Kiwi on the Camino

by Vivianne Flintoff

  Below us Samos is nestled in the river valley and is dominated by the enormous Benedictine monastery, Mostiero de San Xulián de Samos (Monastery of St Julian), founded in the 6th century. It is one of the oldest monasteries in the western world. In Spain, it is one of the largest monasteries. It was restored in 760 after neglect when the Moors invaded. We have detoured to Samos to see this monastery and attend the service. Here, as in Roncesvalles and Rabanal, we will experience Gregorian plainsong.

  The small bar in Samos makes great toasted ham sandwiches. The albergue is excellent also. It is small, but with a large kitchen and dining area. It has a pretty bathroom. It is almost like a hotel bathroom with lots of mirrors. The hand basin has hot water as well as cold.

  We have a sleep and when I wake I cannot find my reading glasses. Panic! Perhaps I left them at the bar? I run back to the bar just a few doors away. I am told, in Spanish, that my glasses have been returned to the albergue. People are so kind to us.

  As we walk to the monastery, we see a woman feeding geese by the river Óribio. It looks peaceful and idyllic. I breathe a loud sigh of contentment despite feeling cold and wet. Walking along the wet stone pavement, I am enchanted with the wrought iron motif of scallop shells on the fence lining the path. The shells are reflected on the wet stone.

  It is too early in the season for a guided tour of the monastery, but some sections are open. We enjoy our stroll through the large cloisters with their plantings. Indoors, we roam a few floors to view the many paintings. During our ramblings, we meet a young man from Dunedin, New Zealand. He says he walks fast and his walking companion has injured one hip, both knees and has blisters. The companion had been suffering for a while, but did not call a halt when he noticed his body beginning to break down. The walking buddy is now on his way home with his Camino ended. The guy from Dunedin says he has already walked thirty kilometres today and has stopped at the monastery for a short lunch break. I feel sad on behalf of the pilgrim who is now on his way home. Perhaps it was too hard for him to admit that the going was too fast. The competition and pressure took its toll.

  Having had insufficient food over the past twenty-four hours, I want to stock up on food. There is a small grocery store and we head down to it. In the chiller section, there are the small tubs of yoghurt we want for breakfast. Above them is a sign in Spanish telling us not to break the twin packs. I only want one pot of yoghurt. Other shops had broken the twin packs and were selling singles. I break the pack and place one yoghurt pot in the shopping trolley. I am spotted. The young woman grocer comes over to me and once again I am the object of voluble Spanish. I know I have done wrong so I apologise. This is a mistake, for it gives an invitation to the woman to repeat my litany of wrongs, and this time her right index figure is brought into play as well, to really emphasise my error of judgment. We buy the two pots of yoghurt.

  The evening Benedictine service with Gregorian chant is supremely moving. This time the chanting is accompanied by an organ and the glorious music expands, filling this lovely Gothic church. As the service progresses, I see the faces of those I love move through my mind: family, friends, work colleagues, and church family, those still in this life and those who have passed on. Tears slip down my cheeks as I appreciate afresh how much each of these people enrich my life and contribute to who I am. I am grateful. The simplicity of the music and the spirituality of the melody touches me deeply. The ancient traditions and rituals, with words I do not understand, but the meaning of which I follow, is new and fresh as I consider again the sacraments of bread and wine.

  We return to the albergue to find we have companions. There is a German middle-aged man, rather tubby. He is lonely and he and Bruce talk together. There is a Dutch woman cooking her dinner of tomatoes, eggs and sardines, but she has no onions. She turns the stove off and walks to the shop for an onion. Small things become very important on the Camino. The lonely German bids Bruce goodnight, as does the Chinese woman who is editor of a magazine. The three pilgrims are all calling Bruce, Gandalf. I check my emails. There is an email from Rana, one of our early Camino companions. She is back home in Australia and wants permission to use photos of us for her photo book which she hopes to publish. Would I be able to write a book? I do not know if my notes will be sufficient for drafting a book. Neither do I know if I have what it takes to create a well-crafted book. I feel despondent thinking Rana will publish first.

  I do not sleep well. My ankle is worrying me again.

  Samos to Sarria

  10 kms (6.2ml)

  113.9 kms (70.7ml) to Santiago

  … the principles of pilgrimage can

  touch the ordinary in our everyday lives.

  Reverend Iain Gow

  April 26, Day 36

  IT IS STILL RAINING AND cold. The German man catches a taxi as he cannot face walking. We leave a little later than usual for Bruce thinks the weather will improve as the day progresses. Our pace is slow. I turned my sprained ankle a few times on the walk into Samos, so need to be very careful today, in the hope we will cover more ground tomorrow. We are once again walking through woods of chestnut and oak. The woods are so lush and green. They bespeak the amount of rainfall present in Galicia. The dried ferns from winter are still on the ground, but the new gentle fronds are pushing through. The paths, for the most part, are wet and muddy with little streams running across them. The path surfaces have the consistency and fragrance of unsealed farm tracks (known as races) on a New Zealand dairy farm. The flagstone roads, running through the centres of the tiny hamlets, are used by villagers and stock. These streets remind us of sealed farm races leading to a milking shed, prior to being cleaned with a pressure hose. I am glad of my boots, despite their lack of waterproofing. They are keeping my socks dry as I do my best to avoid the worst of the greeny-brown slosh. Bruce, still walking in socks and sandals, manages to keep his feet dry. When we strike dryer ground, with its thick covering of last year’s autumn leaves, I forget about my boots and enjoy the green archways overhead.

  The rocks around us, for the first time since leaving the Pyrenees, are covered with moss and I can almost imagine we are walking among the ancient beech trees of Fiordland in the South Island of New Zealand. However, here the oaks and chestnuts do not look so ancient and the chestnut trees are being farmed. Selected branches are removed. We like the sustainability practices. However, the harvesting of branches makes for some very differently shaped trees.

  Walking in this green landscape, I reflect that again I have been irritable first thing in the morning. I wonder if I am being challenged by having no personal space first thing each day? At home, I begin the day with an hour’s walk, or an hour at the gym and then eat a solitary breakfast before having to engage with anyone. Here on the Camino, Bruce and I eat as soon as we get up. There are usually people around with whom we talk. I have never enjoyed eating before I am properly awake and before I have had any form of physical activity. Bruce, on the other hand, cannot think or talk until he has had food. I am learning how important and necessary is my quiet, solitary start to each new day.

  “Do you think you have changed coming on this Camino?” he asks. “I think I am learning how grumpy I can get.” He laughs. “I have lived with that for years.” I need to become used to the idea that I readily default to anger. It is okay that I do so, if the anger is a result of a value being trampled, but not because of a selfish need not being met. I want to pay more attention to the triggers of my anger. This third stage of our Camino is proving to have a spiritual focus after all. “Do you think you have changed, Bruce?” “I’m not sure,” he says. There has been at least one visible change. One of us has lost weight and it isn’t me with my triple intake of food. We do not know how much weight Bruce has lost due to the absence of bathroom scales. They are as scarce as public facilities.

  We are out of the woods now and walk past small farm holdings all fenced. The old fence posts are covered with ivy and t
he fence wire with rusty barbs. Stone walls are draped with flowering blackberry. Cattle, and occasionally a flock of sheep, are grazing contentedly. The numbers in each paddock are small, but all look fat and healthy. We have only seen one dairy herd with the lean look that so many New Zealand dairy herds have. As we pass cattle barns with their doors standing wide open, we peep inside to see how the stock are kept. Earlier on, we had noticed the head holds where cattle put their heads to feed. We wondered whether they could get their heads out of the holds, but today learn they can. I am hugely relieved on the cattle’s behalf. Bruce thinks that the harsh summer sun in New Zealand would be much harder on our cattle than the life of being in a barn, with just a few hours outside, weather permitting. He also thinks that the sheds might make it easier to control effluent from the stock. I guess the jury is still out on that one.

  Bruce’s prediction about the weather is holding. We walk in the rain towards a patch of blue sky. The sun begins to shine and my emotions start to lift. I realise how much the amount of sunlight affects my emotions. The aroma of wild mint adds to my mounting ease. The mint is growing abundantly in the drains. As cows stray along the country lane, pulling at the long grass, they disturb the mint. The scent is suspended in the air as we walk and I breathe it in with delight. I cannot work out if the cows are eating the mint. Would the presence of mint be discerned in the milk? Up ahead are some old farm logs so we settle ourselves for our picnic lunch. We have day-old bread which proves rather hard to pull apart, but once the olive oil, cheese and salami are aboard it all goes down well. We have trees, paddocks and five grey horses for company. An idyll. We are content.

  We can see Sarria in the distance. A woman wearing a backpack with an external frame is staring at a map on an information board. I haven’t seen a pack like that since I wore one some forty years ago. They are dreadfully uncomfortable. She is looking at the route into Sarria, but says she cannot follow it. We invite her to walk with us until she feels more confident. The woman leaves us on the outskirts of the town.

  The road through the town leads us uphill and we climb the steps, a tough ask for a foot-weary, sleep-deprived pilgrim. The private albergue we find is a delight. It is a converted family home with a new addition at the back for pilgrims. The pilgrim bunkroom is light and airy with large windows facing out to the garden and clothes line. It is always a joy to find a clothes line. It means there will also be somewhere to wash our clothes. Bruce needs to sleep so I go upstairs to explore the rest of the facilities. The kitchen, dining room and lounge areas are in the converted attic. The ceiling is original and is constructed from hand hewn timber, none of it straight and the roof slates are visible between the slabs of timber. I guess the timber is chestnut, but I never have that conjecture confirmed.

  The old family furniture is homely and comfortable. It is all solid wood with upholstery long gone out of fashion. I love it and know Bruce will too once he wakes. At last I am somewhere where I can sit and rest and be alone. Apart from one other pilgrim, all the rest are asleep on their bunks. I do not enjoy sleeping during the day for I may miss something. Perhaps I have not changed much at all despite five weeks of Camino walking.

  In the early days of our Camino, to have time to walk alone, or as a couple, was a rarity and we treasured those moments as we also treasured our conversations with other pilgrims. We now walk alone each day, as those we have connected with are ahead, or have had to pull out of their Camino. The few we have met more recently are on very different time frames, so will soon move ahead. I have a sense of aloneness anticipating the leavings. On the other hand, I am aware that in writing down my thoughts and experiences, I stave off loneliness. On those evenings when there has been no wi-fi and I have not been able to write up my blog, I have felt disconnected and lonely. Remembering that when writing I no longer feel lonely is a comfort. A big part of this realisation is the knowledge that family and friends’ responses to my blog remind me I am not forgotten.

  Bruce is awake and it is time to explore along the Río Sarria. We generally enjoy exploring river banks. On our walk into the town, we noticed a restaurant beside the river and that is our destination. It is too expensive so we leave the scenic river bank and walk to the main street to find Bruce’s steak which he has decided he needs. We share a dinner table with two women from Ireland who will begin their Camino in Sarria. Once again, we enjoy our dinner conversation.

  After our meal, Bruce and I go in search of a supermercado to buy breakfast and lunch supplies. Our breakfast will be eaten in our fabulous attic under the grey slate, dark chestnut beams and slabs. On the way, we bump into Peter. It is a while now since we saw him. “I thought you should turn up in Sarria about now. I have been watching out for you.” He, of course, knows where there is a supermarket. Peter has walked the Camino Frances eight times and has been giving us much appreciated advice when we have met up. It is, however, a surprise to see him again as we had assumed he would be far ahead. While walking to the supermarket, he tells us he spent the previous night in a police lock up, as he had a run in with a couple of Dutch pilgrims. He had been walking with a German pilgrim and in the bar, last night, the Dutchman had called the German woman, “Nazi.” “She was extremely distressed,” Peter said. The Dutchman grabbed Peter by the arm and Peter then head-butted him. Within five minutes, police had surrounded the bar. Peter was taken off to the lock up and the Dutch couple are to be re-questioned by the police, as the male pilgrim had been carrying a knife and pepper spray. Perhaps he too had read about the wild dogs. Peter’s German friend is already on her way back home to Germany. Her Camino is at an end, a casualty of inter-generational trauma.

  Sarria to Portomarín

  22.4 kms (13.9ml)

  92.8 kms (115.2ml) to Santiago

  Either we are in the universe to inhabit the eternity of our souls and grow real,

  or else we might as well dedicate our days to shopping and kill time watching talk-shows.

  John O’Donohue (1956 - 2008)

  April 27, Day 37

  BRUCE AND I HAVE CRACKED the ‘less than one hundred kilometres to go.’ We are feeling a bit impatient and are looking forward to our arrival at Santiago for then we will have completed the first part of our journey. However, I am once again taking anti-inflammatory medication due to re-spraining my ankle and am walking slowly. Bother. Bruce, on the other hand, does well if he gets enough rest. We are both a lot fitter and stronger and are grateful we can keep walking.

  We meet a Spaniard who is looking forward to completing his Camino. He had been offered the choice of a jail term or a pilgrimage from Roncesvalles to Santiago. I had read that in earlier times, walking the Camino was sometimes used as a sentence for law breakers. I am glad to learn that such a diversionary programme still exists.

  There are a lot more pilgrims on The Way now. Pilgrims who walk the 100 kilometres from Sarria to Santiago can achieve a compostela. Many of these new pilgrims are Spanish. The younger ones are walking because, “the compostela looks good on my C.V.” We can spot these new pilgrims. They have clean boots and a clean backpack. Bruce and I label the new walkers as ‘day trippers.’ So many of them are walking with just lunch-sized packs and are travelling in groups. Despite our critical nickname for these new pilgrims, together we agree ‘good on them’ for they are walking their Camino. The two women from Ireland, with whom we had shared our last night’s dinner space had said they were worried that, “real pilgrims like you two will look down on us.” “Of course, not,” we responded. That was a genuine response despite our joking with one another.

  A group of older Spanish men, new starters at Sarria, laugh at the way Bruce is walking. He has the pilgrim stance of head down and forward. It is a walk of determination. These men are having a jolly time walking their Camino carrying only lunch-sized packs. Their bigger packs are going by courier, which is just as well, for their pilgrimage in another location might be described as a pub crawl. P
erhaps Chaucer was spot on after all.

  In front of us is a group of senior students from Germany who also started walking at Sarria and the track ahead of us is filled with the sound of their chatter and laughter. They are blocking the path somewhat, but eventually we begin to thread our way through them as they start to separate into smaller groups. We later see them being picked up by a large bus and taken we do not know where.

  By the afternoon, the new walkers from Sarria and the few of us more ‘seasoned’ walkers have spread out. Having the extra walkers on the Camino does not distract us from appreciating the beauty of the woodland paths. I am thankful that some of the day’s paths are drier than those we have experienced recently. There has been some judicious placing of large stones either alongside or through the middle of the little streams that run down the paths from hillside springs. I enjoy stone hopping and it helps keep my non-waterproof boots above the water. There is further evidence of maintenance of the walk. Grass has been cut back and some of the wetter areas have been bulldozed to reduce the amount of water.

  Coming to one little stream, with convenient stepping stones, we hear singing behind us. A group of young Italian men, who began at Sarria and who are still full of energy and vigour, beguile the time by singing as they walk. Other smaller groups are also singing. I delight in their joy and contentment. Such vocalizations are new to us. At the beginning of our Camino, some pilgrims walked with ear phones, preferring their choice of music to that of natural sounds. These new walkers have no such gadgets with which to distract themselves.

  We are now seeing a new building structure. We can only guess at its purpose. Between us, we come up with a few ideas. Perhaps it is a structure for drying ham and bacon or even for keeping bees. We are both wrong. We learn it is for drying maize and is called a hórreo. The granary is typically built from wood or stone, but we see some constructed with concrete and bricks. They are raised on a stone (or concrete) pillar foundation about one-metre-high, with a slightly wider floor, which extends out from the pillar foundation to prevent rodent access to precious food. The walls of these granaries are ventilated. We continue to watch for them and notice the variations in construction materials.