After our showers, we walk down the cobbled streets, wider in this small town than those we find in villages. Carrión de Los Condes once boasted 14 pilgrim hospitals. It was this town that was required to pay the tribute of 100 virgins to the ruling Moors. At the final handover of the young women, bulls intervened and saved them and their families, by creating such a brawl that the hated practice ceased. In later years, the town’s ruling family experienced the wrath of El Cid. The princes of Carrión de Los Condes behaved despicably towards El Cid’s daughters and El Cid’s troops, in revenge, quickly disposed of the princes.12
Our search for a post office is wearying, but among the labyrinth of streets we spot Maria and Ricardo. They are sitting on the terrace of a bar which overlooks the Río Carrión. They are very relaxed, smoking and drinking coffee in the sunshine. We spend some time with them drinking coffee and then Bruce and I need to move on. I cannot deal to my blister until we have been to the post office and then found a farmanc from which to purchase Betadine.
We stop to ask a local the way to the post office. He tells me a name and a number. I assume I have been given the name of a street and the number of the post office. Bruce and I search again among the labyrinth and the post office remains elusive. We go back to the man again and this time I write the address down and after stopping several more people, we find our way to the post office. It is a new post office and in a different location from where we had been looking. The street name I had been given was not a street name at all, but the name of the building.
The man behind the counter greets us - there is no machine spitting out numbers here. I place our package on the counter and he asks me a question. In response, I hand over my Spanish/English phrase book, which is too limited for our current needs. He then brings up a scan code on his computer and I realise I have been asked, “Do you want to track your parcel?” “No gracias.” We leave the post office 0.937 kilograms lighter, but more importantly, we have an empty space in Bruce’s pack.
I see a jewellery shop and stop to buy a watch strap. My watch strap had broken on Day Three of our Camino and while it has been good not to be looking at the time, I am glad of the new strap. I have been leaving the watch in my pack pocket, for fear I would lose it. Bruce does not wear a watch. The farmanc is our next stop and I am relieved not to be spending fifty euros again.
It is now siesta time, so we walk or limp towards the Río Carrión. Maria and Ricardo are still sitting outside the bar in the sunshine. They, too, do not look like they will walk more than six kilometres today. They have a very relaxed attitude to walking the Camino in contrast to - “Got to keep moving, got to walk twenty, thirty, forty kilometres today” – or whatever number of kilometres the plane ticket at the other end of the walk, demands. Our Italian surgeons have dipped in and out of the Camino so many times. They know they will be back the following year for part of their annual holidays to begin where they left off.
Bruce and I have met a number of Europeans who intentionally plan to spend just one or two weeks of their annual holidays each year walking the Camino. With living close to Spain, such a staged walk is possible. Coming from New Zealand, the costs and time needed to get to Spain require our completion. Bruce and I continue to pray for the health and strength to keep walking.
We wander closer to the river and admire the Roman bridge with its five arches. The river water is running swiftly with the blue and white froth of snow melt. The riverbank is shallow on the town side, lined with young cyprus trees, willows, poplars, and a tree I do not recognize with red spring leaves. The swift flowing mountain water contrasts well with the different shades of spring green and red. Beside the river runs a path for both foot and bicycle traffic. For the second day in a row the sun is shining and I am happy to be spending the day in this scenic town. We eat our picnic lunch and then while Bruce sleeps I look around and take photos.
Bruce, now refreshed, is happy to sight see with me. We begin with the 12th century Romanesque church of Santa Maria del Camino, the entrance of which is a memorial to the one hundred young women lost to their families and town each year in the annual Moorish tribute. We sit quietly, reflective in the space. I find the atmosphere restful, peaceful and disturbing; a legacy of the sorrow, grief and rage associated with the annual tribute, which has been absorbed into these walls. Two women come in to pray. Bruce and I move on to the Church of Santiago, which lost its roof during the Civil War. No longer roofless, the church now functions as a museum. We climb the steep narrow stairs to the bell tower. Bruce is enormously relieved to be safely down on the ground again. He has no head for heights.
On the way back to the convent, I spot a sports shoe shop with a large sale sign on the front window. I cannot resist stopping. I find a pair of turquoise walking sandals my size. They will be so handy and Bruce now has room in his pack to carry my walking shoes. Four boots and two shoes would be a little over the top to have dangling from his pack. I spend a long time tying those boots onto his pack to try and minimize their movement. I, too, would find any swinging motion annoying if I had boots adorning my pack.
I now have no excuses for not dealing with my blister. It is much bigger after the day’s walk of a mere six kilometres. I had not thought it possible to have such a large blister. (Skip this next little piece if you wish.) I pre-soak my foot for one hour to remove the plaster. As I stick the needle under the blistered skin I try to dissociate my mind from what my hands are about. I think about people who choose to sever a limb with their Swiss army knife rather than die, when a limb is trapped between rocks, under a boulder or an enormous tree. Those thoughts put my circumstance into perspective. I do not have to dwell on others’ perilous situations for long.
My needle is too short. It cannot make the distance needed to pass through the entire blister. I fish around to find the sharp end of the needle and guide it out to the side of the blister. This is not fun. I ensure there is enough cotton hanging out of both entry and exit points and then reinsert the needle to make sure the whole blister will drain. I do not know if that is necessary, but I am determined to keep walking. The effect of my handiwork is a cotton ‘x’ under the skin of the blister with four threads hanging out. I gingerly place my foot flat on the floor. I can do it! There is no pain. My relief is instantaneous. Thank you, Maria and Ricardo. There is more to come. My stomach can barely cope with putting a clean sock on that foot without covering the nasty area first. The blister will drain into my sock. How disgusting is that? Desperation calls for a courageous response. I leave the affected area plaster-free.
We join other pilgrims in the kitchen. It is very small and the eight of us dance between the one microwave, single sink and dining table. There is a couple from Australia whom we have never met. She is tiny and carries a heavy pack. They seem to carry a lot of food with them. (We are to meet them again along The Way and they continue to carry heavy packs.) We like them immediately. They tell us how they supported a young Chinese woman (with inadequate wet weather gear) during the same blizzard we had walked through. The young woman was so cold and exhausted she kept wanting to stop and rest. If left alone and with the possible onset of hypothermia, her Camino and possibly her life might well have ended that day. This couple kept her moving and helped her to safety.
The Australians tell us that there is another New Zealand couple on the Camino. They had planned to walk the Camino for their honeymoon, but the woman had injured herself the day before beginning the walk. They are very resourceful and determined so purchased a bicycle each and are now biking the Camino. They ask if we have met them. Bruce and I are to hear of this other New Zealand couple every now and then, but we never do meet them. As yet, we have not met any others from our home country.
There is also a young couple, Anna and Garrison, from the United States. He studied for one semester at the University of Waikato where I too obtained my qualifications. Garrison has taken leave of absence from work and Anna resigned
from her teaching position, so they can spend some time travelling. We are pleased to meet this couple also.
I prepare our salad and microwave rice risotto and we enjoy a good quality wine. The justification for this extravagance? “We are not spending much on dinner,” says Bruce. Entertainment is provided by yet another couple (with yachting experience) whose metaphorical language took a little figuring out. Eventually I realised that ‘hard to port’ means, “I have looked after the kids, cooked the food, cleaned the boat inside and out and you have done b……. all.”
Three days before beginning El Camino
About to leave Roncevalles
Younger grape vines with wires
Meseta chalk cliffs ahead heading to Castrojeriz
Bruce standing beside the Cruz de Ferro
Time for a siesta
Bruce and donkey with village of Pradela up ahead
There are many ways to walk El Camino
Sculpture at Negreira
Carrión de Los Condes to
Terradillos de los Templarios
26.8 kms (16.7ml)
414.3 kms (257.4ml) to Santiago
Write in your heart that every day
is the best day of the year.
Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 – 1882)
April 11, Day 21
I AM EXCITED ABOUT THE walk today. There is a stretch of seventeen kilometres between villages, the longest isolated stretch of the Camino so far. The road is the Via Aquitana, a road built by the Romans in 118 BC. We are stocked up on food and water and are all set to enjoy this isolated stretch of Roman road.
We begin the seventeen kilometres stretch. The distances are hard to measure with little to break the landscape. The land ceases to be land where it meets the sky on the horizon. It is pleasant, warm enough without being too hot. I find the zone where my mind can be free to drift at will, or think about nothing at all. I am in the moment, conscious of my body moving, with my senses resting in the flow of the walk.
After a while my rest and peace begin to be disturbed. My body has betrayed me. An important body function had not taken place before we left the albergue. The situation is becoming dire. “Just dig a hole and bury it.” “I don’t want to dig a hole. There’s no cover up here at all.” The land is flat and devoid of any stunted shrubs, trees, low stone walls and definitely no bulrushes. I turn 360°, and as far as I can see out to the horizon on all four compass points, there is no one in sight. “I know we can’t see anyone just now, but you never know.” I begin to feel nauseous and an unwanted memory surfaces. A very dear person is lying on a hospital bed vomiting faeces due to a bowel blockage, the unintended result of a medical procedure. Watching her suffer remains one of my worst memories. As my misery increases the memory persists.
I have a second memory come to mind. It was of one of the times we walked the nineteen-kilometre Tongariro Crossing, dubbed the greatest one day walk in New Zealand. It is a serious mountain hike. The path takes the walker up the slopes of Mount Tongariro, up and over a steep saddle, beside Red Crater, past the Emerald Lakes and down beside Blue Lake. People describe the area of craters and lakes as a moonscape. It is amazingly, stunningly, picturesque. On this particular occasion, I was walking past a boulder at shoulder height and I saw that someone had left a body deposit. While feeling sympathy for the person cut short, I was annoyed at the despoiling of the landscape. I do realise it is very difficult to dig a hole on a volcanic mountain. I could dig a hole in the Camino landscape, but I do not want to defile the countryside. Thus, with the two memories present, instead of enjoying this much-anticipated road, I am now desperately praying, straining for the next village. My nausea increases all the while.
At last we arrive at Caldadilla de la Cueza. We find a small bar. It is open on this Sunday and families have gathered there for lunch. We are welcomed with smiles and I head straight to the facilities. Bruce and I have a coffee at a table in the corner. We do not order food for we have our picnic lunch with us.
Having paid for our use of the facilities, we leave and sit on the grassy slope facing the church. The church door opens and people come out carrying branches which I cannot identify. It looks to have been a child’s baptism. The families are dressed very smartly and stand about in the sun talking with one another. Roosters crow in the distance and a car drives down the main road. Five minutes later there is another vehicle. This time it is a John Deere tractor, complete with harrows on the back. The driver has set a course down the main street. He needs one hand to hold his mobile phone to his ear and the other arm gesticulates to aid his phone conversation. He notices us and gives a big cheery wave and smile. The hand is then needed again to support the phone conversation.
I am having trouble with my iPad. It keeps turning itself on and going flat. I find this very upsetting, as writing my blog helps me to feel connected to home. Furthermore, the seed of an idea that began germinating a while back is putting out its first tender leaves.
“You know Bruce, I think I might write a book about this walk when we get home.”
“Aren’t there enough books already about the Camino?”
“None written by a New Zealander that I know of,” I reply.
“Well make sure you get all the distances correct. People want to know the real distances. We’ll have to walk the Camino again and bring one of those little wheels to measure the track accurately, so you get it right in your book. People want facts. If we walk the Camino again we can paint some more arrows too.”
“But my book won’t be a factual book, Bruce. It will be a story about a journey.”
Bruce is frustrated with the irregularity of kilometres recorded on some waymarks. He has found it difficult to spot some of the arrows. I, on the other hand, am enjoying searching for arrows, as it feels like a treasure hunt. I don’t mind the waymarks either. Roads are being re-routed and consequently the Camino path also gets re-routed. Distances then become different from those on the waymarks. I remember, too, that it is volunteers who maintain the route. I like it the way it is. However, as we walk on I think about Bruce’s words, “enough books already” and a kernel of worry is sown. The writer from Ecclesiastes is no help.
…There is no end to the crafting of many books…. (Ecclesiastes, 12:12, NET)
To write a book I need my iPad to be reliable for note recording. My writing is virtually illegible, even to myself. I write fast and my script is a scrawl, much to the disappointment of my friends during our undergraduate years. I could write fast enough to keep up with the lecturer, but my notes were of no help to my friends because the pen marks were too faint to photocopy.
Terradillos de los Templarios to
Calzadilla de Los Hermanillos
26.9 kms (16.7ml)
387.5 kms (240.8ml) to Santiago
Halfway To Santiago De Compostela
It is only with the heart that one can see rightly;
what is essential is invisible to the eye.
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry (1900-1944)
April 12, Day 22
TODAY WE SEND BRUCE’S PACK (the heavier of the two) by courier to our tonight’s destination. This means we must make it to the albergue we named for the pack delivery. Pressure. The deal is that we would send his pack only if we share the carrying of my pack. That arrangement will give me half of the walk without weight on my back to take pressure off the blister while it drains into my sock. (We are both wearing socks and sandals. I cannot believe I have just admitted that.)
Bruce takes the first shift of pack carrying, but will not release the burden when it is my turn; I am at risk of doing all the sharing and he all the carrying. I remind him, “I am happy to carry my pack some of the way.” He responds with, “You organised the trip, you read the guidebook, you organise the food, I can carry your pack.” Gratitude floods me and I banish guilt. I do not need to worry about not pulling my weig
ht. Bruce continues, “When we sent my pack by courier, I planned to carry your pack the twenty-seven kilometres today so you could rest, but I wasn’t going to tell you that part of the plan because you would have argued with me.” He knows me well this husband of mine. We walk on with harmony restored and me pack-free. This too is the way of the Camino.
Again, we take the longer alternative route to benefit from walking on natural pathways instead of on a road. We are rewarded by a picturesque walk over a small stone arched bridge sitting under a clump of poplar trees. On the far side of the bridge is the 12th century hermitage of our Lady, the Ermita Virgen del Puente. On the stone of the bridge is the largest yellow arrow I have yet seen. There is no possibility of missing this directional aide. Sahagún is up ahead. We notice the large new buildings, both farm structures and houses, and agree to concede that some of the modern architecture is also agreeable.
In the afternoon, we walk along country paths. There is an occasional glade of trees which gives variety to the flat landscape. We come across a young German couple (Emma and Ben) who are sitting looking at their blisters. Bruce and I share our new knowledge about dealing with blisters. We talk awhile and then move on. They too are taking the alternative route to Hermanillos and we hope to spend some time with them when we stop for the night. They pass us as we rest and arrive at Hermanillos de la Calzadilla before us. When we arrive, tired and weary, they have booked into the first private albergue. It has a restaurant attached and the evening meal is included in the price of the bed. It looks inviting, but I think it’s a little too expensive so we walk on.
Kiwi on the Camino Page 16