Day 26: León to Astorga to Santa Catalina de Somoza on The Feast Day of Saint James
My left ankle is unrecognizable as an ankle. I keep waiting for Sigourney Weaver’s Ripley character to kill the alien thing emerging from my left ankle bone. My right knee is working on sympathy pains. Bottom line…I’m dragging my limbs. Hard to call this walking. 
Andrew made another executive decision for his stubborn, never-say-die wife. We are bussing to Astorga! It will save us a day and a half of walking, and my knee.
Astorga is a topic of conversation along the Camino. On April 5th, a Chinese-American pilgrim disappeared after attending mass in Astorga. She has not yet been found, and pilgrims are advised to be aware of their surroundings (always good advice). We have been told to travel with a partner or within shouting distance of others. The missing pilgrim’s picture is up at the Astorga bus terminal and at random stores. The pictures of Denise Thiem are reminders that the Camino, though generally safe, is a microcosm of any community anywhere, and dangers exist. 
When we pulled into Astorga, the locals were setting up for the second last day of a week long Fiesta de Astures and Romanos. Outside the massive stone walls surrounding the city sat thatch-roof huts. Locals dressed as peasants, and displayed weaving, leather tanning, and iron work of the time. Below them sat the Romans. Better housing, better clothes, more colour and precious metals, more arrogance. And, though they were playing roles, the “Romans” clearly felt superior to the “peasants”. (Until the Roman steps out for a quick café con leche and is overheard saying to the señoritas how silly he feels in his short tunic. A little Spanish goes a long way!)
Three priests officiated at the mass in the great cathedral, perhaps because it was Santiago’s Feast Day. The Astorga cathedral is far more beautiful on the outside than the one in Burgos, León, and Santiago, in my humble opinion. I’m not sure what it is about the architecture that lifts my heart and eyes and spirit skywards. It speaks to divinity and beauty through artistic architecture that doesn’t gag me in ways that other majestic cathedrals do. Other cathedrals are about the “Oooh, look at me!” instead of “Look at God and loveliness through me!” And now I’ll quit, because I clearly don’t know how to talk about cathedrals, art, or architecture. I’m glad WordPress has an edit/delete feature!
When we gave the Sign of Peace during mass, Andrew and I reached simultaneously for an elderly nun’s hand. It was a lovely awkward moment. When mass ended, she pressed two gold Miraculous Mary charms into my hand, and motioned that one was for Andrew. We wear them still. Andrew remembered the Italian girl who gave us Miraculous Mary medals on the road to Santiago in 2013. It helped me then, and I’m hoping Mary will help me now.
The walk into Santa Catalina de Somoza was fairly easy. A man making jewellery sat next to a medieval fountain, so I donated the crystal charms from my busted anklet to be used in his future projects. The next town we passed through offered little more than three bars, and only one was open. So Andrew ran ahead to grab a table with Agnes from Scotland and her partner, while I watched a local on a scooter pull behind a car and urinate against a wall in full view of me. He never left the scooter. And the Shit Head was more concerned that Andrew might see him marking his territory than he was worried that I did see him. After watering the wall, he scooted to his friends seated across from the bar we drank at. Would they have offered him a toilet if he’d waited the thirty seconds or twenty metres it took to scoot there? 
Not too far down the dirt road we came in to Santa Catalina de Somoza and the promise of two nice albergues. Old men handed out pamphlets advertising “the best” albergue in the pueblo, but we stayed at the first one we crossed. It sat near the wall of an abandoned church topped by an abandoned stork’s nest. 
I felt out of whack by lights out. The bus, the trip back to Medieval Astorga, the reminder that a pilgrim had gone missing several weeks earlier, the Urinator, and each painful step along the Way made it difficult to join the many dots from León to Santa Catalina. I had lost my pilgrim mojo. I worried about the 18-year-old German girl who shared our room. Nearly my daughter’s age. Invincible. She would travel alone in the morning along a road that had lost its innocence. My Camino was suddenly tinged with real-life concerns I was happier leaving behind. 
¡Ultreia!
~Penny

Day 25: Carrion de los Condes to León
Each albergue has its own morning protocol. Some lights turn on automatically at a designated time, and some hospitaleros charge through the place almost 90 minutes before checkout screaming “Good morning! Get to work!” In the case of the too-short-convent, the hospitalero gives a brief warning knock and enters the room with the civil “Buenos días.” And when he sees two pairs of legs in a twin-size bed, he…leaves quickly. Nothing like a good morning cuddle between married folk to scare off the warden. Are there rules against this behaviour in a convent? Ah, if only those walls could talk….
We spoke outside the short door to a bicigrino from Denmark who had cycled from her home to Carrion de los Condes. Except that she mostly walked. 🙂 She loved the company of peregrinos, so she pushed her bike and packs most of the way.
We waited at a bar for the already 30-minute-late bus. The moment we sat down, the bartender ran out to ask what we wanted to drink. There is nowhere else to wait for the bus, and if you wish to sit, you will pay for the privilege. After an early morning San Miguel, we boarded the bus for León. 
I have a soft spot for León. In 2013, Andrew found us a place, Hostal Albany, near the cathedral, and I was able to enjoy the plaza life, as well as tour the cathedral during our two-day stay. In León, we enjoyed the best patatas bravas Spain has to offer. In León, we met Anke and Stanka, the Slovakian-Vancouverite girls, and in León, a kind priest in the smaller church blessed me and my knee. In León, I knew I’d finish my Camino on crutches.
But, Hostal Albany was “completo,” so we moved on to another hostal with old-country Spanish charm. I enjoyed patatas bravas again, bought two skirts to replace the one I’d left in Castrojeriz, and missed mass by an hour. We escorted Canadian Jane to the tourist office, then returned to our Spanish room (with private bath and towels) and…slept soundly. Well, Andrew slept while I watched Tom Cruise run from aliens in War of the Worlds.
In León, I discovered I do not know my clothing size in European numbers. Same goes for my shoe size. 
In León, I learned that I don’t like my clothing size and shoe size in European numbers because they sound so big. In Spain, being told your IQ matches your shoe size means you are smarter than you are in Canada…by several points.
Andrew and I took token pictures of each other outside of the cathedral, but we didn’t tour this time. Not much had changed in two years, and we wanted the patatas bravas and private bath.
I dreaded the 45-minute schlep to the bus terminal the next morning. We missed mass and the pilgrim benediction and my knee blessing, so I knew I’d pay for these indiscretions all the way across León.
Did the hospitalero say “Bad rodillas” (knees) instead of “Buenos días” this morning? Hmmm.
¡Ultreia!
~Penny

Day 24: Villarmentero de Campos to Carrion de los Condes
Andrew and I took our time leaving Wilbert’s hippie albergue this morning. We lingered over Wilbert’s homemade bread, farm fresh eggs, homemade marmalade, and coffee or tea. Wilbert then blessed our journey with a hug, told us he loved us, and invited us back whenever and forever. Vishnu and Javier waited on the porch to bless us, our Camino to Santiago, and our Life Camino.
When we were several hundred metres along the dirt path that followed a tree line, I’m sure I saw Wilbert “playing” in his garden. I hope he is still playing when Andrew and I return to this hippie pueblo in a couple of years.
The rest of the morning was frustrated by searing sun and miscommunication. As Andrew and I enjoyed the river route, sometimes stepping on ankle-turning rocks, we knew we’d eventually emerge at the Ermita de la Virgen del Río (Hermitage of Our Lady of the River). The door stood open, so we stepped over an awkward rise into the little church to have our credentials stamped. After some time of rest and reflection, we exited the church as a Hungarian surgeon and his wife tried to manoeuvre past me. The poor man then attempted to give me relief from my injuries, but neither Andrew nor I could understand the man’s “English” or pantomime. 
I peed behind the church. Another form of relief. When I rejoined Andrew in the shade of the church wall, the Hungarian surgeon thundered over with a small backpack-sized bag of medical supplies. He thrust them at me. “Tablet, for YOU,” he gruffed. “In Budapest, I surgeon. Take tablet now.” 
I did. Happily. Gratefully.
When later we saw him holding his wife’s hand in Carrion de los Condes, he smiled and waved. This, too, I accepted happily and gratefully. 
In Carrion de los Condes we stayed at a converted monastery. We had two of three single beds in the room. Bonus. The doors and ceilings were six feet high, at most. No bonus. Pictures of Andrew standing taller than the heavy entrance door reminded me of the movie Being John Malkovich. Judging from the FaceBook likes, others thought so, too.
I wolfed down a salad for supper, then went on a wifi hunt. Bar owners were not helpful, and we didn’t realize, until it was too late, that the government building offered free wifi in the city centre. A somewhat friendly bartender who shared his bar space with kids’ toddler toys, gave us a password for his wifi. But he closed soon after delivering the goods, so we crept back to meet a 10:00 p.m. curfew, our heads bowed…to fit through the door frame.
Tomorrow we bus to León. I have loved the Meseta and the people that live on it and walk through it. But injuries that continue to plague me rob us of days to Fisterre and Muxia. So hello León, and farewell Meseta skies…for now.
¡Ultreia!
~Penny

Day 23: Frómista to Villarmentero de Campos
6:15 a.m.
“¡Buenas Dias! ¡Atrabajar!” The hospitalero yelled at the sleeping pilgrims and flicked on the lights. He narrowly avoided knocking over the white board posting a 7:30 a.m. checkout time.
Ugh.
Andrew and I planned a short walking day. We aimed for a “hippie” albergue about ten kilometres down the path, complete with a teepee and an all-natural laid-back Dutch hospitalero named Wilbert. Pueblo Villarmentero de Campos enjoyed more letters in its name than inhabitants. In fact, the hospitalero said only ten people resided there in winter. An architect, his wife, and three children made up half the winter population.
Andrew and I spied the teepee in the distance, and knew our long day of rest was about to begin. We entered grounds busy and colourful with geese, dogs, hens, hammocks, sleeping barrels, a teepee (that Canadians usually choose to sleep in), a garden, and potable water fountain. As we approached the bar, Mother Goose ran up behind me and bit the back of my leg. Nothing personal. I don’t think she liked my Macabi skirt billowing in the wind. 
Wilbert was told of our arrival, and he told us to relax and enjoy ourselves. No hurry. When we were ready to check in, we’d find him “playing in the garden.”
I stayed in the hammock for hours. Feet up. Truly what the doctor ordered for my swelled ankles and knees. I laughed quietly as hammock newbies fell onto the dirt ground. I also kept an eye open for Ma Goose. Were my feet dangling from the hammock fair game?
People lived at Albergue Amanecer, and added to the ethnic diversity. Vishnu, a beautiful macrame artist from Nepal, sold her art to pilgrims to save for a house. Her husband, Javier, painted beautiful designs on rocks, and practised Reiki. I should have purchased a rock, but I must carry what I buy along the Camino. I couldn’t justify the added weight. Vishnu and Javier spoke of the joys and difficulties of living as artists. Their son and daughter played in the yard amongst the hammocks and fowl. It was a humble, creative life, and they were happy.
Later that evening, we enjoyed a communal meal of delicious pasta, cole slaw with tuna, bread, melon and watermelon. We ate inside, but then retired to the covered porch where locals gathered to drink, smoke, talk, and play cards while relaxing in the joined seats of an old movie theatre. The cooler than usual night determined our sleeping arrangements. Bunks in a dorm for me. The hammock or teepee will wait for another Camino.
Wilbert is a 1956 baby. He pulled out his iphone, connected it via bluetooth to a tabletop speaker, (he asked his pueblo guests their permission), and played Leonard Cohen tunes. He also listened to music from Neil Young’s After the Gold Rush.
Wilbert excused himself for bed around 11:00 p.m. He had to get up at 4:00 a.m. to make bread for the early risers, but he invited us to sleep long, stay longer. 
I pulled my scarf across my shoulders under that cloudy, black Meseta sky, and tried to remember a more beautiful night.

Namaste and ¡Ultreia!
~Penny
*****

WILBERT walked the Camino de Santiago when he happened upon the albergue he currently cares for. The funky albergue needed a hospitalero; he answered the call. After a lifetime of answering different calls…working with kids on the street and in hospices throughout Holland and Israel…he now tends to the needs of pilgrim spirits and bodies. 
Wilbert tells the story of a Benedictine monk who looked for more floors to clean once he’d finished cleaning his last floor. Following in the Benedictine footsteps of service, Wilbert plays in his garden, tends to his pilgrim flock, and is the soul of Albergue Amanecer. 

Day 22: Castojeriz to Frómista
First, let me admit to being good at telling other pilgrims to respect their bodies, to cab forward, to take rest days. I’m awesome at offering tissues to wipe tears of disappointment. Second, let me admit to being an asshole about taking my own advice. Tears and snot mingle on my frustrated face.
Andrew left me this morning to make the hard climb up and over Alto Mostelares. I packed, put on flip flops, grabbed hiking poles, and…found standing on my left foot excruciating. Our Hungarian hospitalera suggested a taxi to the small hospital in Frómista. My wound seeped infection through the dressings. I needed immediate medical care.
Miranda also required a doctor. She had spent two days in Castrojeriz, and really needed another off her feet. Like me, she could dish the advice, but she wasn’t taking any of it. We were sharing the taxi until she decided to heft her wounds over Alto Mostelares. I wished her well, and never saw her again. There are so many ways of ending a Camino. Infected blisters are one of those ways.
The cab driver with the handle-bar moustache picked up my pack and sticks, and helped me onto the seat. I cried. He drove. 
The good man stopped at significant sites along the way so that I could enjoy what I could not pass on foot. He spoke in Spanish about the history of these places, and again I quietly thanked my high school Spanish teacher and my many Spanish-speaking students. 
We arrived at the hospital, and the driver explained my needs to the front desk administrators. He called me “bonita”, tried to refuse the tip, and put a clay shell with silver glaze around my neck. 
I won’t go into another frustrating hospital/doctor story. I will say that this year’s hospital experience is radically different from 2013, and largely unpleasant. A sympathetic white-coat offered me free advice, and I limped to a Farmacia on the opposite end of Frómista. The pharmacist gave me 27€ of tensor wraps, antiseptic spray, and antibiotics. He wished me well, and I lurched along the street to the central plaza to wait for Andrew.
The rest of the day was the usual pilgrim fare: find an albergue, unpack, launder clothes, find food, find wifi, check mass times, go to mass, go to sleep. In this routine, we find time to write, blog, explore, and talk to other peregrinos. Andrew and I didn’t explore much of Frómista. Our attractive albergue was on the far side of town, across from the small hospital I visited earlier. After a brief and unexpected storm, we moved our laundry inside to dry, then headed for the emotional pilgrims’ mass. 
Frómista hosts three massive churches. It seems the smaller the town, the larger and more numerous the churches. During the Pilgrims’ Benediction, a group of nuns handed us prayer cards in our language. The priest welcomed us at the front of the church and wished each of us well. Upon leaving the church, we saw a pilgrim we’d earlier seen during mass. His little dog, Amigo, waited on the church steps. 
Dennis is a pilgrim from Madagascar. He had already walked to Santiago from Paris, and was returning on foot to Paris with Amigo. After receiving the Eucharist, Dennis stepped outside to stand quietly with a tin plate. He never asked for money. He smiled at everyone, and thanked us kindly when we placed some Euros in his saucer. Dennis accomplished all through the kindness of strangers, and the love of a dog.
I spent much time in Frómista walking to and from doctors and pharmacies, talking to pilgrims over beers in the plaza, and waiting for Andrew to come down from the mountain after his six hour walk. I know that Frómista has three magnificent churches and a few albergues. But the Frómista I write fondly about includes a priest who loves pilgrims, (even those who rely on charity), the nun who passed tissues to an overwhelmed Dutch peregrina, the barmaid who made melt-in-your-mouth cheese cake, the healing pharmacist who spoke English and tended to my feet as I sat broken and alone in his Farmacia, and a plaza placed along the Camino for pilgrims to refresh and reconnect. 
In that plaza, in that town, a wife can wait for her husband, surrounded by laughter, buoyed by church bells, and nourished by cheese cake. When things seemed bad, they couldn’t have been any better.
¡Ultreia!
~Penny

Day 21: Hontanas to Castrojeriz
After ineffectively battling infection in one stubborn blister for days, I indulged in a taxi ride to a medical clinic. It was only a few hundred metres from my albergue, but the albergue was about forty stone steps straight up to the front door and a fabulous view. I was done with climbing and walking for now.
I waited outside the open clinic at 8:10 a.m. By 9:00 a.m., the locals arrived with their blood work papers in hand. “Pobre peregrina,” they said, and pointed to my oozing foot. They also told me to come back at 11:00 a.m. 
By noon, a doctor in a 1950s house dress met me in the waiting room. She winced at my foot, poked it a bit, and told me the nurse would take care of it at 1:00 p.m. The doctor “doesn’t do blisters.” The doctor said I’d be first in line.
At 12:45 p.m. Andrew and I watched the two-room waiting room fill with old and young and infant Spaniards who were all somehow ahead of me. Two nuns mingled with the patients. The younger of the two threw her weighty rosary around, and managed to jump the queue jumpers.
At 2:30 p.m., an officious nurse in a stylish striped skirt emerged from the infirmary, tossed her Coach bag over her arm, and locked the door.
I can’t say for sure that I didn’t use some of the Spanish curse words learned from my Spanish-speaking students. But I did put up a Spanglish fight. An old lady chimed in. We ganged up on the nurse, but she was leaving. She tap tap tapped her watch with her beautiful nails until…the frumpy-house-dress doctor stepped from her office to see WTF. 
The nurse reopened her office and breathed heavily, furiously over my wound. She was pissed, and, I think, recalled her past life experience as a torturer during the Spanish Inquisition. Yet, unlike those poor bastards, I left the clinic feeling some relief. 
While enjoying my San Miguel in the plaza, an attractive Spaniard named Maribel approached me with her warm hands. She is a Reiki master, and asked permission to do Reiki on my swollen foot. Later in the albergue, Maribel did a full-body Reiki session for me. Maribel arrived the day before to Castrojeriz, dehydrated and heat-exhausted. (This terrible heat also catches the Spanish pilgrims off guard.) Our Hungarian volunteer hospitalera took care of Maribel, as now Maribel cared for me.
My twelve daylight hours in Castrojeriz consisted of medical clinics, Reiki, beer, and mountain scenery. Well, maybe they’re hills, but this girl from St. Catharines sees mountains in “dem hills.” I’m hoping the cocktail of modern and ancient medicines gets my peregrina ass over those hills to Frómista tomorrow.
¡Ultreia!
~Penny

Days 19 and 20: Rábe de las Calzadas to Hontanas/Recovery day in Hontanas
Andrew and I left the little pilgrim hospital in Rábe de las Calzadas in the quiet of the morning, and made slow time up gentle hills, across dirt paths and farmers’ access roads loaded with stones and rocks. The sky was blue and beautiful.
Limping is my defining characteristic. After adjusting my gait to accommodate a sore ankle I left home with, I developed a sick blister on the outside of my left foot, and major tenderness in my right knee. The day was marked by several old people reminding me that I’d never make it to Santiago on “that” foot.
I looked ahead to putting my feet in the healing spring waters at San Bol. However, when we arrived, many pilgrims gathered around the fast moving waters, and I chose to keep my disgusting feet out of their water. I slept in the healing shade of the woods for an hour.
When I’m afraid or staring disappointment and defeat in the eyes, I look for “signs” to keep me motivated. Often on the way to Hontanas, butterflies clustered around me, occasionally landing on my long sleeves. I swear it’s the light coloured shirt, but I interpreted this as a good reason to keep my spirit light. I’d been moving forward on orthopaedic flip flops, as my feet no longer fit into my Keens. (Yes, my feet and ankles are that swollen.) They are comfy, but the larger rocks stab through the soles. By the time I reached Hontanas, my feet, shins, knees, and ankles had been pulverized by the Camino. What’s more, the blister wrapped around the underside of my foot, and I’d done some tissue damage. Spending the two nights in Hontanas was a no-brainer.
One of the wonderful things about spending slow, quality time in a foreign land is seeing real life unfold amongst the locals. I was fortunate to experience this in India, and in Hontanas, we had local life at its finest.
Hontanas, with a population of 70, is small. There are a few pilgrim albergues, but not much to do outside of the albergue. Andrew and I climbed hard steps to a terrace enjoyed by the locals. Pilgrims were absent here, perhaps feeling out of place or just enjoying the stream of pilgrims passing out front the albegue. A group of men gambled on a “toss” game called La Rana (The Frog). Six men threw small metal disks into an open-mouthed metal frog mounted on a small table the size of an elementary school child’s desk. It’s difficult to explain, but google La Rana, and you will see various configurations of this game.
The men laughed and shouted, the women watched and encouraged, and a young girl kept running in the path of the rebounding disks. I believe they were playing for a bottle of wine…in Spain, this is a token prize. Wine is deliciously cheap.
I enjoyed watching their game, as well as the camaraderie amongst the locals. At the same time, Andrew and I played backgammon on his ipad. I suddenly felt a bit out of place with my ipad among a gathering of friends enjoying a game of toss. (To be fair, backgammon is an old game, too!) After kicking Andrew’s ass at backgammon, he called up Snakes and Ladders on his ipad. We’ve been enjoying old-fashioned S&L since Two Chicks at Sauble Beach last summer; still, for a moment, I felt foolish playing S&L surrounded by grown men. The feeling didn’t last long. A lively grandfather in the group scored a perfect shot, lobbing his disk into the frog’s throat. People jumped, cheered, and clapped each other on the shoulders in congratulations.

“You still feel stupid?” Andrew asked.
“A little. Why?”
“We’re playing a child’s game, and they’re betting on one. I’d say we’re even.”
We stayed in Hontanas all the next day and one more night. La Rana sat still in a corner on the back terrace. We played S&L, Backgammon, and tended to blisters. Another two days down along the Camino.
¡Ultreia!
~Penny

Day 18: Burgos to Rabé de las Calzadas
Well, I walked out of Burgos. I acquired blisters the size of pillows, and managed to leave behind my raincoat and 100% silk sleeping bag liner. It was on its second Camino, and I didn’t really use it much this time. Nothing like a European heat wave to make you crave sleeping on top of everything you own, and (potential) bed bugs be damned. 
Not much to say about the walk. It was hot and dry and unremarkable. At one point, we sat outside under a makeshift gazebo across from an elderly son caring for his very old mother. She stared evenly at me and Andrew, as her son wiped her chin. Eventually he wheeled her away across the dusty street, inhabited by dogs too tired and heated to care or bark. The pueblo had a definite sleepy unwild west feel to it. We swept through beaded curtains of the “saloon” to buy Cokes. Swinging doors would have been appropriate, but this is Spain, and beaded curtains in every doorway rule.
I was ready to collapse when we entered Rabé de las Calzadas. We made the right choice of albergues to stay at in this town of 200. We entered a dark former medieval pilgrim “hospital” run by a seemingly stern hospitalera. She ushered us into a small room that was close to three storeys tall. All four walls from floor to ceiling were covered in Camino de Santiago souvenirs and maps. This museum is her labour of love, as is caring for pilgrims. The little albergue slept eight, but only six of us took beds. Michelle, the hospitalera, also liked to spend individual time with each pilgrim as she checked us in. She carefully recorded our Canadian passport information and stamped our pilgrim credentials. 
Michelle was checking in an Austrian girl, Irena, when a Polish “gentleman” reminded Michelle that he had walked a long way and was tired, and could she please talk less and speed up the process. This same Polish “gentleman” had also jumped the queue, and cut off an elderly Italian pilgrim who’d been waiting longer in the museum. Michelle looked over her glasses at the Polish pilgrim and reminded him that this was an albergue, not a hotel. She also told him he was very rude, and too old to behave rudely. He should know better. Yay! Then she went back to Irena’s details. 
The most fabulous dinner ever was homemade by Michelle, and donativo. Andrew and I threw 10 Euro each for our meal. Irena, the Austrian, Furio, the Italian, and Pierre, the French Canadian, each put in 10 Euro for their meals. The Polish “gentleman” made a great deal of noise in his money belt, and put in…? Nothing. Our donations cover the meals for next day’s pilgrims. I hope he’s proud. He also spoke the loudest of all about the tastiness of the meal. Of course he did. We never saw him again. 
Michelle has been a hospitalera for forty years, and she tends to many pilgrim ailments. She took one look at my feet, and asked me, “Do you want to walk to Santiago? You won’t walk on those feet, unless you let me thread your blisters.”
Gross out alert: Michelle disinfected a needle and thread and my foot, then carefully pulled the thread through my blisters, leaving the thread in place. She removed the needle, cut the thread, and tied a knot in each thread sticking from a blister. She applied iodine, and my foot looked much worse than it felt. Still, she was terribly concerned about the blister on my left heel. I’d done some significant tissue damage, and the threading only drained a bit of the fluid.
Before I crawled into my lower bunk, she spread green clay all over my swollen left ankle and wrapped it in plastic wrap for the night. When I awoke after a cold night (damn losing my silk liner!), my skin was cold, the bed was cold, my clothes were cold, but that damn clay was almost hot. It had absorbed the heat from my ankle, and I was a sudden believer. Michelle wrote down what I needed to ask for in the Farmacia when I finally reached an open one on Monday.
Michelle had a lot of quirks for staying comfortable and bed bug free at her albergue. We had to place our backpacks in large black garbage bags hanging from hooks at the ends of our bunk beds. A separate bag was for our other textiles. No textile was to touch the bed. Fine by daylight, but getting ready in the darkness of the morning was tough. I manage to leave a ton of stuff behind while preparing in lit conditions. But eccentricities aside, I have never had a person attend so carefully to my wounds and inflammations as Michelle did. I was reminded of Jesus washing the feet of his disciples. Touching the feet is so personal, so intimate. Michelle disinfected, threaded, and wrapped my injured feet, and I felt cared for and loved.
In the darkness of a Spanish early morning, we awoke to fresh coffee in urns, hot water and tea bags, little pastries, and fresh fruit. I took my first steps towards Hontanas on threaded feet and a light spirit.
¡Ultreia!
~Penny

Day 16 and 17: San Juan de Ortega to Burgos, then rest day in Burgos
I figured this would be a big day for me. The last time I was in Burgos, I was driven there by taxi straight to the University Hospital, then spent the next three days on my back in a hostal, with one more hospital trip for good measure. This time, I was walking into Burgos.
The walk out of San Juan de Ortega was like a walk in the Pyrenees. Again we enjoyed the pastoral music of the Camino: cowbells, mooing, roosters calling the morning, which they do all day, by the way. We photographed cows to the right of the path, because we don’t have cows in Canada! haha! Not sure why I’m taking pictures of cows in Spain. Maybe I like their cowbell necklaces, and I’m a jeweller. Anyway…we also saw a cow with large horns close to the path. If it wasn’t a bull, wtf was it? It appeared camera shy, so this paparazzi put down the camera and walked slowly away. I did look over my shoulder several times. Even if it was a cow, I worried about the horns.
The farmers bury grates at each end of their fields, so that the cattle can’t pass over. The length of my foot spans one flat rail to the next, but I have a weird sensation when crossing these things. Am I part cow? I hoped if the horned beast tried to chase me, I could make it to the grate, then I’d stand on the other side and make fun, or take more pictures. But the lazy beast turned away, and went back to his meal of grass. So focussed was I on the horns, that I would have missed the makeshift labyrinth that someone with a lot of time created in the grasses on my left. Circles were pressed down into the long grass, and at the centre sat a rock collection that could have been a fire pit. Amazing the works of rocks pilgrims leave in their wake along the camino. Messages for loved ones, arrows, cairns, and smiling faces.
After Atapuerca, Andrew and I continued up up up hill.The terrain resembled the Canadian Shield. The large rocks bleached by the sun, resembled skulls. Dark spots shaded the recesses in the stone, and it was easy to imagine all kinds of horror stories.We reached a windy plateau, and admired the pueblo below, the sky above, and the multitude of rocks strewn about the grass. Perhaps it was Andrew’s advantage of height that he noticed the pattern in the rocks. We stood on the periphery of a gigantic rock labyrinth. Talk about missing the forest for the trees! 
Someone had fashioned a rocky heart at the opening to the labyrinth, and passing pilgrims placed wildflowers in the heart. Did they notice only the heart, too? Several of us stood on that windy plateau, and only Andrew saw the labyrinth where the rest of us saw blanched rocks. Katy California put down her pack and walked the labyrinth, while the rest of us walked a portion of it. I love labyrinths, but my pillow blisters, swollen ankle, and tender right knee required attention, and I didn’t want to leave my best on that windy plateau when I faced a nasty steep descent ahead.
Down down down we walked. I limped. After a café con leche stop, our small group of four headed to the outskirts of Burgos.Then pride took a shit kicking again.
Katy and Andrew reached Burgos, and wished to avoid the hellish industrial section pilgrims pass (if they miss the green route…which we definitely missed) on the way to the cathedral. Iain wanted to walk. I felt compelled to walk to the cathedral because I didn’t in 2013. So Iain and I limped along an industrial, car dealership wasteland, begging for golden arches instead of yellow arrows. We became dehydrated, frustrated, and lame. When a local Spaniard told us we had only four kilometres, mas o menos, to the cathedral, we considered going on. But after one hundred metres, we reminded each other that distance is never menos, in Spain, it’s always mas.
We boarded the first city bus for the cathedral, and then spent an agonizing game of cat and mouse with Andrew in Burgos, trying to locate him as he tried to locate us. We finally settled in Hostal Lar, in the very room I enjoyed in 2013, and saw José Luis, the very hospitalero we befriended in 2013.
*****
I limped around Burgos during my rest day. If I’d taken the city bus where Andrew and Katy had, I might have had better knees to explore the cathedral, the artisan tents, and the musicians playing in Spanish costumes from a gazebo. But I ouch ouch ouched my way around a magnificent city, past statues featuring decapitations (not sure what that is all about) then thoroughly enjoyed tapas, wine, and a last meal with Sam, our Irish friend. Sam was staying in Burgos a few days before returning to Ireland. Buen Camino, Sam.
The next day, as we prepared to leave Burgos, José Luis reminded us to eat before walking. He told us a saying that he only slightly screwed up, but I’ll leave it with you. It’s both funny, because of the way he put it, and also a very good way to enjoy eating…Spanish style.
“Eat breakfast like a king, lunch like a queen, and dinner like a bugger.” You know what he meant. 
Bon appetit, buggers!
¡Ultreia!
~Penny

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