Camino: Leon to Mazarife

June 13, 2013

Yesterday dawned bright with possibility, the sky crystal blue and cloudless as the train delivered me to Leon;  due to an error in navigation, my first sight was the Parador, standing tall against the deep blue sky. Once a monastery, now a luxury hotel, it seemed to symbolize the creature comforts I was about to give up.

Walking back towards the town center, I stepped upon a yellow arrow.

One of the yellow arrows.
A few paces later, a scallop shell glinted from its place in the pavement, pointing me back the way I had come.

Suddenly, it hit me that this was actually, really, truly, real. Like the pyramids or Angkor Wat, the reading and the planning – and even the movies – can’t prepare you for the actual moment.

So, as I sat in the cathedral square, relishing my caffeine fix, I watched pilgrims arrive and depart, gazing up at the scrolling spires. 

So beautiful, it seemed fake: the old quarter is full of stunning, red-roofed buildings in all shades, from pale green to deep red; bits of the ancient walls remain, and the streets twist and turn; a bustling square reached by empty alleyways; shops and restaurants… oh, how I’ve missed Europe.

A cool and quiet church.

A produce market in a sunny square – huge red peppers, piles of gleaming cherries.

Meanwhile, the horizon beckoned, calling me into the blue.

****

I’ve been awake since 5 am, ready and raring to go, no patience to wait around for the 8am breakfast.

At 6 I unbolted the hotel doors and headed out under a sky mottled with clouds and darkness, though on the horizon a bright new dawn drew my eye.

A nice Belgian lady and I helped each other find the way out of town, and I stopped for my first café con leche and my first sello, the stamps that mark stops along the journey to Santiago. 

As I made my way out of Leon, the yellow arrows were abundant: on pavement, on buildings, on fences and light-poles... and, once the suburbs dissipated, on the stone markers found at each crossroad, which also sported the rays of the scallop shell, the symbol of St. James and the Camino. 

Stopping for a snack and a break, I’m shocked to discover that I’ve already travelled 12 of the 22 kilometers, and I’m glad to be free of the suburbs, sitting here in the cool, cloudy silence, spitting out cherry pits and reminding myself that I am not in any hurry.

It’s a perfect morning for walking, clouds streaming from the west and hiding the sun.

Now fields of green wheat begin to wave along the gravel road, dotted with trees and wildflowers;  the mountains break the horizon line.

This is definitely what I had in mind.

The hobbit houses, however, were a bit of a surprise, doors and chimneys protruding from mounds of grass-covered earth.

An old spanish couple stroll along with their shy puppy, and as I bend to say hello I notice two pilgrims not far behind me. Craving coffee and ready for conversation, I pause to let them catch up with me.

This is it.

My first pilgrim encounter on the road.

I fall in to their left, as we form a line of three.

Jesus is Spanish, and has been walking from Barcelona. This is not his first camino. 

Cecilia is French, and also started off this morning from Leon. This is her first camino.

They are both going to Mazarife today, because (like me) they had heard the road was more pleasant than the one to Villandangos.

These facts were established over a few kilometers - between silent moments filled with the crunching of boots on gravel -  in a mix of Spanish, French, and English.

 

The gravel soon met pavement, and loud yellow paint proclaimed ‘BAR!’ and pointed left into a small village, so I waved goodbye and followed the ‘bar’ signs through the deserted streets, past adobe walls with wooden doors of faded blues and greens, topped with mossy tiles; swallows swooping over my head. 

The bar is much like the town, save a group of 4 other peregrinos, sitting on the porch in a jumble of packs, poles, boots, plates, coffee cups, and elevated stockinged feet.

Remembering an embarrassing rookie error from the day before in Leon, I enter the bar to order; trusting that the quiet and the presence of other pilgrims mean I can leave my bag unattended for 30 seconds. I don’t want to appear paranoid, but I also don’t want to be stupid. (It’s a delicate balance I will be perfecting for the foreseeable future).

The café con leche is perfect, and my first tortilla makes an excellent impression – for something so simple - egg and potato -  it is surprisingly delicious.

Thus fueled, I rejoin the camino and travel the remaining distance with a wary eye on the clouds, picking up the pace to avoid the rain that feels imminent.

 

The private alburgue I am staying in is right at the entrance to the town of Villar de Mazarife – San Antonio de Padua, which welcomes me with a sunshine yellow paint job and a walkway criss-crossed with flapping flags. The bunks are well-spaced and the bathrooms are clean – a great first impression. 

As early as it is, (12:30), I am not the only person checking in, and I meet two older ladies from Vancouver and a young woman from Italy, claim a bunk, shower and do laundry in the sink out back, hanging it on the line and hoping it’s not going to rain.

Having killed a whole hour with these tasks, I am left wondering what the hell to do in the hours until the 7pm dinner. Nappers are scattered in the dim light, but I’m still keyed up with first-day energy, so I head out to see the town.

Behind a littering of gray clouds, the sky is pale and cold, and spits of rain occasionally hit my head.  Narrow streets with narrow sidewalks lift and curve and fall, with adobe walls and red-tile roofs. A bar, closed, chairs stacked against the wall. A small grocery store, which supplies me with almonds for the next day. A church perched on what seems to be the highest point in the town, with storks roosting on the bell tower and walls that have seen better days.

Back to the hostel, where retreating clouds encourage me to sit outside. The sun shines warm, the flags flap, the swallows swoop and the cranes soar on wide wings.  The group of people I will come to think of as The French Contingent chatter in the chaise lounges as I fill in kakuro squares and let the relaxation steal over me.

Suddenly, balloons are produced. Shrugging, I join in the blowing and tying, shoving the finished products into trash bags. The lovely hostelier wrestles them into clusters and hangs them amidst the flags and onto the bannisters as we return to our other pursuits. Every few minutes one of the balloons bursts with a loud ‘pop’, breaking the peace and prompting giggles.

Activity suddenly increases on the front porch, and it is revealed that the balloons were not just for fun, but for a celebration: June 13 is the festival day of the one and only San Antonio de Padua, patron saint of the alburgue.  Things keep appearing from inside – a table cloth, a banner, a cake, napkin flowers edged with dye, a bowl of cherries, trays of sangria, and a statue of the Saint.

Pop music floats out the windows as we drink, eat, and chat; the sun hangs still in the sky as a group of bikers rolls up and expands our numbers.

Downstairs to dinner, for a delicious feast (Salad! Pumpkin soup! Paella! Crepes! Wine!),  talking loudly in attempt to be heard at the long table.
Already I am learning that reasons for walking the Camino are many, and strangers have little hesitation in asking you yours.

Then, a kind-faced gentleman – the owner -  stands in front of us, and we fall quiet.

He reads the blessing of San Antonio de Padua (in spanish, of course), and then the Italian girl, who happens to be from Padua, stands and reads it in Italian.

The man speaks again, and his daughter translates.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for. 

Even if you don’t know it yet. 

That’s all we do here. 

We are all looking for something.”

I look around the table.

I don’t know much about my fellow peregrinos, but at this moment, it doesn’t matter – we are all moved.

A fitting end to my first day as a walker of The Way.