singing along.

I notice Ivar and Irma sitting a few tables away, a couple from Florida I had met crossing the river Obrigo, and saw earlier today in the small store down the street. I stop by and say hello, meet Ian and Susie from Australia, and am invited to join them for dinner. We order, dip our feet very quickly in the very cold river, then settle in to delicious food, wine, and conversation; sharing stories and observations about the Camino and our ‘real’ lives.

At one point, we are talking of the odd moments emotion can overtake us on the Camino. One of our party, describing an emotional moment from days past, says: “It wasn’t the religious side of it, though we were in a church. It was just that so many people care about what are doing.”

How true. My mind flashes to earlier, when I stopped into the very store where I saw Ivar and Irma. Narrow, the place was piled with fresh produce, frutos secos, packages of cookies and crackers, the usual small assortment of toiletries, and a fridge from which I plucked a bottled water. On my way to the register, the shopkeeper pressed a handful of trail mix into my palm. A small gesture, but it carried large meaning: Here. I know you are tired. Let me nourish you, just a little. 

Day 5  

I awake to chilly air creeping in the open window and the unmistakable sound of rain dripping from everything, and as I slowly come into my body, I can feel every muscle of my legs aching… and am infinitely glad that I have worked in a short day today.  I take my time getting ready, sip my café con leche, and wait for the rain to abate.

Moving slowly, I head out along a country track that keeps me off the road, before shooting over and around the long way into Ponferrada. A few stinging drops fling in my face, but as I crest a hill, I can see the sun lighting the hills on the far side of the valley. Through cherry orchards, I have the road to myself, and the sound of barking dogs follows me through the deserted streets of a small village.

It feels like October, clear and cool, and though a small part of me wants to take advantage and keep walking, the other part of me is all too happy to arrive in one of a string of squares and know that I have reached the end of my day, even though it is barely noon.

Ponferrada's castle looks imposing against the sky, but even a nice tour is not an option as it’s closed on Mondays. 

Wandering down cobblestones, I soon spot the glinting hat of Roger, the Man From Ohio, who I first met on my way out of Astorga. (Little did he know that I desperately needed some company in the midst of that cranky morning). We settle in for a chat and a drink, both content with reaching the end of our walk for the day. 

Looking out over the square, I experience one of those intense moments where travel is everything that is should be. There is nothing else quite like it: sitting in a middle-of-nowhere town, looking at beautiful buildings, with a cold beer, good company, and nowhere else to be.... and relishing the intense sensation of being completely unknown: no one here knows me, and no one who is not here knows quite where I am.