Kiwi on the Camino

by Vivianne Flintoff

  We spend the day ascending through beech forests. High above I see patches of snow that survived last night’s rain. Torrents of frothy snow melt pour down the mountainsides in impromptu waterfalls. There is the sound of water all around. A few trees are rushing into spring flowering and leaf burst, encouraged by the occasional show of sun. Violets and buttercups line our pathway with rust coloured leaves from last autumn softening the path now and then. Bluebells have thrust their green through the forest floor, but as yet, have no flowers. Thrushes sing and welcome us into their territory, and always the little river, which will empty into La Rivière Nive, sings to us. It is serenely beautiful. The detour down and through the small village of Gañecoleta gives us a glimpse of a mountain hamlet and we walk through its empty street which bends to accommodate the river.

  Our path occasionally takes us up onto the road, the N-135, running between Spain and France. The drivers of cars and trucks toot their horns and wave to us. Twice we make a foray onto this scary road and each time a (different) man, with an umbrella, walks past going in the opposite direction and wishes us, “Buen Camino.” Back in Pollensa, when villagers learned we were to walk the Camino, they too wished us, “Buen Camino.” Many times, we heard, “We too would like to make our pilgrimage.” Our hearts are warmed by the friendliness and we are aware of our privilege in walking the Camino.

  Off the road again. What a relief to be back under beech trees. I call a halt for we have reached a fork in the path and the sign is confusing. We are not sure in which direction to go, but take the plunge and keep climbing. Further on, I am again confused and after deliberation, we once more choose the left fork.

  We climb to 1,055 metres above sea level, a long strenuous climb (reputed to be the hardest on the Camino excluding the Napoléon route) and the temperature drops as we climb. It feels cold enough to snow, but thankfully the rain does not change texture. We stop to view and photograph the chapel monument to Roland on the Ibañeta Pass. Legends abound about the ill-fated Roland and the sounding of his horn ‘Oliphant,’ calling for Charlemagne to come to his aid. In 777, Charlemagne with his army of mercenaries having fought in a war between rival Moor princes, on leaving the area sacked the Basque city of Pamplona. The Basque, understandably infuriated, attacked Roland by way of revenge on Charlemagne. By the time Charlemagne arrived, Roland and his army were dead.4

  Charlemagne’s invasion as Holy Roman Emperor in 778, was the beginning of the 700-year expulsion of the Moors. There is a legend that St James visited Charlemagne in a dream and bade him search for his tomb that was then still forgotten. With the tomb (re)discovered in the Moor-free northern territory, it was possible to create a pilgrimage route and slowly claim back the land that was under the rule of the Moors. St James, the peaceful Apostle-Shepherd and friend of the poor, was re-invented as St James the Moor Slayer. For the Spanish needed a leading light to give them courage and leadership in their battles to rid the land of the Moors. The demands by Moor princes of an annual tribute of 100 virgins was not to be tolerated any longer. The Moors must go. St James, the Moor Slayer, would lead this quest.5

  The Moors continued to have a physical presence in Spain until 1492, where they ruled from the small Emirate of Grenada, their final bastion. Here the Moors’ rule allowed the citizens to worship in their own fashion and thus Muslim, Jew and Christian lived side by side, each contributing to the others’ culture. This situation changed when the Imperial, colonizing rulers, Ferdinand and Isabella, began their quest to unify all of Spain into a monogamous Roman Catholic country. It was also the year Columbus sailed across to the setting of the sun to (re)discover America.6

  Our photos of the memorial chapel completed, the cold drives us to add the layers of clothing we had removed. The temperature is still dropping and I worry in earnest about snow. While we are adding the clothing three car loads of Spanish visit the memorial. They understand my attempts at Spanish and are delighted to learn we are from Neuve (th)ealandia. I am encouraged to think my pronunciation may be improving. They too wish us, “Buen Camino.”

  It is just two kilometres downhill to the albergue. We are very cold. I imagine that this part of the walk in the woods would be enchanting in different weather. I am looking forward to arriving at the albergue which began its life as a monastery, but am containing my excitement. We travel slowly as I am almost paranoid about slipping and falling.

  We are too early to book into the albergue, and as it is freezing, we set off to find a café. The first one is full, so Bruce leaves me to find another and finds instead our three Aussie mates from Valcarlos, who have just arrived. They accuse Bruce of catching the bus for how could we have arrived before them? It turns out they had missed the turn at one of those confusing forks and had walked an extra five kilometres on the main road - that very same N-135 which our bus had careened down the previous day. I shudder at the thought of walking that section of the road. The Australians are cold and tired. We find a snug café, with heavy ancient beams holding up the roof, which protects us from the rapidly deteriorating outdoor conditions. Warm now, the five of us bravely leave the cosiness of the café to find beds for the night.

  The Augustinian monastery was built as a hospital in the 12th century. Catholics, heretics, pagans, Jews, and vagrants were all welcomed. I imagine that medieval pilgrims who struggled over the Roncesvalles pass so many years ago, would have been very relieved to have seen the monastery. I too, even with upgraded walking paths and equipment, am mightily relieved to have arrived. The monastery albergue is light and modern. Three years had been spent restoring this attractive ancient stone building and today the albergue offers a very comfortable refuge for pilgrims and is no longer the reputed wind tunnel of earlier times.

  Bruce and I, with our three Aussie mates, attend the evening pilgrims’ mass in the nearby Iglesia de Santa María, a small Gothic church with a vaulted stone ceiling and large stained glass windows. The church was modelled on Notre Dame in Paris. Six priests, well-practised in Gregorian plainsong, lead the service and a young woman accompanies them on an acoustic guitar. Bruce and I go forward to receive the sacraments. At the end of the service the lights are turned off, candles lit and the last plainchant sung. The pilgrims are invited to go up to the altar. When there, we all hold hands and receive a blessing in Spanish. (Some weeks later we are given the English text.) I love plainsong and am very stirred by the entire service. Two of our Aussie friends are in tears. I am thankful of the blessing for during our walk on the morrow, we are to dance with snow ploughs.

  We find a restaurant for our evening meal. (There are no shops in which to purchase food.) In Spain, by law, restaurants should have a Menu del Dia; a set menu of the day with an advertised price, usually between ten and fourteen euros. Along the Camino route this set menu is sometimes advertised as Menu del Peregrino (Menu for Pilgrims). The five of us share a large round table with five young men: a Portuguese, a German and three French; all order the Menu del Peregrino. Together we feast on hot nourishing vegetable soup, followed by either freshly caught local trout or steak and chips, with yoghurt for dessert. There is wine of course and much laughter: an evening of good food and good company. I decide the Camino is fun.

  Roncesvalles to Zubiri

  22 kms (13.67ml)

  746.0 kms (474.7ml) to Santiago

  The quality of mercy is not strained;

  It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

  Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest;

  It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:

  William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

  March 24, Day 3

  WE WAKE TO ICY SNOW covering the ground. It is still snowing and very cold. Bruce and I not deterred, are in high spirits, looking forward to the twenty-eight kilometre walk to Larrasoaña. However, we will take refuge in a closer village if the weather deteriorates. Rana, Sherry and Gwen ask if they can walk with us given Bruce and I had manag
ed to find the route the day before and they are concerned about getting lost again. Two of them have never experienced snow and are very excited.

  The five of us leave Roncesvalles walking on the N-135 which stretches straight ahead of us. Being a Sunday and with snowed out conditions, there is little traffic. We are like children, rejoicing in the beauty of the clean, untouched snow, among scenery that looks like a northern winter Christmas. Snow crystals hang from tree branches and the faint, furtive sun occasionally makes the crystals sparkle.

  We need something warm in our bellies after just three kilometres, but nothing is open at the first village, Burguete, our proposed breakfast stop. Disappointed and cold, we come to the little yellow arrow that points the way to the Camino path which tracks through the forest. We stop and I tell the others that I’m not taking the path, for we have no way of knowing how long it’s going to keep snowing, or of how deep the snow is going to get and we don’t know if there will be snow poles along the route. The Camino arrows may become invisible if it keeps snowing. I also do not want to risk re-spraining my ankle on the snow-covered path. Our guidebook states that the forest path is reputed to be one of the best day walks of the Camino with its plentiful shade and abundance of water fonts. Well, there will be no shade as the trees are still bare of leaves and the fountains could well be frozen. The path will cross three rivers and one of the river crossings will be on stepping stones. With the amount of snow melt in evidence yesterday, I do not know how high the rivers will be running. The stepping stones may be under water. Furthermore, the descents down the two mountains will be very steep and potentially treacherous in this wet weather. Rana, speaking on behalf of the three Aussies, says they will come with us as they had become lost yesterday and that was without snow.

  Bruce and I are relieved to hear their decision for two of the Aussies do not have waterproof over-trousers and are already wet. Soon they will be very cold. One of them is wearing an inadequate rain poncho which could later rip in the wind. These ponchos are popular on the Camino and would be fine in better weather, but the conditions of today need reliable waterproof gear. I know from tramping trips that mountains can be treacherous and people die without adequate gear. We are still in the Pyrenees and I am nervous of what the mountains might send our way should the weather deteriorate.

  I think about the decision we have just made. We have agreed to continue walking the longer N-135 road, along the route our bus had travelled to St-Jean-Pied-de-Port. Three young Italian men see us walk on along the road and laugh at us for going the wrong way. I do not care. I want to make sure we arrive unharmed at our next albergue.

  With the decision made and in good heart despite our disappointment at finding the breakfast café closed, we walk on in the hope there will be a hot drink and some food at the village of Espinal a further three and a half kilometres ahead. The time passes quickly as we talk together and soon Espinal is in view. We detour off the N-135 in the erroneous belief that a road threading among the houses will take us to a bar where we will find coffee and food. Our village road loops us back onto the N-135 and we spot the bar. I am looking forward to a much-needed hot chocolate drink and one of those delicious bocadillo (sandwich) the Spanish do so well.

  I watch a pilgrim go up to the bar. She speaks in English and as the person behind the counter does not seem to understand, the pilgrim repeats her request, in English, raising the volume of her voice. This performance is repeated three times. She returns to her table looking very annoyed. Rather daunted I approach the service counter to order our food plus hot drinks. I make my request in my best Spanish. The woman serving replies in perfect English. I will come across this response in other places along the Camino. If I attempt to speak Spanish, I am well rewarded for my efforts and in some places, further encouraged to keep trying.

  On our way, again, snow ploughs are virtually the only traffic we encounter and they keep the roadway clear for us. The ploughs come toward us and then return roaring up behind. As we see or hear them coming, if they are on our side, we cross the road carefully, given the amount of snow and ice, and the packs on our backs. Rana is usually the one to call, “Cross now.” Bruce does not hear one call and starts to cross when he sees us on the other side of the road. He stops midway, for a plough is coming towards him and cars are fast approaching from the opposite direction. I am transfixed with indecision. Another pilgrim, one we have not seen before, darts out and pulls Bruce back to safety. “Not to cross! Precarious!” They wait for the road to clear, then both cross. Thank you to our fellow pilgrim whose name we never learn for we never see him again.

  The snow has been falling all morning, just gentle, little drops of white, but now the flakes are bigger and coming down faster. When I am thirsty, I stick out my tongue and take needed fluid from the falling snow. The wind rises and we all begin to feel miserable. Someone offers, “This is part of the journey. It is what the Camino is providing us with.” Heartened we keep going. We are on a pilgrimage after all.

  The road has been rising and falling continually. The descent from Alto Mezquiriz (955m) is steep. I am very glad we are not negotiating a steep, wet, stony, woodland path. We encounter another rise and I notice I am tiring. I am cold and my boots, which I have failed to keep waterproofed, are now totally sodden and my feet are swimming. At least the freezing conditions might be working as an icepack for my still swollen ankle.

  At the summit of Alto de Erro (810m) we stop and I change my woollen socks. Well that is a waste of time, effort and dry socks. The new pair of socks are very quickly saturated. I start to fear that my feet may begin to freeze with the dropping temperature. The gentle snow has now been replaced by blizzard conditions. I begin to worry about the length of the walk as the road route is five kilometres longer than the forest route, a significant distance in these weather conditions. The three Australians and Bruce and I talk together about the worsening weather conditions and decide we need to stop at the town of Zubiri which offers the earliest possible shelter. It is about five kilometres closer than is Larrasoaña our original destination. In my planning, I had dismissed Zubiri as a stopping point, as the guidebook described it as a modern village built to service a magnesium factory. The Aussies decide to push on when Bruce and I stop to find a hidden spot off the road to relieve ourselves. I am anxious that in my desire for privacy I will walk too far from the road. We are on a mountain top and I do not know what snares the snow might be covering.

  It is a long, slow descent. It stops snowing, but the milky sunlight does not provide any warmth. Finally, after walking for eight hours in total, Bruce and I reach the outskirts of Zubiri. How I rejoice in the existence of that magnesium factory. We are exhausted. Bruce and I rest on the first public bench we come to. I am starving after having existed on chocolate after our cheese and ham roll at Espinal. Between us we have one apple and we share this needed nourishment bite for bite. (I desperately need to find a supermercado (supermarket) to stock up on food.)

  The fructose kicks in and I think I can manage the last one hundred metres to an albergue. We stand, help each other with our packs and stagger on. Walking through the village, we hear our names and see Rana looking out a window. The three Aussies arrived thirty minutes before us, and throughout that time, were constantly watching for us. Luckily, Bruce and I had missed the earlier council owned albergue and are now hauled by Rana into one run by a family. There is a large lounge with an enormous roaring fire. It will cost more than the council albergue, but there are fewer people here and it is warm and comfortable.

  The five men we had shared a dinner table with at Roncesvalles are also at this albergue. Coincidently all ten dinner mates are reunited. The fit young German, in his early thirties, had not heard that the Napoléon route was closed and had a terrible time walking in snow drifts as deep as the length of his legs. He is now injured. Despite his pain, he takes my sodden boots, stuffs them with newspaper and puts them by the fire. Regularly,
throughout the evening, he changes the newspaper so I will have dry boots in the morning. I am grateful.

  Around the fire, we exchange and compare our day’s stories. Together we agree that the road route had been twenty-seven kilometres, the original length to Larrasoaña had we been confident to take the alternative forest paths. A long day, but we did it, snow blizzard and all. (We are later to learn that two pilgrims had to be airlifted off the Napoléon route during the day.) Rana gives me half a sleeping tablet and I insert the ear plugs given to me by a pilgrim at St-Jean-Pied-de-Port after Bruce kept many of us awake with his exhaustion-powered snoring. Rana shows me how to wrap my neck buff over my eyes and ears to block out the world. Bruce is already asleep. He had been very cold throughout that descent down into Zubiri. Then I sleep. In the morning, we discover we had been joined at 11 p.m. by three more peregrinos, but none of the sleepers had wakened to welcome them.

  Zubiri to Pamplona

  18 kms (11.2ml)

  731 kms (454.2ml) to Santiago

  Let there be room for not knowing….

  Don’t let uncertainty deplete you.

  Embrace it and let the not knowing enliven you.

  Dr Libby Weaver.

  March 25, Day 4

  I HAVE DRY BOOTS! BRUCE and I are walking alone; the others having left before us. With the improved weather, we will be able to walk the Camino paths today. No more dancing with snow ploughs on the N-135. It is a very busy inter-country road and I am grateful that our walk on the N-135, necessitated by the bad weather, had occurred on a Sunday with its lighter flow of traffic.