Day 4: Zubiri to Trinidad de Arre
Have I mentioned that it’s freakin’ HOT? I remember a Jack London story about a guy who walks on a bitterly cold day in the Yukon with nothing more than a dog. Of course, the old timers warn him against travelling in weather that cold. As the poor bastard comes to terms with his impending death, he realizes that the Fahrenheit number was a number he understood intellectually…but not physically, or in any meaningful way. 
So it is with this Spanish heat. Spain and most of Europe continue to swelter in a heat wave, and 40C is no longer a number I understand intellectually as “hot” anymore. I have consumed more water in four days than I have in 57 years. I rarely pee. The water sweats out and stings my eyes and creates big water blisters on my wrists. Unbelievable.
And so I found myself on the road to Trinidad de Arre, inexplicably tired and cranky. I enjoyed my first Powerade ever(!) to replenish electrolytes and my spirit. I fear my spirit sweated out somewhere in the Pyrenees. Andrew and I stopped in Larrasoaña at a little supermercado run by a Brazilian lady. How easy it is in Spain to whip up a bocadillo of ham and cheese with warm bread!
Energized by food, we slooooowly travelled to Zuriáin in search of anything cold. Near a road- stop café, a set of stone steps led to a running river. Rock ledges like stairs beckoned for a sleeping pilgrim. The ledge was so narrow, I had to tuck my left arm beneath me. I guess falling was a greater concern, but reread paragraphs 1 and 2 about heat being only a number…until now! I think I was snoring when Andrew woke me to begin yet another leg toward Arre.
We stopped in Horneros(?)…will check this detail later…for another drink. To give you an idea of the dangers of heat exhaustion, an Irish Pilgrim, Alice, had pictures of an Italian bicigrino (bicycle pilgrim) that she helped rescue from the river. Perhaps he’d become light-headed from the sun? His bike swept over the side of an embankment into the water. His helmet became entangled in the roots and brush under water, and he was drowning. Scary. The young man has a blog, as he is biking for charity. Agnes will be a part of his story now.
Finally we made it to the monastery at Trinidad de Arre. Domingo was still greeting weary pilgrims and showing off the basilica. When he saw I couldn’t see for the sweat, he ushered us to a private room with a bunk bed and heavily locked church door. Under the circumstances, one of the most romantic bedrooms yet! 
Ultreia!
~Penny