As a result of my extended layovers in different cities, I have lost track of what day it is, and what day on the Camino it should be. I’m reorganising my entries according to beginning and resting points. But first…
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ZOE!
The WiFi is so unpredictable here. I had planned to blog you a Happy 18th, and catch up my Camino days, but the weather in Ponferrada changed, the winds blew, the rain poured, and…no WiFi again. Dear Zoe, know that you are embraced by Love. You will never need anything else. xoxoxomomxoxoxo Miss you. Prayed for you today, as I promised I would.

Camino Day: Zubiri to Trinidad de Arre

Ya know, after I crossed over the Pyrenees, I arrogantly thought I’d never be troubled by another hill. I seriously need to start looking at the Brierley Guide to see what’s ahead. Each climb between Zubiri and Trinidad de Arre, in the heat, was a kick in the pride of my accomplishment at Col de Lepoeder (1450 metres). The Camino is a bit of an aerobic boot camp.

Anja fared well with her blisters. We walked into Larrasoana, but spent far too much time figuring out where to buy food, water, and treats. Several wrong turns later and some muddled questions in Spanish, an old guy directed us to Casa Elita and Spain’s version of The Soup Nazi. I ordered a bocadillo with ham and cheese, but offended the good woman by using the French word for ham. (Damn those high school French lessons that rooted more deeply than previously acknowledged!) I’d also forgotten a little rhyme I’d heard: HAMon from Ramon. A pretty good trick to remember pronunciation…in my HAMble opinion. (…sorry kids. It’s been so long!) She pointed out to me that “jambon” is in France, and HAMon is in Spain. The unhappy woman cut her finger while opening a carton of milk or juice, sucked at the blood, and began making my bocadillo and Anja’s meal. Well, I’m still living.

A framed picture of Emilio Estevez, Martin Sheen, and some of the crew of “The Way” hung on the wall behind the cash register. The owner’s son had a part in “The Way”. Mom told me her son wasn’t an actor, and I’m not sure how he got the role. My Spanish couldn’t keep up with her Spanish, and a proud Spanish mom speaks verrrrry quickly! Anyway, showing some interest, speaking some Spanish, and clearing some tables probably guaranteed me a bowl of soup at Cafe Elita on some future Camino. At least she was smiling when Anja and I left.

We continued our long, hot, dry way to Irotz. Several times cyclists approached quietly from behind, so Anja and I scrambled to press ourselves into a wall of brush and dirt to let them pass. The path to Irotz was so very narrow. In one place, the cyclist’s tire marks were at the very edge of the path. A centimeter more, and both bike and rider would slip over the edge. The cyclists yelled, “Tranquilla.” No need for us all to fall over the side in our clumsy dance to accommodate the other.

In Irotz, we enjoyed Mojitos on a stick, and met a couple of cyclists who gave me a different Camino perspective. The couple wore cycling shoes, but suffered from blisters and other foot ailments as a result of frequently having to push their bikes over rough terrain not suited to cycle shoes. Riding also presented problems for their rear ends. Many cyclists sat sideways to alleviate the pain in their asses. And I thought they were just trying to look cool! 😉

To try to make a very long day shorter, Anja and I followed a couple of false yellow arrows designed to direct us to a new albergue. The resulting walk added kilometers and thirst to our day. We arrived to Trinidad de Arre behind Gary and Mary, who assured us that we’d have a bed at the monastery, and it was the best possible place to stay. I, again, had reached the point where I’d sleep with animals in a barn if it meant taking off my backpack and shoes.

A group of us wandered into the city for a pilgrim’s meal. Kids played in the street with what looked like one-wheeled bicycles. The head of a bull (No! Not a real bull’s head!) adorned the handle bars. I’m not sure of the rules of this game, but the child charged a crowd of children with the one-wheeled bull, “steering” (hahahaha. Not my best.) the horns directly at the easiest targets. As long as I watched, I didn’t see any child hurt.

Later we attended a short Pilgrim’s Service in the beautiful church. Martin conducted the service, and later explained the Roman and Gothic architectural elements of the church. Perhaps, most importantly for me, he spoke of Pilgrimage. He said we were all seeking something. We must continue to question and be open to answers. He spoke of the meaning of Ultreia. Upwards. Not just up higher, up another hill or mountain. Upwards to God.

I cannot say I’d considered this when I named my blog Ultreia. Thank you, Martin and Trinidad de Arre.

Serendipity is real.

Ultreia!