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.

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. 

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. 

Camino de Santiago

Awhile back while researching walking holidays, I stumbled upon an ancient pilgrimage trail that runs through Spain. Intrigued, I mentally filed it away as a potential trip in the future.

A few months later, enjoying a summer at home and my free Netflix trial, I came upon a film about the very same pilgrimage, and immediately started streaming it.

Within minutes, it had confirmed my desire to walk the Camino de Santiago.

Loathe to put it off as a 'someday' adventure, I also decided that the following summer would be perfect: facing 30, it seemed like an opportune time for a bit of reflection.

Now, two months after the end of my Camino, I struggle with how to convey my experiences.

So I'm going to begin (with a little inspiration from high school English class) by sharing The Things I Carried. It seems silly, I suppose, to list such things, down to the clothespin, but when your material possessions are reduced to things on your back, everything takes on a more weighty significance – literally and figuratively. For everything must be carried, day in and day out, and those decisions made from the comfort of your living room will be resting on your shoulders for weeks.  The things you carry come with history, with stories, and then become part of the new chapters you write as you set forth, one foot at a time.

The things I carried:

• Backpack (35 liter Gregory, tested on the slopes of many a Japanese mountain)
• Keen hiking boots (those solid partners that kept me going for 42 kilometers, but failed to keep me dry, giving in after hours of rain and snow… they have now been forgiven… and given a new coat of waterproofing)
• 2 pairs pants (the gray pair a trusty companion in times of low-maintenance, such as a month overlanding in Africa, zipping off into shorts convenient for wet shower floors.
• 1 pair shorts (untested on the trail, but witness to the squall that sent Insatiable’s mast to touch the water)
• 2 t-shirts – (‘on sale’ on the top floor of L-breath, bought on two separate trips, and 2 colors in order to keep straight which one is clean)
• 1 long-sleeved shirt (one of those clearance rack finds that turns out to be the best thing ever, the sister to a green one, and paradoxically, I don’t want to wear it in order to save it)
• 1 fleece (bulky and heavy, but eventually necessary on cool, breezy evenings – and a great second pillow).
• 3 pairs underwear (2 fancy pairs, made for activity and quick-drying -  and one cotton pair that ends up held together with medical tape)
• 3 pairs socks (bought at three different times, three different kinds. They don’t dry fast, and end up flapping on my backpack more days than not;  the one pair bleeding pink from its embroidered text onto my liner socks and into the wash water).
• 4 pairs cool-max liner socks (worth the cost of shipping them from the states, but 8 becomes 7 before the trip is over. Still a mystery.)
• 2 bras (one for walking, one for evening. it's the little things.)
• 1 pashmina (a remnant from the desert, the favorite, the comfortable one, with a hole that indicates its slow decline)
• 1 pair Croc flip-flops (not the ugly crocs you are thinking of)
• 1 pair pajamas (5-dollar comfy capris from Seiyu+ an old cami.)
• 1 poncho (carried far, but worn only once, after the rainbow appeared across the valley).
• 1 pair gaiters (a new pair, after the old pair were so muddy they were deemed not worth cleaning)
• 1 sleeping bag liner (this bag has travelled far, brought from the US by Houli and slept in from Tanzania to Rwanda, Lake Superior to Leon).
• 1 pillowcase (to create a pillow out of almost anything). 
• 1 quick-dry towel (abandoned in a courtyard in Astorga, to be replaced in Sarria).
• Camelbak hydration system (necessary for the solo traveller to avoid looking like an idiot while trying to extract water bottle from side-pockets of backpack)
• small purse (my constant companion and holder of valuables)
• iphone + charger (so much more than a phone, responsible for capturing memorable moments and providing a soundtrack)
• earplugs (because snoring is never a pleasant sound)
• first aid kit (luckily, not needed for much – but the scissors were used extensively in the improvement of my walking stick).
• Headlamp (Used rarely, as I was not usually the only person up and rustling about)
• clothesline + 4 clothespins (the 2 clothespins I left at home were sorely missed, as my clothes went flying about the courtyard of an alburgue in Astorga, and they were also called into service to close bags of fruitos secos.)
• aluminum cup (perhaps not necessary, but one never knows when wine will be available).
• spork/knife in nifty carrying case (used for a few picnics, but too fun to abandon)
• toiletries: shampoo/body wash, face wash, face lotion, toothbrush, toothpaste, brush, body lotion, deodorant, concealer, razor, sunscreen. (The bare minimum to be clean, and not much else). 
• sunglasses
• deck of cards (used twice – to teach the Irish girls ‘99’ in Portomarin, and to beat Trent at Gin rummy on a sunny Ribadaiso evening).
• John Brierly guide to the camino (say what you will, it was useful)
• Information pack from Garry (each day’s map folded in my hip pocket, for examining in surprise – at how far I’d come or how far was left to travel).
• Journal (which, on day 1, I thought I had forgotten, and dropped to my knees, wrenched open my bag, and wondered if it was worth re-traversing the dreary pavement of Leon’s suburbs. Luckily, not a question I had to answer.)
• 3 writing utensils (the black pen, left along the way, at the edge of a medieval bridge in Molinesca, leaving me with the slightly smeary blue one)
• Stuff sacks to hold the afore-mentioned items (the green one bought on the day of my departure from Tokyo, on what must have been my 5^th trip to l-Breath).
• 1 walking stick (acquired on day two; beautiful but flawed, it was never meant for more than this)