While we are sitting comfortably and companionably on the stone wall by the well, swinging our legs and surveying the situation, a man rushes up to the well. We soon discover he is French and he is in so much of a hurry he barely has time to refill his water bottle. He tells us he has walked the Camino six times and has walked eighteen kilometres this morning. (We have walked a respectable six kilometres.) He then points to the rubbers on the end of my walking poles and tells me I should take those off for what is coming up is, “Teeerrriiiiible.” He then attempts to pull off a rubber for me (having misunderstood my school girl French and thinks I told him to pull it off). He cannot get the rubber cap off so says that the man (Bruce I take it) must remove the rubbers for me. As he walks off I easily remove the two rubbers.
Bruce and I are now properly alarmed at the thought of the ‘Teeerrriiiiible’ mountain ahead, the Alto Atapuerca. We begin to climb and notice a military zone with the three mandatory fences of barbed wire to our left. Sheep graze this mountain of stunted holm oaks, and the little soil that there once might have been, has long washed away leaving exposed stone in many places. The rocks are slippery because we are once again climbing in cloud and we place our feet with care. I notice my tip-exposed poles are leaving small holes behind me, which will accelerate erosion. We enjoy the climb.
Soon we are at the high point of the Sierra Atapuerca (1,080m). Once again, we have walked up easily all the while expecting New Zealand versions of ‘Teeerrriiiiible.’ Or perhaps we are finding the climbs easier than expected because we are carrying much lighter packs than our heavier, multi-day tramping packs. There is a large cross standing in front of us, lifting high into the cloud shrouded sky. It feels a very special place up here on the Sierra Atapuerca in the thick, quiet cloud beside the stark cross. We linger awhile and again I pray, giving thanks for the time, health and energy to be on my camino. Pilgrims have begun to pile stones at the base of the cross as is the custom at Cruz de Ferro (The Iron Cross). On the ground, close by, someone has laid out a cross using small stones. There are enough stones lying about on this mountain top to satisfy any number of icon makers.
The cloud obscures the promised view of Burgos, the capital city of the province, but I do not care. We begin the slow descent on the same type of eroded terrain as the ascent. Our guidebook has warned of the eyesore of an open cast mine on the walk down, but the cloud obscures this horror also.
I determine not to miss the turn offs that will allow us to walk on unsealed farm roads through the land we can now see below. I miss the turn offs and we end up walking on a minor sealed road. It too does not matter. We take a short detour; one I had not planned which takes us through a very small village with a Roman fountain that no longer works. We stop for lunch beside the fountain and have to defend our food from two curious dogs accompanying a group of young Spanish adults exploring the countryside. We enjoy the human and canine company. Bruce takes a photo for them as they pose on the small bridge while their dogs splash in the stream below. It is cold and dampish, but it is Saturday, and they like us, are doing just as they wish. With the realisation it is Saturday, we agree to attend mass at the famed Burgos Cathedral in the morning. It is sometimes helpful to know what day of the week it is. The Burgos Cathedral was declared a World Heritage Site by UNESCO in 1984. Once again, we are delighted with the ‘just happens to be’ situation.
We had planned to buy Bruce a good pair of walking sandals when in Burgos, as he currently only has his tramping boots and his feet need a change of footwear. We are no longer hopeful of being able to find a shop open. Our experience, thus far, has been that very few shops are open on a Sunday.
The guidebook warns of the dreary walk into Burgos through eight kilometres of industrial suburbs. This will mean a one and a half hour walk through tall concrete buildings, on tarmac, among petrol and diesel fumes. Yuk. We discuss catching a bus the last eight kilometres into Burgos, catching a taxi, or at least sending our packs by taxi. While sitting eating an orange on a thoughtfully provided bench seat overlooking a small square, I read in the guidebook that there is an alternative route along the river Arlanzón. Instead of walking the industrial labyrinth, we can cross a bridge close to this square and follow the river path up to the cathedral. I talk Bruce into walking the alternative route. My enthusiasm and desire to walk the river path is in part driven by my need to obey the spurious rule of walking the whole way. I am oblivious of Bruce’s need for rest.
I cannot find any little arrows, but after we cross the river I spot one. We are saved. “Thank you, guidebook, for giving us the alternative route.” We walk along soft soil paths under birch trees not far from the river. It feels peaceful and restful. The trees have their early yellow-green spring leaves. As we get closer to the river the path becomes paved and, as it is now 5 p.m., the local folk are out walking their dogs, gossiping with their neighbours, while others are airing their bikes. I gradually become aware that Bruce is very tired and is not enjoying the walk – the surrounding beauty is lost on him.
After a while I begin to flag and realise I have not seen any arrows apart from the one I had spotted after crossing the river.
“Where are we and how much further is the cathedral,” he asks.
“I don’t know exactly. We just have to keep walking until we see the cathedral.”
“How do you know we will see the cathedral from the river?”
“I don’t know, but I think we probably will be able to. It would’ve made sense to have built the cathedral close to the river.”
I notice that in response to his questions my anxiety levels increase. I know we are walking beside the Río Arlanzón with the industrial buildings of Burgos across the river. I have learnt to trust the guidebook and believe we just have to keep walking. Bruce does not share my confidence or perhaps his tiredness overcomes his trust in the guidebook and me. He stops a few people who wave their arms a lot and he gathers we just keep following the river.
Bruce and I decide not to cross the river to find the waymarked route when we reach the inner city. We are too tired. Both of us are hanging out for a glimpse of that cathedral. Bruce asks me again where we are exactly. I still do not know. He wants to know the name of the next bridge for that might help us find our spot on the map. I try to explain that the map is not a detailed city map. Anyway, I am too tired to try to find a name plaque on the next bridge.
I am by now thoroughly exasperated at being asked, “Where are we exactly.” Bruce wants me, or us, to go over to a woman - about two hundred metres off the path - to ask directions. I reiterate that we need to follow the river. My intuition tells me that the cathedral will be visible from the river. I don’t want to walk the extra two hundred metres to ask for directions. One of us has an exhaustion and frustration-fuelled tantrum, drops his pack to the ground and strides the two hundred metres to the woman. There is a windmill motion of arms and I guess at the volubility of the responses to Bruce’s question. He comes back very frustrated and none the wiser. He picks up his pack and we walk on in silence in separate self-contained spaces. Much is communicated in that wordless silence of fractured sacred space between us. I breathe the meditation.
Loose the cords of mistakes binding us,
As we release the strands we hold of others’ faults
At last the stunning architectural beauty comes into view. Seeing the many spires of this beautiful cathedral (described as a ‘monument to the Divine’) from across the river, soaring above and beyond the gorgeous Santa María bridge, dissolves my angst. What a glorious sight. The foundation stones of the cathedral were laid in 1221 and it took several centuries to build. One cannot hurry a masterpiece.
We cross the Santa María bridge and walk to the Santa María plaza by the cathedral and I have no clue where to find a yellow arrow let alone an albergue. Coming into the city from the ‘wrong’ side of the river means we have missed the Camino waymarked route. Some thirty minutes
’ pass and with the help of five locals, we locate the municipal albergue some fifty metres from the cathedral. We find ourselves a room with two bunks slightly apart from the rest of the bunks and are happy. That is until I notice that the fifty euros lent to us by the Canadians is all gone and once again we have no cash. The folk behind the albergue reception desk do not speak English (why should they?) and I, in my tired sore feet state, cannot find the words to explain I need to find an ATM. The term telebanco (cash dispenser) alludes me. I try to give them my credit card, but of course they will not accept it. Cash is the currency on the Camino. They wave the credit card away and ask for our country passports and our Camino credentials. Our credentials are to prove we are indeed pilgrims and we have been duly having these stamped every evening at the albergues. Being non-Europeans we must also produce our New Zealand passports at the council run albergues. The family ones do not always require our country passports.
Three young Australian women come up to the reception counter, hear of our plight and pay for our beds. What a relief. This running out of cash is becoming an embarrassing habit. I do not enjoy the sense of not being able to organize myself. I notice my discomfort and pray.
Loose the cords of mistakes binding us
Self-compassion is a wonderful gift. I decide that it is pleasing to witness the sense of companionship and generosity among those we meet.
We shower, unpack and head off to rectify the empty wallet and empty stomach status. We meet up with two of the Australians at reception and they take us to the closest telebanco and we repay our debt. The four of us then head off to dinner. We look at the advertised price of the Menu del Dia as prices are more expensive here in the city. Eventually we select a restaurant and walk into a dim interior with table seating in separate alcoves. The restaurant also has a well patronised bar area. It is all very agreeable. We are shown to a table and realise that it is already 9 p.m. However, time becomes irrelevant as we eat and talk. One of the Australians gasps, “It’s 10.15 p.m. The albergue closes at 10.00 p.m.” Apparently, there is a sign on the wall at the reception which I had failed to notice. Some previous albergues had similar signs, but the 10.00 p.m. curfew had never been imposed. Or was it that we had always been in bed by 10.00 p.m.? Be that as it may, the two women are alarmed and therefore so too are Bruce and I. We arrive back at the large modern albergue which had looked so clean, comfortable and roomy. The two large doors are shut, locked and barred. The people at the bar opposite the albergue enjoy the spectacle of the four of us banging on the door and trying to shoulder it open.
I notice an open gate leading to a side courtyard, but do not mention it to Bruce or the two women. A mistake it turns out later. It is now raining and one of the Australians phones a pilgrim inside the albergue. That person does not pick up the phone. By now we are resigned to finding other accommodation for the night. The four of us walk back to the restaurant to use their wi-fi to Google search for another place to sleep. We have paid for our bed at the albergue, all our gear is inside, but we are outside those large, locked doors. Bruce and I are very tired. We have been tired for the past five and a half hours and are now wet as well. Bruce and I opt to try the hotel just up the road from the cathedral. The two women do not want to pay hotel rates, so go in search of an albergue they remember seeing at the beginning of the waymarked route into the city. Neither Bruce nor I can face the longer walk in the dark, wet night. We ignore the constraints of our budget.
At 11 p.m. we present our wet, exhausted selves at the reception desk of the very well presented hotel. We ask for a room for the night and notice that we will pay five times the cost of the albergue. I go to pay for the room. Thank goodness, I have my credit card on me. The woman on reception says, “Don’t worry tonight, just go and rest.” I could weep in response to her obvious compassion and trust. We stagger to the lift and find our very comfortable hotel room with clean, crisp, white sheets on the beds and fluffy white towels warmed by an electric towel rail, in our own private bathroom. There are curtains at the windows which look down onto the Santa María Plaza. We are finally set to sleep, but again sound, unbroken sleep evades me.
In my rush to go out to dinner because of the lateness of the hour, I did not strap my ankle. In the fast, anxious walk from restaurant to albergue and back again, I had slightly twisted the injured ankle. It is now re-swelling. My ice pack and pain killers are behind the locked albergue doors. The blister on my right heel is now extensive and very painful. I cannot bear to rest my foot on the heel. Once again, I need to wake before I roll over in bed.
I set my phone alarm for 7.30 a.m. We must be back at the albergue, packed and ready to vacate it by 8 a.m. Many of the smaller albergues had not administered the custom of vacating by 8 a.m., but given the enforced 10 p.m. curfew, I am not expecting this albergue to ignore the 8 a.m. rule.
Rest day in Burgos
Remind yourself of the difference
between being alive and living.
It matters.
Dr Libby Weaver
April 5, Day 15
BRUCE AND I ARE SO anxious to retrieve our packs we are walking the streets by 7.20 a.m. We have left our New Zealand passports as security at the hotel, as we do not want to check out until the official twelve noon, just in case we want to rest after collecting our packs. We also think we may need to book a further night at the hotel – what about our budget? Bruce and I want to have a rest day in this charming old city with its wide, tree lined streets and tree lined river walks. On the cathedral side of the river, the pruned plane tree branches end in stumps awaiting the call of spring. Over the river, the willows are in leaf, imperceptibly changing from yellow-green to the darker chlorophyll-fed-green as the days lengthen. Spring is more dramatic here in Spain than in New Zealand. New Zealand has just a few indigenous deciduous trees, with mountain ribbonwood the only one to create a stunning autumn landscape and it grows only in the South Island. I love the many shades of New Zealand’s evergreen forests: the single word ‘green’ is inadequate for its myriad of shades.
A miracle! We can stay a second night at the albergue, not actually having had a first. Reception will store our gear for us. Our boots, backpacks, walking poles and unwashed clothes go into a cupboard. We take a bag of clean clothes to the hotel. Once the albergue closes at 8 a.m. it will not re-open until 1 p.m.
There is mass at the cathedral at 9 a.m. so we set off to meet one of the Australian woman we had dined with. This is the third ‘non-pilgrim’ service we have attended. At the other two services, members of the congregation had wished us well. No-one wishes us, “Buen Camino,” at this service. I suppose I have become accustomed to being noticed and wished well. The congregation gets up and leaves as soon as the service is over, again a marked contrast to our experience of church in the small villages and the town of Estella. This cathedral church is incredibly ornate and very embellished. It is exquisite, full of works of art and is a record of history, but it feels more like a museum rather than a working church. Perhaps I am still very tired.
With our budget now totally disregarded, we stop at a café and eat a costly breakfast in the Santa María Plaza. I eat a banana, a piece of cheesecake and drink two coffees. I have never eaten cheesecake for breakfast. Bruce has two hot chocolate drinks, a banana and a napolitana. We begin to relax. The wait staff are very busy for it is Sunday morning and families are out to breakfast.
After a pleasurable sit in the sun over coffees/hot chocolates we follow, in reverse, the waymarked route which leads pilgrims into the city. The Camino route would have been a fine introduction to this city. We come to a gate which was originally part of the city wall. It is one of five still standing, from an original eleven, built when Burgos became a fortified city and the historic capital of Castile.
At the gate is the municipal museum with an art exhibition of paintings from the late 1800s to early 1900s. Many of the paintings depict the rural environs of Bu
rgos and farm life as it had then been. There is also a painting of the cathedral standing alone on a hilltop, among tall trees, in her finery and splendour. The trees have now been replaced with tall high rise apartments and office blocks - all in the name of progress, I guess. It must have been astonishing to come to the city from the country and see this masterpiece of architecture. It is still a marvel today as it sits on the hill looking down onto the changed landscape.
I had been dreading the visit to Burgos because of anticipated traffic pollution which I associate with all large cities. During our walk through Logroño, a clean looking city, I had begun to cough. On days when we walked close to roads, when a car or truck drove past, my nostrils would involuntarily clench and flare to avoid the stench. Before spending days walking in the fresh clean air of the countryside, I would not have put the words ‘car’ and ‘stench’ together. I use a car daily in my normal life. I decide that combustion engines are convenient, but very noisy and smelly.
Inner city Burgos is vehicle free. How rational. The main plazas, this sunny Sunday morning, pulsate with multi-generational families enjoying themselves. The city of Burgos is doing community. There are very few shops open, but the bars are and it is a celebration day. There is a jumping castle for children in one of the plazas, as well as several buskers doing clever things with their hands. Whatever the day is, it warrants a special service in the cathedral at 1 p.m.
In the evening, we return to the Santa María Plaza to order our evening Menu del Dia. Just after we are seated and given the menu, marching bands begin to arrive in the Plaza. I turn and Bruce, plus camera, are gone. He is on the Plaza filming. As I sit on my own, the tables around me begin to fill up. My anxiety levels start to creep up again. If Bruce is away too long, we will be served late and locked out of the albergue for a second time. However, it is just 7 p.m. and the Spanish around me are ordering coffee and wine. They would not dream of eating as early as 7 p.m. This means that when Bruce does return, “That has to be the highlight of the whole trip,” we are the only ones ordering food and it arrives quickly. Once again, I am grateful for salad, followed by fish, rounded off with cheesecake. Goodness, cheesecake twice in one day.
Kiwi on the Camino Page 12