Kiwi on the Camino

by Vivianne Flintoff

  It has been a good day. We had a reprieve from cloud; sunshine accompanied us through the valley. The weather forecast for the coming day is for fine weather, though cloudy again. We are heading for Grañón in the morning and it should be another enjoyable day.

  Azofra to Grañón

  19 kms (11.8ml)

  589 kms (366ml) to Santiago

  It is the sweet, simple things of life

  which are the real ones after all.

  Laura Ingalls Wilder (1867 – 1957)

  April 3, Day 12

  FOR A SECOND DAY, WE walk along red paths with the snow-topped mountains off to the north keeping us cool and giving me a great deal of visual pleasure. We come to an unsealed, single lane farm road, where the baked red earth is paler in the centre, but darker to the edge where farm traffic wheels have run. On both sides of the path bulrushes line our way. In the distance is a tall hedge of evergreen trees, a shelter belt against the winds from those same mountains. In the foreground are gentle sloping fields, their shades of red varying according to the sequence of ploughing. There is the dull brown-red of an earlier ploughing, the deep red of freshly turned soil and the lighter red of yesterday’s tilling. Among these red fields, in vivid contrast, grows the bright green crop of whatever the sown seed determines.

  Bruce and I are relieved that the red paths and roads are dry and while softer than flagstone or tarmac, are still firm. The beauty of the red earth would be lost on me if I had to fight to release each step from the dark ruddy treacle this earth would become when wet. With dry earth underfoot I can turn my eyes to the sky. It is weighty and exhilarating with its lowered, luminous presence inhabited by clouds of ever changing hues and shapes. To the east, clouds glow ever so slightly pink, but give way to a bright white as the sun plays hide and seek. Directly above us the clouds are more sombre in their lordly grey. Ahead, in the west, there are patches of blue and the promise of a sunny afternoon. As we turn a corner, the snow-crowned peaks are directly ahead. It seems as if the road will take us to the foot of the mountains. The changing colours above and around me and the sublime contours of the landscape are stimulating. I know I am alive - my whole being saturated with joy.

  As I walk I reflect that I have not brought a reading book with me (a weight issue again). Neither can I download any e-books as I cannot remember or change my Apple ID. I cannot recall ever not having a book on the go. In this wonderful landscape, I realise that each day I am reading a three-dimensional book as I walk. I read the changes in colour, sound, smell, taste, texture, landscape, and farming methods. In a very small, privileged way, as we pass through villages, towns, and cities, I read the lives of some of the people who live along The Way of St James.

  I am trying to locate and orient myself within this northern hemisphere. When the sun briefly shines, I try to get a sense of the points of the compass (for everything is back to front for us southern Pacific dwellers). In the morning, the sun is on our backs and in the afternoon as we slowly and steadily head west, it is on our faces. In the afternoon, if the sun leaves my face, I know I have missed a turn on The Way.

  We are walking towards Grañón. In the Middle Ages, Grañón used to be a walled city and came into being because of the Camino. In its heyday, it boasted two monasteries and a pilgrim hospice. The guidebook informs me that Grañón is now a small village of only five hundred. We are looking forward to staying in this old, small community. We have been deliberately seeking to stay in smaller towns because they are so different from anything we experience in New Zealand. The ancient continues to fascinate us both.

  The Jacobean architecture does not disappoint. The small shops and homes are tucked away behind wooden shutters. It is still siesta time, but 5.00 p.m. is approaching and I am glad to observe the little shop has wi-fi. I plan to come back once we are booked into the albergue, for by then business will have resumed.

  Walking past these age-old stone workplaces and homes, we are greeted by Dafydd. He has looked at the albergues that are open and suggests we join them at the albergue adjacent to the seven-hundred-year-old parish church, Iglesia de San Juan Bautista (St John the Baptist). We are very happy to do so, as we have yet to stay at a parish albergue. This one promises to be very special as it is payment by donation and pilgrims must have walked further than from the previous town of Santo Domingo, to be able to stay. Our sleeping quarters will be a loft with mattresses on the floor. The evening meal and breakfast are communal meals, the food provided by the albergue, but cooked by the albergue folk and the pilgrims.

  Dafydd leads us to a door at the back of the church and we immediately find ourselves in a dark, stone hallway. We climb a stone staircase up to the first floor and later learn that one of the volunteers sleeps in a small, non-heated room, off the passageway. We continue up another flight of narrow stone stairs to a large open space with a dining table that seats about twenty. In the corner, what bliss, a sizeable fire place has six chairs pulled up in front of it. There is a small kitchen and two small bathrooms off to the side of the open space. I am looking forward to a hot shower and there is the luxury of a hair dryer. There are no clothes washing facilities so our clothes will not have the benefit of contact with water.

  The two women custodians, both Camino volunteers, warmly greet us. The younger woman is from Catalonia, Spain, and the older from Hungary. Both speak Spanish and English. The Hungarian also speaks her mother tongue. The two women have walked the Camino and are now dedicating some of their holiday time each year to support The Way of St James. I am grateful.

  There is time before I am needed to help with meal preparation so I go back to the main street to the very small grocery shop. I buy some food supplies for the following day and a coffee. The coffee is to justify my staying and using their wi-fi. I am the only customer present. There are three tables in the shop for the use of customers and the owner and his son are seated at one of them working through the son’s maths homework. They are enjoying each other’s company and I, seated at another table, appreciate the insight into their family life. I learn that the family is originally from Peru.

  Bruce and I have met a few people along The Way who have immigrated from Peru. I mused sometimes as I walked, about the colonizing history of Spain. As I have admired the splendid paintings and carvings in most of the churches, many with gold leaf adornment, I remember the theft of gold from the indigenous peoples of South America and the historical reports of the brutality of Spanish conquistadors. I also remember that English pirates, sanctioned by the Crown, stole from the Spanish that very same gold. Britain and other European nations also directly plundered the indigenous peoples of sovereign nations. As I sit listening to the homework session in progress, I marvel at the fortitude of this family, originally from Peru, now with a life and home in Spain. I have long been interested in the resilience of people and their ability to forgive, while not forgetting, the harm and trauma of the past.

  The Pilgrims’ Mass is at 7 p.m. with dinner at 8 p.m. I need to get back to help prepare the shared meal. There is no Pilgrims’ Mass, but help is needed in the kitchen. Once the meal preparation is complete, I go up to the attic, a single room space, accessed via a narrow, steep wooden staircase, to see if our bedding situation has changed with the arrival of two more pilgrims. The attic is a mezzanine floor and looks down over the dining room and the substantial wood fire. The wooden ceiling is low, but I can stand once away from the edges of the eave wall. The black beams to the side of the room defy the taller ones to stand. All the wood is darkened with age. With just seven pilgrims present we can each have two, five-inch-deep mattresses. There are no blankets so I will need to sleep in all my warm clothing. Sleeping in the one space on mattresses on the floor feels very familiar and reminiscent of marae noho (an overnight stay in a Māori meeting house). The shared food preparation heightens this familiarity.

  The evening meal is delicious and nourishing. Bruce and I have been ta
lking of our need to attend more to our nutrition. We are used to a diet with a lot of green vegetables and fruit. The Menu del Peregrino, which we often choose for our evening meal, is a set menu of three courses with water and wine. There is usually a choice of fish or meat and I typically choose the fish, usually locally caught. French fries often accompany the main course. I wonder if fries are included because restaurateurs think pilgrims need the fuel from deep fried potatoes, or is it an economic decision? Green vegetables, by all counts, are usually rather thin on the plate. The cost of the meal is ten euros, but apt to increase to fourteen euros in the cities. For this amount, we get a sufficient quantity of food. If we want more vegetables, we need to buy more expensive meals.

  With the washing up completed and the breakfast table set, we are invited to follow our hosts through yet another very narrow dark passage. We arrive high up in the nave in the choir stalls. The glow of just a few candles provides light and it is difficult to make out the church interior. In the gloom, the stone oozes its age with guessed-at stories. A few pilgrims sit on the various high-backed chairs and we are invited to test the acoustics. I begin with a few lines of the waiata (song) Whakaria Mai, but am overcome with shyness and promptly forget the words. We are told that we are fortunate to be shown the church via the small passageway.

  The topic of conversation in front the fire is inevitably that of the Camino. We hear that one of our fireside companions had registered at a private albergue in the village, but left because of the sexual overtures of the owner. Dafydd had also looked at this same albergue and had not liked its atmosphere. I enjoy sitting by the log fire in congenial company. A fire, after walking in 9° C, is very welcome and as heat rises, I am hoping the cold will not keep me awake tonight.

  The seven of us climb the creaking staircase and huddle into our sleeping bags, with illumination provided by a few torches and the glow from the fire below. Our sleep is not to be undisturbed. The attic wall is attached to the church bell tower. Every hour, on the hour, the bell tolls throughout the night. Buen Camino!

  Perhaps it is the double thickness of mattress, but I no longer have to clutch a thigh and physically lift it to roll over when I need to move in my sleep. I also no longer wake to protect my ankle when rolling over. A sounder night’s sleep would now be possible were our sleeping quarters not so closely associated with church bells.

  Breakfast, another shared meal, is over. I have sincerely enjoyed my stay at this small, intimate albergue. Both volunteers have been open, warm hearted and generous. I am so touched by the whole experience of staying in this annex albergue I want to sing a waiata as a departing gift. My gratitude overcomes my shyness. With the volunteers and other pilgrims gathered around I sing, To Tātou Waka. The Hungarian woman hugs me with tears of appreciation on her cheeks. I do not offer to translate and none is asked for. “I do not know the words of the song you sang for us, but it has touched me deeply. Thank you.” I send thanks to my colleagues for sharing their taonga (treasure) and teaching me the gift of waiata.

  Perhaps because there are just nine of us in total staying at this Albergue, Bruce and I begin to get to know Wanda, Wendy and Dafydd. I suspect it was at this point in our Camino that Dafydd began to refer to Bruce as Gandalf. He is to be the first of a number of pilgrims to see a likeness between my husband and the fictional character from The Lord of the Rings trilogy.

  Grañón to Belorado

  18 kms (11.2ml)

  568 kms (359.2ml) to Santiago

  The price of anything is the amount

  of life you exchange for it.

  Henry David Thoreau (1817 – 1862)

  April 2, Day 12

  IT IS AN INTERESTING WALK to Belorado despite walking most of the way close to the N-120. When the path takes us next to the road, the truckies toot and give us a friendly wave. Two male pilgrims pass us. They have opted to push a cart on four wheels rather than carry backpacks. It looks hard work pushing the cart along the rutted path. Stone walls line our way for a short while and ancient grapevines greet us from the other side of the low walls.

  We cross into the largest autonomous region in Spain, the Castilla Y León. Will we see an abundance of castles? With the famous (or infamous) Meseta as a part of this region, the area is sparsely populated. Here, we are in the region of the famous El Cid, who from his base in Burgos helped to reverse the position of the occupying Moors. It is also the country from which the indomitable Sister Teresa of Avila hailed.

  I have become blasé about looking for the yellow arrows and when I see Redecilla del Camino up ahead, I just keep following the road to lead us through the Calle Mayor. In the majority of the small villages through which we have walked, the Camino has taken us through the centre. We notice the major renovation work taking place in this hamlet and hope Camino money is contributing. As we exit the village, I notice the sun is now on my right side instead of front on. Have I made a wrong turn? We are walking on the N-120. This cannot be the way. We hear a man shout at us from across the road. He is standing on top of a large milk tanker water blasting it. By means of his one free arm and the other arm, still holding on to the hose of the water blaster, he lets us know we are heading the wrong way. Luckily, being on the other side of the road, we are beyond the distance of the hose spray. Back through the village we must go. We get to view the renovations once again and on the other side of the village I see the arrow I had not bothered to look for. The path has been re-routed because of substantial road works and The Way now bypasses the village. We notice a Spanish man heading in the wrong direction and because of my error, we can show him the way back to the Camino.

  We arrive early in Belorado due to the shorter distance walked. The Hungarian albergue volunteer back in Grañón recommended we stay at a particular family run albergue in Belorado. Apparently, they provide a wonderful evening meal. This is an opportunity not to be missed. We had expected to cross paths with Wendy, Dafydd and Wanda at some time through the day, but had not. At Bruce’s suggestion, I write a note for them and pin it to the door of a church they should pass on their way into the village. On the note, I let them know where Bruce and I are staying. We hope they will see the note and choose to stay at the same albergue.

  We did see the couple from Cuba/Texas. She over-extended herself and they decided to bus to Burgos. Both were extremely disappointed, but hopeful that with a day’s rest, she will be able to walk again and complete her Camino.

  With time to spare, we decide to walk up the limestone hill against which this little town is built, to view the remains of the medieval castle. At the top of the hill, we become fascinated with the large stork nests built upon, well everything they could build upon. (There are no storks in New Zealand.) Their nests are on top of factory towers and other tall chimneys, but it seems storks prefer church bell towers. On top of the Santa Maria Church bell tower there are four stork nests. It is the first time we have noticed such skinny bell towers. This tower was built in 1910, so is young compared to others we have been seeing.

  Dragging my eyes away from the storks, I look out over the town and notice the evening light playing on the walls of the houses. I am delighted to see the variety of colour hues: from whitewash to beige with a few houses of mustard yellow to deep gold ochre. Some houses look like they need another round of colour. Still other house walls have been left as unadorned stone. Most house roofs are red clay tiles, such a contrast to the mostly very dark green and iron sand (dark grey) steel roofs back home.

  Coming down from the hill we pass a (cave) house built within the limestone cliff. The window frames look to be of wood and are recessed into the cliff face. Close by one window we see a copper chimney escaping from the rock. There is an immaculate garden with trees draped in spring blossom. A little further on is the Church of Santa Maria and behind are the caves which were once occupied by penurious, though intelligent, hermits.

  Back at the albergue there is still no
sign of the Canadians. What can they be doing? I read an email from our Camino companion, Annemarie from the Netherlands. She has ended her Camino because of sore feet. Annemarie is understandably very disappointed and sad, but wrote of returning another year to pick up where she had left off.

  It is painful to witness others’ distress as they realise they can no longer continue their pilgrimage. Earlier in the day we had come across a Frenchman, in his forties, who was in tears as he told us in French why his Camino had ended. His reasons for not continuing were somewhat surprising to Bruce and me. He was distressed because the Spanish cannot speak French; he was very lonely not being able to communicate with anyone. We see him a little later in the day and he is now with a Spanish man who can speak a French/Spanish pidgin. The Frenchman, now happy, is continuing with his pilgrimage.

  The Canadians see our note and turn up at the albergue. Wendy and Dafydd spent thirty years living in Australia, so we have begun to call them the ‘part-time Aussies.’ Having lived Down Under for so long they get our humour. Dafydd is boasting of travelling with two wives. The three choose their bunks and Wanda begins her nightly ritual of attending to Dafydd’s feet. I do not know what that ritual involves even though Dafydd wants to explain. I am not interested in knowing the details of any nursing activity no matter how needful or beneficial it might be.

  While the nursing is taking place, a middle-aged German man is walking in and out of the bunkroom in his underpants. I am used to unisex sleeping spaces having participated in many marae noho and stayed in numerous tramping huts. I came to the Camino prepared to have strangers, male and female, sleep in the bunks next to mine - I really would prefer not to have this happen, but that is what is required when staying at albergues. Having a man saunter around in just his underwear is a challenging situation. I am further challenged to discover that the bathroom is unisex. The Camino is stretching me in more ways than I had anticipated.