Day 15: Belorado to San Juan de Ortega
Breakfast at the albergue this morning included eggs from those marvellous hens we fed our harvest table scraps last night. Fresh juice, coffee, cereal, toast, homemade jams and marmalade. What could go wrong?
The day started well. The walking was easy, the morning cool-ish, and we met with friends and friendly dogs along The Way. As the temperatures climbed approaching noon, Andrew and I enjoyed the shade of a church wall in Villafranca to eat our nectarines. The lawn was wet from a recent watering, so we stretched out in the juicy cool and slept for forty-five minutes. Beyond the shade line, Spanish heat awaited, as did a steep climb and long unwinding road.
We said good-bye to German pilgrims who met us as we collected our gear. The wife needed to return for more cancer treatments in a few days, and they planned to complete their Camino next year. We followed them for many days. The husband carried their gear in one heavy backpack, and she walked often with a leg brace. A scarf protected her bald head from the wicked sun. They walked like lovers, usually ahead, slowly. We spoke occasionally, but we never shared names. Unusual along the Camino, yet not in this case. I’m not sure why.
The climb out of Villafranca was steep. We climbed from 800 metres to 1100 metres in three(?) kilometres. Near the top sat a monument to los Caídos, the Fallen. It sits on the site of a mass grave of executed Spaniards during the Spanish Civil War. It was also a solemn reminder of my shallow knowledge of Spanish history, almost inexcusable as we walk towards Santiago de Compostela along an ancient path covering political, religious, architectural, literary, and artistic grounds of significance. 
The downhill was torturous. My blisters bled, my ankle ached, my right knee protested the compensating gait I developed in response to a fucked up left foot and ankle. Still, when we reached the broad, flat road…reminiscent of logging roads I’ve only seen in pictures…we really ran into difficulties. The road went on and on and on and on….I couldn’t stand it. The heat and flies tormented. Trees flanked both sides of the soft dirt road, yet offered no shade. We finally took rocky refuge amongst thorns and prickly dried grass. When we wished passing pilgrims a “Buen Camino,” they jumped. Not expecting people in an inhospitable place, they never saw us on the approach, and were frightened by the ubiquitous greeting.
A young Korean guy passed us, and gratefully accepted a refill of water from our larger bottle. Not sure he would have made it before dropping of heat exhaustion and dehydration without the water, or the spontaneous hippy-dippy stand that sprung up several kilometres before San Juan de Ortega. Spaniards are entrepreneurs. In the middle of fucking nowhere, a van, hammocks, cold drinks, fruit, and other treats. Hammocks! We rehydrated, thanked the two hippy chicks for being there, and were told San Juan de Ortega was only five kilometres ahead. 
Yeah.
Right.
The girls were successful entrepreneurs, but terrible at measuring distance. Seems epidemic in Spain.
We walked at least eight kilometres on a l.o.n.g. unwinding road to ??? another marker indicating two kilometres more to San Juan de Ortega. I looked around and over my shoulder. No one could be seen for miles. So I indulged in a rare “FFFFFFUUUUUUUCCCCCCKKKKK!”
San Juan de Ortega appeared like an ugly but welcome mirage. Not much there. A bar, a church, and the rundown monastery we slept in. The monastery was being renovated while we attended mass. The priest didn’t blink as the jackhammers jackhammered outside the church doors. It’s hard enough to follow the mass in Spanish, so I kept missing my cues for Amen. 
The priest called us to a side chapel, perhaps the resting place of San Juan de Ortega, (or a finger bone), and handed us a page with the Gospel of Matthew 25: 31-40, as well as a pilgrim’s blessing. The pages were translated in several languages, but the good priest asked me to read the Gospel. Not sure how I got through it. I read slowly. My voice carried in the emptiness of the church, and the acoustics helped my voice sound uncharacteristically rich. I choked with emotion but read with an unwavering voice. Perhaps the words affected me, though I’ve heard them many times before…unaffected. Or was it the general relief I always feel inside an ancient church following a shitty day?
The priest hung the Patriarchal Cross of San Juan de Ortega around each pilgrim’s neck. His gift to us along with the benediction. So many blessings.
The pilgrim meal followed. We enjoyed the traditional and famous garlic bread soup. Odd consistency, but Andrew and I enjoyed it. The meal was good, organized, and quickly over. I called my Mom before having to make the 10:00 pm curfew. But still we were not done with weird luck. We found a purse with wallet, euros, identification, and passport. We discovered the owner, but had to prowl through several rooms of sleeping pilgrims to locate her or her travelling companion. Ten minutes of fruitless searching, and she was frantically looking for us. The Ecuador-Canadian we posted at the front desk told her we’d rescued her stuff. Problem solved.
Andrew had to push my ass up onto the top bunk. My buggered ankle and knee resulted in a stall part way up. I then laughed myself into paralysis, while Andrew horse-whispered, “What the fuck are you doing? Get up there.” The albergue shushed us. ☺️
People snored around us. In a room cooled by stone walls, I suddenly remembered the butterflies that fluttered around me along that God-forsaken stretch of road. Attracted to my long-sleeve white travel blouse, they mixed with the flies and the heat, and occasionally landed on me. (I’m not sure what that means in Native lore. The one pilgrim who could tell me is long down the road.) At the time, I felt I was in a butterfly conservatory. It was wonderful, and I’d dismissed it in a fit of frustration. God had not forsaken the road. 
When the Camino is ugly and difficult, it sends butterflies. I don’t really care what it means. Sometimes butterflies land on you. But when they do, it is lovely, and brief, and special, and a reminder that beauty is always close, even when we are not paying attention.
¡Ultreia!
~Penny