Kiwi on the Camino

by Vivianne Flintoff

  to Rabanal del Camino

  12 kms (7.5ml)

  254.1 kms (157.9 ml) to Santiago

  If you want to be happy, be.

  Leo Tolstoy (1828 - 1910)

  April 19, Day 29, Easter Saturday

  IT IS ECSTASY IN THE morning to smell the freshness of clean clothes as I pull them over my head. I have even washed my red jersey, which has not been washed since beginning The Way. Despite not sleeping well, I am happy. I remind myself that I need to write up my notes before going to bed, otherwise my mind will spend the night trying to record and memorise all we have seen and done during the day. It is self-defeating, not to stay up that little bit later. I rise early, go to the bar for a coffee and a chance to write up my notes. Bruce later joins me and we buy our breakfast from the bar.

  There are vases of lilac in this albergue, as there had been at Zubiri. “Your mother loved lilac.” This is the second time I have mentioned Bruce’s long departed mother within two days. He is quiet then responds with, “My mother would have liked this.” He very rarely speaks of his mother. It is a good moment between us. “I must keep an eye on the date. It’s nearly my mother’s birthday,” I add a moment later. We watch birds fly into the flagstone courtyard and hover around the water fountain. They too are joyful at the beginning of this new day, and like me, are ready to begin a new chapter in their life story.

  We say goodbye to the full-sized, homemade figure of St James at reception and leave for the short twelve kilometres to Rabanal. Today we will begin climbing, but I am eagerly anticipating this next section of our journey. The street is cool and welcoming. Santa Catalina de Somoza is a little village, with small single storey stone houses. It hadn’t taken me long to walk around it last evening while Bruce slept before dinner. One house had a supply of hand carved pilgrim poles outside its bright blue door. It also had scallop shells dangling against the door: all items were for sale. Another home had some leaves attached to the outside of a window. I have seen this before and still not found out what the greenery is for. Perhaps another Easter tradition.

  There are pilgrims ahead of us, more than we have seen in a long while. A lot of the walk today is beside the road, but it is a minor road and has very little traffic. Even the tractors have disappeared. As we continue to climb, the snow-clad peaks of Monte El Teleno, across the valley, provide me with inspiration and hope. We pass stands of trees that must be cultivated for their wood. Wild flowers are on both sides of the road. We come to a small alternative path through the woods. Of course, I choose to take the path to get off the road. It starts to get a bit wet underfoot and Bruce spies an opportunity to leave the path and re-joins the road. I stay on the path. The woodland path gets wetter and muddier. Ahead of me is a large drain I must cross to re-join the road. I am stuck unless I go all the way back. Bruce and another pilgrim are standing on the road looking at my predicament. The two men scan the area and spot some timber. A very unsteady looking bridge is created and I am safely over the water. We pass a paddock with a small herd of grey horses grazing. I am entranced, but Bruce is not. He rode horses as a child, but has never been enamoured with them.

  It is lunch time when we arrive at the small, semi-abandoned village of El Granso. There is an ancient church at the edge of the road, but it is locked. It is dedicated to Santiago and I had wanted to have a look inside. It is not possible so we go in search of the Cowboy Bar and order our lunch. There are quite a few pilgrims at the bar already. We share a bocadillo and Bruce also has a salad. It is restful sitting in this small bar in this tiny village which is showing signs of re-generation.

  After leaving El Ganso, we pass another pilgrim memorial site. This one has a large carved wooden cross. I notice the death had occurred in June. Did the pilgrim die of heat exhaustion? It is sobering to pass these memorials to pilgrims who did not reach Santiago, but who hopefully reached their spiritual destination.

  I am excited to arrive at Rabanal del Camino with its resident population of twenty-seven. In my guidebook, I had given this small village two ticks. Rabanal used to be an important pilgrim stop, hence the presence of three churches. The albergue we sign into is on the opposite side of the square from the Santa Maria Church. This church is reputed to have been built by the Knights Templar and is now cared for by a Benedictine order from Bavaria.

  Staying at this albergue is by donation. A pilgrim must have walked and be a non-smoker, to be admitted. The albergue is run by the Confraternity of St James and throughout the year has resident volunteer wardens. The current wardens are a couple from England and they give a few weeks each year to caring for pilgrims at Rabanal. We see one pilgrim (a smoker) turned away, but two others who arrive wet through, are given a very warm welcome.

  We are shown the upstairs bunkroom, library, a kitchen well stocked with pans and some condiments, the bathroom, and a balcony for drying our washing. There is also an outside clothes line. By the clothes line is a bunkroom that began its life as a barn. It has been well converted and there is no trace of the former occupants. We chose bunks in the ex-barn by the second door which provides access, via five multi-coloured stone steps, to the lawn and flower gardens. Rosemary bushes form a guard of honour beside these attractive steps. The stone of the former barn varies in shade from pale cream, to honey, to brown, through to a soft pale grey. We admire the stone work, seeming so randomly placed, but surely is not.

  Bruce and I enjoy the stone work of these houses in the mountains of the Maragato people. They have been hewn from the mountains on which they are anchored and crafted with skill and love. The homes have orange to red roof tiles, ‘pantiles’ I think is the more accurate description. These roof tiles have dominated throughout our walk. We continue to look with interest at the building and farming techniques of the different areas. Each day there are similarities and always some differences. I reflect with gratitude upon the farming folk who produce the food I need to sustain my life.

  After the usual getting ourselves into order upon arrival at an albergue, we cross the square to the little church to attend evening vespers. At the end of the service in this very austere church, the monks pray the Pilgrim Prayer over us as we have experienced on two other occasions. This time the English translation is made available as well.

  Prayer of the Pilgrims

  Lord, you who recalled your servant Abraham out of the town Ur in Chaldea and who watched over him during all his wanderings; you who guided the Jewish people through the desert; we also query to watch your present servants, who for the love of your name, make a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela.

  Be for us,

  A companion on our journey

  The guide on our intersections

  The strengthening during fatigue

  The fortress in danger

  The resource on our itinerary

  The shadow in our heat

  The light in our darkness

  The consolation during dejection

  And the power of our intention

  So that we under your guidance, safely and unhurt, may reach the end of our journey and strengthened with gratitude and power, secure and filled with happiness, may join our home. For Jesus Christ, Our Lord, Amen.

  Apostle James, pray for us. Holy Virgin pray for us.

  We look inside both bars and choose to eat at the one that is crowded. It is now very cold outside and it is warm inside this bar. We are shown to a table and order a big meal. Again, I choose the fish. The bar clientele seems relaxed and happy. By the end of the meal, Bruce is starting to fade. He is once again feeling unwell with chest pains and a headache and needs to go to bed to rest and sleep. Bruce will not be able to stay up and attend the midnight vigil. He is very disappointed.

  At 11 p.m., I put on as many warm clothes as I have left and walk from the albergue across the square to the little church, which is in darkness. Others arrive and together we wait outside. We are give
n lit candles and walk into the dark church. The flickers of candlelight throw shadows onto the ancient ceiling and walls, which despite restoration, still have gaps in the plaster. This small parish church, in its simplicity without gold leaf or carvings, is a place of prayer and worship. The simple wooden crucifix is stark against the stone walls. Some may call the building austere or even plain, but I think it exquisite with the vases of white flowers and large green leafy branches placed throughout the nave and sanctuary for decoration.

  The monks lead us in worship, using unaccompanied Gregorian chant, intoning the ancient Easter Saturday vigil. I am deeply moved by the candle lit atmosphere and centuries old music, in this ancient place of worship. It is midnight and with the coming of Easter Sunday, as a congregation of pilgrims, we celebrate resurrection and new life. I go forward to receive the sacraments and, at the end of the service, the monks pray the Pilgrim Blessing over us. The little church is full and we greet one another with, “Christ has risen. He is risen indeed.” I am sorry that Bruce could not be present.

  As I exit the church and re-enter the cold of the night, I reflect on four weeks of walking and realise we are just ten days from Santiago. Our blisters have healed. We continue to trust that our feet and knees will last the distance and that Bruce will get enough rest for us to continue. Once again, I am grateful for the luxury of time so that we can stop and rest when needed. I reflect on pilgrims who have come to the Camino inspired by watching the movie The Way. Some have been ill prepared for bad weather and the emotional and physical demands of a long walk. I remember others who have had to end their Camino because they pushed too hard to meet deadlines and suffered an injury. Yet others have had to stop because of blisters that would not heal or had feet that kept on re-blistering. In looking back, it seems that older pilgrims (myself excepted perhaps) who are more experienced at pacing themselves, injure themselves less than younger ones who travel fast, over long distances, to reach the next stop. It also seems that those who are walking fit, rather than gym fit, are less likely to injure themselves. Those who are gym fit and who have not also included walking in their preparation tend to have trouble with their quads and calf muscles. The majority suffer with blisters.

  I realise that Bruce and I do not window shop or browse through shops. We are carrying all the clothes we need and we buy our food each day. We get free, clean, fresh drinking water from the village wells. It feels like freedom to be away from the advertising pressures of materialism and consumerism. We met two women who began walking a few days ago, after spending some time shopping in Italy. They are now carrying their new clothes and shoes in their backpacks: shoes and clothes they will not be using on the Camino. That seems like hard work to me.

  Rabanal del Camino

  to Molinaseca

  26.5 kms (16.4ml)

  242.7 kms (150.8nl) to Santiago

  To dry one’s eyes and laugh at a fall,

  And, baffled, get up and begin again.

  Robert Browning (1812 – 1889)

  April 20, Day30, Easter Sunday

  IT IS COLD WHEN WE make our way to the kitchen for breakfast. Bruce is worried that he won’t be able to walk today, because sleep has not reduced his pain. I certainly don’t want to keep going with Bruce looking as he does. Ahead of us is the highest point of the walk and with the temperature dropping, we might get more snow. The area ahead has just a few villages, all with very small populations. Our kindly English hosts say we can stay another night so Bruce can rest throughout the day. The past two days were very light in terms of the number of kilometres walked and despite the shorter walks, Bruce looks exhausted. I am very worried.

  We learn that the two young Italian women who shared the bunkroom with us last night are doctors: one is a neurologist and the other a cardiologist. Both Bruce and I know his chest pains are not heart related, but they are still very painful and distressing. Headaches are something he lives with daily. He is very miserable. The two doctors talk with Bruce awhile and then conclude, “If you want to walk, don’t worry we won’t be far behind you.” He is relieved and reassured by their presence and after taking more pain relief, says he will walk. I am still anxious, but will trust Bruce and the two doctors.

  “Thank you, Great Physician for the presence and knowledge of the two doctors.”

  Bruce wants to start off on his own. With many misgivings, I watch him head off into the cold, strong, head wind. When I catch up with him the pain relief has kicked in and we walk together exalting in the wind, clouds and climb. It is a good day after all. We never see the two doctors again.

  The going is a very gradual, steady climb and we realise we do not need to worry about the gradient and being overly taxed. The path is muddy in places because of the number of springs that send water down the mountainside. We pass deciduous oaks, with their brown leaves still holding on tenaciously resisting the call of spring. Spring comes late to these mountains. Gradually as we climb higher, the trees give way to heather and then even that becomes stunted.

  We arrive at Foncebadón in cloud. We are glad to see that the previously deserted village, feared by pilgrims because of the abandoned dogs, is now experiencing a resurgence thanks to pilgrim traffic. There is a small resident population and we encounter no dogs. There are, however, two guys who run the best coffee shop ever. The tiny shop, warmed by a large wood stove, is lined with old wood on the ceilings, most of the walls and the noisy floor. The walls in the kitchen are lined with lime green tiles. Gorgeous. Bruce and I talk and laugh with the two men, drink their great coffee, buy and eat fresh, fat dates and I buy some tissues. I will no longer have to resort to the old ‘blow out as you go’ (a new skill mastered on this walk). Grass is not a good enough substitute for that luxury item tissues. I know. I did try.

  Fuelled up and warm, we head outdoors again into the cloud for the one and a half kilometre climb to the Iron Cross - Cruz de Ferro - the second highest point of the Camino at 1,505 metres above sea level. We each have, in our packs, a small stone from our home garden to add to the pile of stones at the foot of the tall cross. We reach it quickly it seems. The cross is standing in the pile of stones left there by many pilgrims over the centuries. Bruce climbs the pile first and deposits his stone at the foot of the cross. Then it is my turn. Standing by the cross I feel extremely emotional and full of gratitude to have reached this high place, one of the more recognizable symbols of the Camino Frances. I recall how last night and again this morning I thought our Camino might be over because of Bruce’s condition. I walk down the slope of stones; Bruce and I hold each other and I pray. “Thank you.” I cannot continue. Tears threaten. I am overwhelmed with gratitude. I take some time to settle myself, then continue, “For bringing us this far,” (again I stop and wait until the threat of tears subsides). I continue, “for all those we love and cherish. We give you thanks.” There is a small chapel to the side and I go over, but it is locked. I try to see inside, but the interior is dim. I sit on the bench outside and rest. I am quiet.

  A little further on we come to the abandoned village of Manjarin, but it is not quite abandoned. There is one very simple albergue with a permanent warden. We continue to climb and reach the highest point of the Camino at 1,517 metres above sea level. We take the path between two hills and start to descend. On our right is a small stall with some food and drink as well as flowers. There is an honesty box in which to place money. The stall is a long way down this lonely path between Manjarin and Acebo. Close by, but over yet another spring created muddy spot, is a seat. We sit and admire the view of snow-streaked mountains, trees and grass. Stock must graze here, for I notice water troughs of a shape I’ve never seen before.

  The going is now steadily downhill. The path underfoot is schist, mostly solid, but there is some loose stone and I focus very carefully on my feet. Mercifully, the schist is dry, for we left the cloud and damp a little way back. It would have been very slippery had we been walking in the w
et. The schist ends and I stop looking at my feet and concentrate on the lavender we are passing through. I fall frontwards. Ever since seeing the woman with her bruised, cut and scratched face, I had been quietly worrying about falling. I am in shock. “Take your pack off.” “Huh? What? Oh, okay.” Bruce doesn’t use more words than necessary in such situations. He gives me some water and allows me the luxury of a short weep, before helping me to my feet. I have a few minor scratches on my left hand, a sore right thumb and a bruised knee. As I am wearing my raincoat and over-trousers, my clothes are not ripped or torn. I have come off lightly indeed and I have faced another fear. I have fallen with my pack on and am okay. I will not need to worry anymore. Two pilgrims come up from behind and ask if I am all right. “Yes, thank you.” How kind of them to stop and enquire. What’s more I am kind to myself. I manage to not feel a complete fool and do not berate myself for carelessness. The inner critic is silent. While walking this pilgrimage, I am moving to a new place of being as I learn to accept and integrate my vulnerabilities - my opportunities for spiritual and emotional growth.

  I once fell frontwards, when wearing a heavy multi-day pack, while tramping around Lake Waikaremoana in the Te Urewera National Park. It was a school trip. Most of the 16-year-old girls had never experienced a multi-day wilderness tramp nor carried heavy packs. As staff, we had loaded our packs to give the girls’ lighter loads, not that the girls were aware of this. They thought their packs were a tough burden. I was leading a smallish group of girls at the time of my fall. We were not far from our second night hut when I fell into a muddy puddle. My coat was bespattered, but fingering my face I decided the mud could have been a lot worse. There was no lingering that day for a self-indulgent weep. Not in front of 16-year-old girls. One of the girls who had arrived at the hut ahead of us, was to later tell me. “When you arrived with all that mud over you, I wondered what kind of person you are, but I later decided you were all right.”