Our principal reason for stopping in this town is to visit the tiny Iglesia de Santo Sepulcro, the famed 12th century Knights Templar church. Its construction was based on the octagonal church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. I believe it has a lofty cupola and a vault which forms an eight-sided star. The acoustics are apparently superb. I may never test these facts for the door of this wee church is locked. There is a hand-written note pinned to the door with the phone number of the custodian. My phone is flat. I really want to see inside this church as I have a fascination with the Knights Templar. I also much prefer churches that have very simple interiors as I believe this one to have. Pilgrims from our shared cold morning tea space come around the corner and they do not have phones. The group of us stand milling around close to the locked door. We have obviously missed the morning opening. I do not want to wait for the evening opening despite knowing I will walk away disappointed. We are about to leave when a woman comes around the corner with some keys in her hand. It is the custodian. I am grateful for yet again the Camino has provided. The door is opened and we enter the simple interior to marvel and enjoy the splendid austerity. I do not have the courage to try out the acoustics.
Back on the Camino the dirt track undulates through open countryside, until at the high point of the day, we see both our destination Viana and the distant city of Logroño. I want to stop overnight at Viana because of its similarity with my first name - an incredibly ego-centric reason. A stay in Viana is also desirable because of its reputation as a major medieval pilgrim halt. Its architecture is still mostly intact including its defensive walls on the west side of town through which we will depart. There is a legend that Leonardo da Vinci may have used the strong features of Cesare Borgia, who was killed defending Viana in 1507, as his model for the image of Christ.
Bruce and I book into the albergue where the three Canadians are staying. We recognize the couple from Texas whom we met earlier in the day. While Bruce takes a nap, I head into town to look for food and a possible restaurant. We plan to join the Canadians at dinner time. When Bruce wakes, we explore the ruins of the church of San Pedro (Saint Peter). A few of the enormous stone walls are still standing and we can envisage a little of what this church may have been. The roof has long gone and I glimpse my first star of the Camino. I look forward to seeing a fine display of the Milky Way one night soon.
Viana to Navarrete
17 kms (10.6ml)
612.2 kms (380.4 ml) to Santiago
If thou art pained by any external thing,
it is not this that disturbs thee,
but thy own judgment about it.
And it is in thy power to wipe out this judgment now.
Marcus Aurelius (121-180)
April 1, Day 11
AT 6 A.M. A PILGRIM wakes us by turning on the lights; it is the woman from Texas. I am not impressed even though I know it is not her intention to wake us. It is pitch black outside. (Daylight saving having now begun the sun will rise at 7.30 a.m.)
I’d had a bad night. Several pilgrims had snored and I hadn’t taken any pain relief prior to going to bed. Despite the need for medication, I chose to not turn on my headlight, clamber down the ladder, thereby creating a commotion and disturbing other pilgrims, because of my negligence.
Inevitably, when a pilgrim rises in the dark, not only will there be torch light to contend with, but also the sounds of pack zips opening and closing, then opening and closing again. There is also the rustle and whisper of plastic bags. Bruce and I, as do many others, pack our gear into small plastic bags before stowing all into our backpacks as an extra precaution should our packs fall into water. No matter how hard one tries to stop plastic bags and zips from making a noise, it just is not possible to pack quietly.
There is a common routine. Unzip all pockets of the pack. Locate and pull from pack all small plastic bags and rearrange the contents in every single one. Place in correct order in the backpack. Have a look outside and see if the stars are shining. Pull out all plastic bags and re-pack according to the newest weather report. Re-zip all zips on pack. Try to exit the bunkroom quietly. Those still trying to sleep heave a sigh of relief all the while knowing that the sleep-disturbing culprit, still shod in socks, will inevitably return when he or she remembers something at the bottom of the pack which will be vitally needed within the next thirty minutes. The whole process begins again. Buen Camino!
With sleep now not available, thanks to the Texans, we too rise and go out into the pitch black with head torches on, walking towards the city of Logroño. We should be okay. The path looks to be mostly flat and follows beside a main road all the way to the city. Hopefully, it is not too risky setting out so early on such a path.
We survive the walk into Logroño beside a constant stream of large, larger, and very large vehicles thundering along beside us. We pass behind a small farm which briefly takes us away from the main road. The morning is still shrouded in mist. I forget to look back to Viana, our last town in the province of Navarre through which we have walked since entering Spain. The next province is Rioja - the main wine growing province of Spain. One of us is looking forward to Rioja.
It is cloudy overhead when we arrive at Logroño, the capital of Rioja, but the dull sky does not dampen our admiration of the buildings and streets. There are largish plazas with sculptured plane trees – so very severely pruned we think - still in their winter starkness. There are also bronze sculptures and in a main plaza, is one I particularly like: two very strong pilgrims, female and male, walking confidently and determinedly forward. Buen Camino. Along the way, there have been many sculptures depicting various types of pilgrims on the Camino. Each time we have been encouraged and comforted by their presence, as well as appreciative of their artistic beauty.
In the distance, we recognize the couple who had woken us at 6 a.m. and agree to join them for breakfast. It is now 9 a.m. There are four men in the bar, plus the bar tender. As we enter the police officer leaves and the three remaining customers continue to leaf through the pornographic magazine laid open on the bar counter.
During our large, hot breakfast, we learn that the Texans had begun their walk deep in France and have already been walking for weeks. They are seasoned pilgrims in my eyes. She tells us of her determination to begin early each day. They are originally from Cuba and had migrated to Texas. Bruce and I listen to their very interesting stories. I realise afresh, that every person has a story and in hearing their story, understanding can come of both the differences and similarities between us. We enjoy their company and our breakfast in that warm, cosy bar.
The route out of the city, even though it is through open parkland, is hard on my legs and feet as the path is newly concreted. I am aware that these hard surfaces of tarmac, concrete and stone, will make sleep difficult as my ankles, soles, thighs, and knees will complain at the end of the day. Ever since that walk on the third day along the N-135, twenty-seven kilometres on tarmac, my thighs have ached during the night. Each night I have had to wake and physically lift the respective thigh to roll over in bed. Thankfully, there are concrete seats provided along this lengthy route out of the city and we rest as many times as our blistered feet and tired legs require. We chat with other pilgrims as we sit.
On our way, again, we reach a pine forest with the café and picnic area of Pantano de la Grajera (Grajera reservoir). The reservoir is still, quiet and soothing as I stare down into its depths. Inevitably we head to the shop to replenish our energy levels with Magnum ice-creams and a hot drink.
When we arrive in Navarrete, Bruce asks an older woman and man (in English) for directions to the albergue. They do not understand him and my Spanish wins the day. I am touched each time that the little I can now speak is understood. The man, only about 138 centimetres in height, indicates that we should follow him. The cobbled roads are narrow and as we begin to cross one of them our guide is rudely tooted at by a driver of a passing truck
. He jumps back in search of safety. Across this dangerous road of one solitary vehicle, we see the small private albergue which we had earlier passed and decided against. We have heard good things of the council albergue; all the pilgrims we know are heading there. Bruce and I are looking forward to their company. We start to walk away, but then together wonder if this albergue is the Camino’s way for us. We turn and go back.
Our guide wants to show us the albergue and the owners, son and father, are so gratified to see us we decide to have a look inside. It is their first day of opening for the new season. We are shown to the converted attic of the old family home and find ourselves in an open space with lots of windows and light. There is just one other pilgrim, an Italian, and he chooses one corner and Bruce and I the opposite one. We have single beds with what looks to be an adequate supply of blankets. A good night’s sleep is promised.
That evening we wander downhill to the plaza in front of the 16th century Church of the Assumption. In front of the church is a tapas bar and we join a group of pilgrims we have not met before. They all know each other and have managed to find the council albergue we had not been able to locate. We eat a smallish dinner, for tapas can be pricey and this evening we are conscious of our budget.
The evening that unfolds at our small albergue remains one of the delights of the entire walk: an evening of intimacy. I sit at the dining room table to type up the day’s blog and covertly watch the four men gathered in front of an inadequate fire. Their conversation is of the Camino. Bruce contributes in English, the Italian pilgrim in Italian, and the father in Spanish. The son can speak reasonably good English and the Italian understands a little Spanish. The father and Bruce are entirely monolingual. The sight of these four men engaged in animated, convivial and respectful conversation, across language and cultural barriers, is precious to me. This Camino journey is giving me a live opportunity to value things which are potentially strange or different. The strange are being rendered less so with knowledge and appreciation.
I come to realise that the father and son cannot yet afford to buy wood for the fire. However, they want the first three pilgrims of the season to be warm, and in their thoughtfulness, are burning twigs, paper and a scant supply of wood. I appreciate their attempt to ensure our comfort.
The hoped for good night’s sleep does not eventuate. While we each have a lovely hot shower, the hosts cannot afford to leave the radiators turned on through the night and I grow steadily colder.
Navarrete to Azofra
24 kms (15ml)
580 kms (360.4ml) to Santiago
When you arise in the morning
think about what a precious privilege it is to be alive:
to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love.
Marcus Aurelius (121-180)
April 2, Day 12
RIOJA IS ALL AROUND US. It is an utterly absorbing, stunning landscape. Red earth fields are interspersed with patches of ground which are scantily covered with green grass. There are fewer olive trees now, but those we see are in the process of being pruned. There are no crop fields and no market gardens in the valley.
The red earth holds the dark brown, age-old grapevines, upright. The old vines have been severely pruned; they need no wires to support their runners. They are interdependent vines. Each vine’s runners will support the neighbours’ runners on either side of it. The new vines have been planted and the workers are still in the fields tying the runners to the wires. It seems the modern vines need external unnatural support and cannot rely on their neighbours. We pass enormous vine vats and sheds. This wine is serious business.
We stop for a picnic breakfast. I break the bread and Bruce cuts a large tomato with the too small pocket knife, which we found on our first day on the Camino. Our decent sized pocket knife is back in Pollensa, left behind in deference to airport security. We had initially planned to take our packs as cabin luggage, but as we added gear, the packs became too long and even though they remained under cabin bag weight, had to go in the hold. Our pocket knife remained forgotten, despite the changed decision to put our packs in the hold.
We eat the broken bread with the unripe red tomato and gourmet Dutch cheese, sitting on the red earth, with my waterproof over-trousers as the picnic blanket. We gaze over the fields of vines to the medieval village of Ventosa, resting our backs against a bank of earth. We also have a swig of the local red wine I am carrying in one of my two water bottles - wine left over from our last night’s pilgrim meal. Red wine for breakfast among the best wine fields in Spain. Wonderful. We are happy.
My ice pack now doubles as a lightweight portable chilly pad. As soon as we reach the albergue for the night I find a freezer to chill the pad, so I can use it on my ankle. That accomplished, I pop it back into the freezer overnight so it will keep our cheese and ham cool for our picnic the next day. Thanks to the chilly pad, my ankle is much improved and I continue to strap it. I do not think I am even limping any more. Enjoying the day’s walk, we feel we are moving well. We are both carrying our packs higher. For the first time, I keep pace with Bruce. I do not believe I am enabled by the wine; it is the ankle strap.
Gone are the creamy yellow buildings of the Navarre province. The houses and churches are no longer light shimmering stone, but red, created and crafted from the earth. Red clay garden pots lie around in front of what look to be small factories. Rioja makes both great wine and lovely clay pots it seems.
In the distance, we see a pilgrim coming towards us. He has a large pack on his back and a dog at heel. We stop and talk. He is German and he and his dog have been walking their Camino for one year. They began in Madrid and have just kept walking. The man and dog sleep in a tent the pilgrim is carrying. Neither of them know where they are heading or for how long they will keep walking.
On reaching the highest point for the day – Alto Grajera – we spontaneously and simultaneously utter, “Wow!” as we crest the high point. Before us lies the valley of Nájera, with mountains in sharp relief either side. To the right, the mountains are snow-capped, but the peaks on the left evaded the blizzard. Stretched out between these sentinels lies a panorama of a large valley, not flat because of the hills scattered across the plain. Wherever there is a slight rise, there are vines and on the flats, there are crops, predominantly grass again. Just as I decide that every tractor in Spain must be a John Deere, we come across blue tractors. Bruce says, “They are definitely not Fords.” We hear the tractors before we smell the turned earth.
In passing under the N-120, we see a man standing at the end of the walkway tunnel. He is selling oranges. We are both a little wary and suspicious as the area, despite the main road, feels isolated. We hurry passed. A bit further on we stop and look at each other. We agree that there’s probably nothing to worry about. Bruce goes back and buys two oranges and on his return, says, “He’s a very friendly guy.”
At Nájera, the young woman running the bar gives me a Spanish lesson. Our coffee and hot chocolate stops provide me with much more than bodily sustenance. When I put the drinks on our small table I realise I have forgotten to tip her. Bruce wants a second hot chocolate so I get the opportunity to redeem myself and tip for both orders.
We have cracked the two-hundred-kilometre mark having now completed just over one quarter of the walk to Santiago. Bruce is exhilarated as he has completed a personal milestone. We look at each other and say, “We are going to complete this walk.” Bruce leaves the bar to find a spot that is quiet enough to take a nap. I remain in the bar to type up my blog. The German pilgrims are friendly and we talk for a while. I never do learn their names. There is a soccer game being relayed on the large television screen. The local Spanish, with the German pilgrims, are vocally loud in their engagement with the screen. I look around and realise I am the only female customer in the bar. Such is my dedication to my blog.
We leave this friendly place and walk a mere one hundred metres up onto a platea
u. It is a little too warm for us as we climb, but neither of us complains, we just notice and comment. At the end of the climb we are back among fields walking on wide country tracks. Around us energetic tractors are doing their spring thing. The gentle rolling landscape stretches ahead of us into the distance.
At last we arrive at Azofra. Pilgrim money is keeping this little village viable and alive. It is a reciprocal relationship. Without villages, such as Azofra, pilgrims would be hard pushed to find supplies and shelter. We find the purpose built municipal albergue and are shown to a room with just two beds. There is underfloor heating in the bathrooms. Bruce heads down to the large dining hall ahead of me and I find he has joined the two from Cuba/Texas and is drinking their wine. Our three Canadian buddies are here and a woman we met a few days back who is monitoring herself very closely because she has a heart condition. There is also the woman we had dubbed, ‘the woman in shorts.’ She stands out, because for most pilgrims, it is not yet warm enough for shorts. The woman-in-shorts had told us of this albergue when we spoke together in Nájera. We had walked the extra seven kilometres to get the promised room to ourselves for just seven euros each. Bruce introduces me to Paul, a young Korean, informing me Paul can help with my iPad woes. He can and does. I am grateful.
Kiwi on the Camino Page 9