Kiwi on the Camino

by Vivianne Flintoff

  Moving away from the doors which prevent Bruce from satisfying his curiosity, I hear a door open and looking back, see someone ducking inside. Quickly we follow and walk through the now unlocked door. To my amazement, what I had taken to be an abandoned building, is yet another beautifully simple church. It is a working parish church and has a few lights turned on. I love the vast stone vaulted ceiling. There are large oil paintings, still with some original colour, adorning the stone walls. However, it is the beauty of the stone itself that we admire. There are a couple of people preparing for a service so we leave.

  Estella to Los Arcos

  21.1 kms (13.6ml)

  696.7 kms (432.9ml) to Santiago

  One does not see anything until

  one sees its beauty.

  Oscar Wilde (1854 – 1900)

  March 30, Day 9

  LEAVING ESTELLA, WE WALK THROUGH the modern suburb of Ayegui and stop to take a photo of the wall of a house. The house looks to be newly whitewashed and has an ancient grapevine fixed to the wall. Underneath the hoary old vine is a framed coloured picture of St James with the Cathedral of Santiago in the background, but still distinct. To the side of this picture is a fan of five scallop shells and below all, a large yellow cross showing us the way to go.

  We are being guided across Spain by yellow arrows and scallop shells. The arrows signal a crucial change of direction. The scallop shell is the symbol of St James, the first of the 12 apostles to be martyred, and his remains are reputed to be entombed beneath the Cathedral of Santiago. History reports that the martyred apostles were buried in the countries where they had preached. Thus, it was, that the de-capitated body of St James was taken by his faithful disciples in a concrete boat back to Finisterre. Close to shore, the boat tipped over and when St James’ body re-surfaced it was covered in scallop shells. Another version of the origin of the scallop shell symbol reads that when the concrete vessel came close to shore, a horse on the beach panicked and plunged itself and rider into the sea. When the horse re-surfaced, it was covered in scallop shells. There was more drama to follow. The local (pagan) Queen would not give permission to bury the body in the local area, so the faithful friends were forced to carry the body inland. With the Romans on their tail, the disciples had no choice but to hurriedly bury their beloved Saint James in a back-of-beyond place where his remains would be (re)discovered some seven hundred years later. A chapel was built and the city of Santiago founded. The genesis of pilgrimage was in place and ensured St James’ status as the patron saint of Spain.9

  Ancient pilgrims not only carried the shell as a symbol of their pilgrimage as we are doing, they also used the shell as a basin with which to scoop water from streams they passed. It was a spoon to scoop food from the communal pot at an albergue and it was a vessel in which to receive alms as they begged their way across the Camino, if they were not fortunate enough to be well-off nor sponsored by a wealthy master.10 We welcome the sight of the silver or bronze scallop shells embedded in the pavements which lead us in and out of towns and cities. Yellow shells are sometimes to be found on waymarks on small blue tiles.

  The yellow arrows, the more frequent directional aid, are maintained by many volunteers known as Amigos de Camino. However, the yellow arrow may sometimes be just a straight line which can be confusing to say the least. Which way would the arrow head have been pointing if there had been one? These yellow arrows are painted on rocks, pavements, roads, walls of houses, tree trunks, power poles, power pylons, gates, gateposts, house drainpipes, and fences. They mostly turn up regularly enough. The dedication of the army of yellow brushed amigos is much appreciated. We are being guided nine hundred kilometres across the north of Spain by little yellow arrows and small shells on blue tile backgrounds.

  I do not insist we take the alternative and higher route to Los Arcos, despite the promise of magnificent views, because of the lure of the famed Fuente de Vino de Irache (wine fountain) just three and a half kilometres out of Estella. We find the wine fountain, but it is dry. It really is too early in the morning to be drinking red wine, but this attraction had received heavy underscoring in my guidebook as a, ‘do not miss this.’ This fountain is romance on the Camino.

  The owners of the vineyard through which we have been walking have placed a wine barrel inside a building with a tap affixed to the external wall. The tap is mounted on a large silver scallop shell. Pilgrims are invited to help themselves to a little of the wine. Next to the tap is the cross of the Knights Templar. I will come to look for the large red cross against a white background, usually included in chapels as a stained glass window.

  There is a camera mounted above the fountain and somehow pilgrims who can use the technology, forward a video of themselves partaking of the wine. Even if there had been wine on tap, I would not have been able to share that experience via video as the technology is beyond me. The generosity of the vineyard owners also has a vested financial interest. It is a useful advertising promotion, as on the wall by the wine tap, the label of the wine is clearly visible. I do, sometime later, buy a bottle of wine with this vineyard’s label. I succumb to the peer pressure more commonly known as advertising.

  Once again, we walk on a path with indigenous holm oak and pines beside us. The path is soft under our feet. It is an enjoyable walk, despite the very cold wind. The view up to the village of Villamayor de Monjardín is a delight with the ruins of St Stephen’s Castle on top the conical peak which forms the backdrop to the village. We pass the Fuente de los Moros, a double arched fountain of distinctive Mozarabic influence. Bruce wants to video this splendour with the deep pool of water. I am eager to stop, remove my pack and enjoy the views. We walk on and then Bruce realises he didn’t turn the camera on. I sit again and he returns for his memory aid.

  Our walk is now across gentle land. The short grass is vivid green against the breaks of red earth in which leafless grapevines are tethered. Further away are foothills with tree cover and behind them, whitecapped mountains. We meet two Canadians (Wendy and Dafydd) having a picnic lunch. It is their wedding anniversary and the walk on the Camino is their anniversary gift to themselves. They tell us how the gift idea was shared between them. Dafydd had asked Wendy what she would like for her wedding anniversary (it is a significant anniversary). Wendy told Dafydd she wanted to go on a walk. He was a trifle surprised upon learning the length of this anniversary celebration walk.

  The area we are now walking through looks uninhabited, but the land is under production and consists of mixed farmland and some vineyards. (On previous days, the villages were sometimes just one kilometre apart.) The path becomes stonier and the landscape more barren. It is breath-taking. Thyme and rosemary are growing among some of the rocks beside the path. I pick some and rub the herbs between my fingers. The bouquet is invigorating and perfect. I had read that the Camino Frances is not particularly scenic. I disagree.

  Each day we walk through landscape that changes. We pass through medieval villages which are different to anything I have experienced. Even though I have travelled in Europe twice before, seeing the landscape at the slow pace of walking enables an appreciation not available to someone travelling in a metal box on wheels or looking down from a window of a plane. We love the architecture of buildings and land. No doubt the outskirts of the very large cities might be boring and ugly in their industrial dress, but I have decided that this is a beautiful land with a warm and generous hearted people. Not all citizens are gentle though and I have seen that some folk have been very ready to share strongly held political views. A few days back, we passed through a tunnel in the Basque region of Spain where we had spotted the efforts of at least one graffiti artist. This illustrator was unhappy with the region’s alliance with Spain. On the wall was inscribed, in black, “f…. you Spain.”

  We come across an old waymark covered in rust coloured moss. The Camino shell is now moss covered also and the rust orange shell sits well against the blue ti
le set into the concrete waymark. Atop the waymark are a pair of abandoned boots, the sole of the left foot open to the breeze.

  Los Arcos at last. We book into a family albergue, recently renovated. Wendy, Dafydd, and Wendy’s twin sister, Wanda, are at this albergue as well. As we wait in line to be booked in, a pilgrim from the USA tells us that the first third of the Camino is physical, the second, mental, and the final third is spiritual. He is part of a group of four and one of the women is refusing to walk any further.

  Bruce and I are tired, that goes without saying. We do not know where to eat and the first restaurant is full and noisy. We choose a restaurant with just one customer seated at the bar. We hope that the maxim ‘eat where the local eats’ will serve us here. To our surprise, the bar is just front dressing. We are shown down to the wine cellar cum restaurant. The ceiling of the cellar is rounded like a tunnel and lined with small bricks. Halfway down the walls the bricks increase in size and the floor is tiled. Everywhere there is a ruddy brown glow. At one end of the tunnel is the door to the kitchen and we can hear the chef singing. At the other end, there are racks of local red wines all shining deep cherry, mahogany, or currant, as the dim ceiling light bounces back off the bottles. There are full wine barrels scattered about and just six dining tables.

  We are delighted with our choice. Bruce and I are the only customers. It is cold, as it should be in all wine cellars. The heater is moved closer to me and warms one of my legs. Our waitress begins miming the menu to us as I cannot read the Spanish one. We three laugh together. She is very funny, enthusiastic, and potentially an excellent charades partner. The chef joins us and indicates he thinks she is crazy. A common phrase on the mainland, as well as Mallorca, then. He brings us an English menu, but that is still no help, as neither Bruce nor I have our reading glasses with us.

  The chef and waitress talk together and then we have another charades session. I try to communicate by using the one finger across the throat gesture (hopefully understood here in Spain?) that I can under no circumstances have shellfish pass my lips. When the food arrives, Bruce has the best seafood paella he has ever been served. I, fortunately, have a scrumptious vegetarian paella without one shred of shellfish.

  After dinner, we walk to the fine-looking church, La Asuncion. The exterior is unadorned stone, but inside it is utterly ornate. The altarpieces are impressive. Fifteenth century frescoes, with a blue background, are painted directly onto both stone and wood panelling. There are carvings and statues everywhere with gold leaf from floor to ceiling. When the lights go on, the dim interior becomes alive with golden light.

  Once again Bruce and I are the only pilgrims in the congregation and, as is our practice, we partake of the sacraments. When we leave the altar rail, an elderly woman in the third row says, very loudly, “Tch tch,” while waving her finger at Bruce. I am not sure why I realise this admonition is directed at Bruce. Her two neighbours join in with the “tch tching” and I wonder, “How on earth could Bruce have dropped his communion wafer into his beard?” We control our (would-have-been-rude) embarrassed laughter at all this very personal, unexpected and an unlooked-for attention. I also restrain my question to discover the reason for the “tch tch.” After the service, Bruce tells me he was holding on to the wafer to be prayerful in eating it back at the pew. Having grown up Presbyterian, he has not caught up with the Anglo-Catholic teaching that to leave the altar rail with unconsumed sacrament is unacceptable communion protocol. At least he hadn’t dropped wafer crumbs into his beard.

  Los Arcos to Viana

  19 kms (11.8ml)

  653.7 kms (406.2ml) to Santiago

  May your feet carry you well today.

  Ancient Tibetan Proverb

  March 31, Day 10

  BRUCE AND I ARE VERY conscious of the demands we are making on our bodies. We are conscious of aches, pains and tiredness. A pilgrim we had met at the beginning of the walk had told us that the first week is physically very demanding and we can now attest to that fact.

  My ankle injury continues to set the daily walking pace. The constant fear of a re-sprain and subsequent ending of our Camino, continues to make me cautious. The weight of this responsibility straddles my shoulders as I walk. Thankfully, my knees are okay. We have had very little stair climbing to do and I am no longer experiencing sharp shooting pains in either knee. I have two small blisters, but so far, they are not causing any problems. My tramping boots and I go a long way back and I have never had blisters with either these boots or the tramping socks I am wearing. While the blisters are not (yet) causing problems, I am now ruing my decision to ignore the sock advice I read in Tony Kevin’s book, Walking the Camino: A Modern Pilgrimage to Santiago.

  Kevin had met an Englishman (Bill Attwood) on his Camino de Santiago, which he began in Granada in the south of Spain. Attwood’s advice to Kevin was to wear two pairs of lightweight walking socks, preferably Coolmax or Bridgestone. He also recommended air-drying one’s feet and then using talcum powder before putting on two clean pairs of socks for the afternoon’s walk. Kevin wrote that he followed Attwood’s advice and it worked for his feet.11

  When I first started tramping I would wear a thin cotton inner sock with a thicker wool outer sock. Some years passed and I visited a reputable tramping shop and learnt that very efficient woollen tramping socks were now being made in New Zealand with the best New Zealand wool. These socks were guaranteed to wick moisture away from feet, keep them dry and blister free, without the need for an inner sock. So, it proved to be. The combination of my boots and the new single layer sock kept my feet blister free during tramps in New Zealand and the twelve-day hike along the Everest/Ama Dablam base camp trails. However, here in Spain, I am now walking many more days in a row than I have ever previously walked and my precious tramping socks and boots have let me down. I had not taken Attwood’s advice because of budget constraints. The inner critic is sitting on my shoulder, “So, short-sighted. So, dumb.” I remind myself of my meditation.

  Loose the cords of mistakes binding us

  I had worried a good deal, during the planning for my Camino, about whether to wear tramping boots or walking shoes. Books and blogs were divided in their opinions. I was decided, in favour of boots, by a sales person at one of the major tramping stores back home. He had worked in Ireland for a while and used to kit out pilgrims heading for the Camino. He said I would need boots because of the strengthening in the sole which is essential when walking between six to eight hours per day. I would also need sandals to flatten my feet and rest them while walking over cobblestones in the evenings. I was enormously relieved to have this advice.

  I had not changed my usual physical activities in any way to prepare for walking the Camino. I have gone to the gym three times a week for many years and have walked up to six kilometres on non-gym days. Not carrying a backpack on the walking days leading up to the Camino was a mistake. Prior to today, I had not been able to walk more than five or six kilometres without my shoulders shrieking, “get that pack off now.” At this stage of our walk the pain in my shoulders is more noticeable than the pain in my ankle. However, today I notice that I have walked nine kilometres, without calling a halt to rest my shoulders. I experimented with carrying my pack higher and that seems to have helped.

  The ankle swelling is considerably reduced and I can now wear a support strap which helps me to walk more easily. Even so my ankle is very stiff for the first three kilometres of the day’s walk. I am resolutely not thinking about what the ongoing abuse of my injured ankle might mean for me in later years. Will my ankle later ‘pay me back?’

  Bruce has developed a blister and while not large, it is painful. He also has a sore foot and we are desperately hoping the foot pain does not indicate tendonitis which often ends people’s Camino. His calves have been very sore and tight, but are now easing.

  I am finding the last two kilometres the hardest of each day’s walk. The medieval villager
s always built their fortress churches on high hills and then their houses became a skirt around the church. The last two kilometres are inevitably uphill. I fasten my eyes on the church spire when spotted and encourage myself to keep going as I measure, against the church spire, the shrinking distance. It continues to amaze us how much ground we cover. I am enjoying the slow pace, as it is bringing back the relevance of distance which has, in these modern times of motor vehicle and airplane travel, been lost.

  Despite the aches and pains, we are aware that our bodies are beginning to respond to the rigour of walking longer distances in some positive ways as well. Our fitness is improving despite my slow pace. Bruce is moving along more quickly, but stops and waits patiently for me to catch up. Each morning we wake refreshed and can get our feet into our boots. Bruce and I look forward to the walk and what the day will provide.

  We stop at a little store in Torres del Río Plaza in the hope of hot food and coffee for we are very cold. The store is so tiny there is no room to sit inside and coffees and hot chocolate are not available. We wave to the pilgrims wrapped up in blankets at the three outside tables and go in search of a bar. We find one with a single customer seated on a barstool and no proprietor. The customer tells us (in Spanish) to wait, which we do. To while away the waiting, we use the bathroom. We wait again. The bar tender still does not materialize, so I put two euros on the counter, payment for the use of the facilities. The customer waves my money away. I thank him for his beneficence on behalf of the bar owner, then we leave and head back to the little shop where we stock up on bread rolls, a bag of mixed nuts and a block of chocolate each, before joining the other rugged up peregrinos. We consume some of our purchased snacks for our 11 a.m. energy boost. Mercifully, the wine we purchase to complement our snacks has not been chilled. Chilled red wine accompanies our every evening meal. This is a surprise, for in New Zealand, it is just the white wine that is chilled. I have learnt to enjoy the cooled red wine, but appreciate that our 11 a.m. aperitif has not been chilled.