Camino: Mazarife to Rabanal

Baptism by fire: 31 kilometers from Mazarife to Astorga.

I set off as the sun breaks the horizon, into a perfect morning for walking – a light breeze moving the cool morning air, my shadow stretching long on the road ahead, the Paramo stretching away in all directions – pale green wheat, shoots of corn, splashes of red and yellow and purple flowers, irrigation canals burbling with water – and snow-capped mountains lining the horizon.

 The Way is mostly asphalt, broken by a few stretches of dirt road and a few small villages.

Pilgrim traffic ebbs and flows, and I space myself to have some alone time. For a few hours, I am simply enjoying the sensation of the earth moving under my feet, the cool air on my arms, the birds calling, until I reach the medieval bridge over the Rio Obrigo.

 On the way out of town, while striding happily through a stand of rustling poplars, I spy a discarded branch that has walking-stick potential written all over it, and after breaking off a few twigs and testing it out, I decide it will do, at least for the moment.

The sun is high and stronger now, but the breeze keeps blowing as the dirt track leaves the road and begins rising and falling through scrubby hills.  At a perfect resting place, watched over by a statue of a pilgrim, I meet Bridget, an Irish teacher who is no stranger to the Camino, and my companion for the final hours of this stage. We chat through rolling wheat fields and the occasional groves of rustling trees, the mountains playing hide-and-seek.

 On a grassy plateau we encounter David: shirtless, tanned and blue-eyed, he has risen from his hammock to greet thirsty pilgrims and offer them refreshment from his cart, or at the very least a sello, for whatever donativo is given.

“La casa de los dioses”, reads the white text, stark against the read heart – The House of the Gods.

The building behind him is roofless and crumbling, he lives outside in a series of shelters, though someday he hopes to renovate and create a place for pilgrims to sleep, a place with no doors or walls, a place with nothing to cut people off from each other.

 A cross on a hill, a stunning panorama, and the city of Astorga, waiting below.

The last 5 kilometers is long and hot. Company and the ever-closer cathedral made it bearable, but by the time we traverse a series of squares to reach the large alburgue on the other end of town, I am so tired I can't focus on anything but getting the boots. Off. My. Feet. Even the stunning cathedral will have to wait.

This alburgue is large, with several rooms full of bunks and pilgrims, and common areas with banks of sinks, toilets, and showers. Blissful, blissful, showers.

A short time later I am sitting in the courtyard with my feet up, clean laundry flapping from the lines above, water bubbling from the fountain, and two lanky, shirtless Scandanavians playing banjo.

I have dinner with two Irish ladies in the main square, and we’re not the only pilgrims eating dinner at an hour earlier than the Spaniards usually do. We take advantage of the menu del peregrino (Pilgrim's menu) - two courses, wine, bread and dessert for a mere 10 euros. As the evening progresses local families fill the square – eating, drinking, strolling, kids playing and riding bikes.  An exhausting day, but one that has helped me understand the rhythms of life on the Camino. 

Day 3 started out a bit rough.

I didn’t sleep well (hot, stuffy, noisy).

The alburgue breakfast wasn’t stellar (crunchy toast, yogurt).

The way out of town was boring (streets, houses).

My pack was annoying (heavy, not fitting right).

Luckily, things improved – a pale gravel track, over gentle hills, with views of more rolling hills dotted with low trees; past bushes filled with small yellow flowers that, when brushed by the breeze, gave off an intoxicating hint of lemon.  

Crumbling stone walls criss-crossed the fields, small towns sat apparently deserted, with crumbling ruins... save the ever-present bar/cafe providing shade and sustenance. 

As noon passes, I'm hoping for a place to take a rest, and  keep my eyes peeled over the next few kilometers, but the scrubby pine forest and close proximity to the road mean i'm not having much luck.... 
then, with church steeples rising above the trees, marking my destination.... I see it.

An ancient, spreading oak, casting a delicious circle of shade and a choice of benches.

In the breezy shade, all my sweaty exertions are forgotten. 

I have made myself at home, using items from my pack for a pillow and a footrest, stretching out for a nap.  Pilgrims on the road chatter as they approach, sticks clacking on the pavement, bikers passing in a whir of tires, but none disturb me as I drift away. 

Thus refreshed, I pick up my walking stick and start pulling away at thin strips of bark – first, just around the place  where my hand rests, to make the grip smooth and comfortable for long hours on the trail. Then above and below... and, eventually, on the whole thing. Time passes, and I progress to using the scissors from my first aid kit to scrape and smooth.

Nothing else to do, nowhere else to be. The shade is sweet and I have a room waiting for me. This is the moment I realize that I have been released from all responsibilities save walking, eating, drinking, and sleeping.

Finally, I depart in the late-afternoon sun, appreciating the breeze, and soon arrive in the adorable town of Rabanal – cobbled streets, stone houses, compact churches. 

After the usual shower-laundry routine (experiencing a small twinge of pilgrim's guilt over my beautiful private room at a pension), I wander down the street until I find a shady table and enjoy a lovely pilgrim’s menu before checking out vespers - Gregorian chanting by the monks at the church. I soon give up trying to follow the latin program and just sit back, appreciating the slanting rays of evening light, the presence of my fellow pilgrims, and the peace that lingers over me.