Day 14: Grañon to Belorado
Wake up, get up, walk in the heat, walk uphill, be grateful. Repeat. Watch Andrew apply sun screen at a roadside. Walk in the heat, walk uphill, wait for Andrew as he backtracks a kilometre to collect sunglasses left in the grasses at the roadside when applying sunscreen. Walk in heat, uphill, to (patient?) wife, be grateful. Yup! Sunglasses found! Soooo worth that extra two kilometres in 38°C heat.
After a long, hot walk under a cloudless blue sky (I’m starting to feel ungrateful about cloudless blue skies), Andrew and I arrived in Belorado. Then I began to feel grateful. Iain and Agnes called to us from a café that sold glorious pastries. I indulged in chocolate whipped cream deliciousness and a Coke. Okay, it might have been a beer, but I was high on pastry. We discussed possible albergues, and settled on one closest to the pastry café. It also had a pool!
I lazed around in the water dressed in Andrew’s track shorts and t-shirt, and watched as Andrew spread his Euros over the grass to air dry. He waded into the pool with his money belt around his waist. Our Canadian friend, Iain, waded into those same waters with his iphone 6. The good news…Euros dry. Poor Iain. He carried that baby wrapped in rice in his backpack for days before declaring it dead. R.I.P. Iain’s iphone 6. Team Canada Camino was having a bad day.
The rest of the evening was magical, though. Andrew and Katy California prepared an incredible Madrid-style pasta dinner with bread, veggies, and wine. They fed eight of us around a makeshift harvest table in the garden, on the other side of a barnyard with rabbits, pheasants, peacocks, pigeons, roosters, hens, guinea fowl, Mother Goose and a dog. Unbelievable. Only in Spain? We laughed, toasted, celebrated, and were truly grateful. The heat exhaustion and wounds of the day were cleared away with the dishes.
Similar to Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter tables that bring family and friends together, so we enjoyed the love of our Camino family. Unlike the Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter gatherings, we were relaxed and in the moment. We didn’t worry about over or underdone turkeys, and ill-timed potatoes. We mixed what we had with what we could pick up in the Supermercado, pulled the meal together in the spirit of togetherness and c’est la vie, and enjoyed each other. Even washing dishes for the entire albergue was a team effort, and we had fun. (I don’t cook, but I know how to wash dishes!) 
I want to remember the simplicity and ease of this harvest meal when Thanksgiving arrives. I like experiencing gratitude, instead of the intellectual experience of gratitude. You know that kind? After going through some kind of huge modern inconvenience, and then reminding yourself to feel gratitude because things could be worse…and, indeed are worse, for others. It is gratitude, but forced somehow. Like being backed into a thankfulness corner. 
Tonight I am living, breathing, and eating gratitude. My heart knows it. My face shows it. And I am blessed to have so many friends, both here and at home, to be grateful with and grateful for. Always.
¡Ulteia!
~Penny

Day 13: Nájera to Grañon
No one slept well in Nájera, and that can make for a bitchy pilgrim. It can also make a pilgrim careless. New rule: if you don’t see a yellow arrow within 15 minutes, stop, turn around, GO BACK.
We left the shabby-chic albergue unrested. Saturday nights in Spain are festive, noisy affairs, with the streets a symphony of arguments, breaking bottles, and shouting. Unfortunately, the action took place below our open window. And dares close the window on a 35°C night? So we waited for the dawn, and hit the road walking to Grañon.
If all had gone as planned…follow arrows, walk, stop, eat, walk again, stop and sleep…I might not have much to report. But…first, the day was H.O.T. Hot. 
Then we passed through a town that even the Brierley guide wanted to skip over. Cirueña reminded me of The Walking Dead, except we were the living passing through zombie land. Creepy. We passed a golf course on our way into this modern city with brand new developments lining empty streets. It appeared that more than 50% of the residential homes and businesses were…vacant. Some Se Vende signs (For Sale) hung from walls. Most stood empty, curtain-less, windows stared like empty cow eyes, rain water stains formed aprons under window sills. Wired paper Christmas garland mats woven through chain link fences provided privacy from pilgrims. Spiritless. 
A few men pulled golf carts. Some nodded at us. Most looked away. A public pool served as a cold community hearth, and we heard laughter as kids splashed and played in the water. On the far side of town, a couple children played on a short zip-line. These were the only signs of life. There were few cars. No dogs and cats ran in the street. No convenience stores or vending machines or water fountains with potable or nob-potable water. 
On the outskirts of this modern city sat the old city. I breathed again when I saw the deteriorating but familiar and comforting Spanish clay roofs. A couple of signs advertised a bar and albergue only 100 metres away. We found a working fountain in the old city, and we refilled our bottles, rinsed our hands, and soaked my Buff to wrap around my neck. Then we beat a path outta there!
But our troubles had just begun. Once out of Stepford, we walked into the countryside. Grain. Grain. Grain. Butterflies fluttered around me for hours, attracted, I believe, to my bright Columbia travel shirt. We followed the path, and talked about that creepy town. We comforted a crying Swiss girl dealing with blisters and offered water. We took a wrong turn.
Now you interpret this next experience. 
Andrew and I turned left, and headed for a tree, which provided the only shade for many kilometres. A group of religious German pilgrims had stopped under the tree to picnic and pray. Their lunch fare spread around them like the last freaking supper. We and they had been leap frogging each other all day. We walked and complained. They walked and prayed. We stopped in their shade for a moment. They disapproved, glad when we moved on. They let us head down the wrong path away from Camino. The pilgrims we saw in the distance were…farmers! We were lost, and the Germans knew it. 
Andrew and I walked nearly ten kilometres in the wrong direction, along paths reserved for farmers and their machinery. We dove into thistles to escape a combine that needed to pass. We travelled into farmer territory, and surprised the farmers as much as they surprised us with their unforgiving machines along pinched pathways.
Rule number two: The Camino always passes the local church, regardless of its grandeur or disrepair. In the distance sat Santa Domingo de Calzada, our destination, although we later (foolishly) opted to walk to Grañon. The many kilometres along asphalt tenderized our feet and shins. Once in Santa Domingo de la Calzada, we found ourselves in an “undesirable” part of town. Children pointed at us. A man dressed completely in white, who sat cross-legged on the grass praying(?), could not tell us where the Camino was. He had never heard of the Camino! It was our second experience with creepiness that day.
We continued on to the church spire, collapsed over a beer, and recognized Cas and Melissa crossing the plaza. Ahhhhh! We were at home on the Camino again, no thanks to the traveling German prayer group and the praying man all dressed in white. 
We were discouraged and blistered, but decided on a quick piss against a hay bale and another several kilometres into Grañon. Another mistake. Nothing was open. It was Sunday, after all, and this is Spain. However, we went upstairs to the only open local bar we could find, and walked in on a kind of old men’s club. We caused a stir, but enjoyed a wonderful impromptu meal of pork, salad, dessert, and cervesas, prepared for us by a wonderful woman sympathetic to our pilgrim needs. She covered our small table with a paper cloth, made us a delicious dinner from scraps, and hunted down bread when she was sure she had none. A blessing.
I can still see their smug smiles as we headed away from their shade tree, long after ten unnecessary kilometres and a twelve hour day on foot. I don’t understand, but, finally, it comes down to our inattention…not theirs. But I’m grateful for those that yell “peregrinos!” and point out the Way when we are confused. That is the way of The Way, and it is both prayer and blessing for the pilgrim. Amen!
¡Ultreia!
~Penny

Day 12: Navarrete to Nájera
Leaving Navarrete was a special walk for me alone. We enter and leave places in much the same way. Pilgrims arrive tired, hungry, and thirsty. We look for a place to sleep, sometimes accepting a mattress on the floor, or a mat outside while hoping for a warm dry night. Grateful. Always grateful. We leave in the morning light, sometimes before the light, expecting nothing more than the dirt, gravel, rocky, or paved road beneath our feet.
I walked out of Navarrete for the first time on my second Camino. No crutches or taxi. I photographed my sandalled feet and hiking poles next to a sidewalk shell, and effectively put to rest an unfinished chapter of my 2013 Camino. All I needed now was to walk into Burgos. But that was still one hundred unknown kilometres ahead.
Today was also a day of parting with Camino friends. We walked toward Nájera with that “goodbye” looming over us. So we did what everyone does ahead of an unpleasantry…we ignored it. 
Andrew and I left Navarrete alone, but stopped outside of the Ventosa detour in a rundown public park for treats and some foot rest. The park was overgrown with uncut grass, and overflowing with garbage. Pilgrims tried to use garbage bins, but it had been a very long time since they’d been emptied. It could have been a beautiful spot. The gazebo was new, as were the benches and picnic tables. But the general disrepair of the place felt a bit lonely and unsettling.
As we left for the road, Katy California, Canadian Cas, Canadian Jane, and Ecuador/Canadian David joined us. They, too, avoided the Ventosa detour, and we walked quickly to Nájera under overcast skies. Perfect walking conditions. When we arrived in Nájera, we thought we had arrived elsewhere. Never had we covered such a distance in such record time. Solving the world’s problems while walking really does pass the time. (And maybe world leaders should take more walks together!) Who was it that first suggested “The way is found through walking?” 
After settling in to a funky, shabby-chic albergue that I’d describe as Victorian if I weren’t in Spain, we met up with the Irish. Culture shock alert: we bought a 6-pack of beer for 3 euros, and paid 2.60 euros to get into the municipal pool and drink our beer surrounded by families doing the same. (Again…I’m not judging.)
We dried off, changed clothes and met our Irish friends for one last tapas fest. It was a funny, sad feast. But we weren’t allowed to say good-bye. For as Sue-from-Belfast warned me hours before, “The Irish don’t say good-bye.” Now, along the Camino, pilgrims come in and out of your life. They walk fast, slow, and injured. They stop to tour sites and cities. They dawdle, sleep on hay bales, curl up in church shade and on church steps. And after days pass, so-and-so from so-and-so rejoins, catches up or slows down. So I say, “See you along the path.” And we will. And we do. And it’s much truer than good-bye. Let’s face it. There is only one final good-bye.
So after tapas were done, our 10:00 pm curfew loomed. We hugged as only the Irish can hug, long and lovely, heartfelt and warm with love.
The Camino we all walk extends beyond Spain. So, Connor and Liz, “See you along the path.” And we will.

¡Ultreia!
~Penny

Day 11: Logrono to Navarrete
Morning in an albergue is a confusing symphony of rattling plastic bags, iphone lights in the darkness, plastic bags rustling with the cram of clothing, and pilgrims noisily trying to be quiet while preparing for the road. Much of this begins around 5:45 a.m. In Logroño, the entire room was awakened by an elderly Italian’s rainforest alarm. It sounded and sounded and SOUNDED. Everyone woke up…except him. Of course. When he finally rolled out of his bottom bunk, he took a piss and crawled back to bed. Really?!?! You have to set a morning alarm to remind yourself to piss?
Andrew and I jammed our belongings into our packs, a ritual we have grown familiar with, though not liking it any more after eleven mornings. I looked out my window in the dim light at the cathedral spire. The moon was still high, and the spire seemed lit from within. Maybe rainforest-guy’s alarm allowed me this blessing. I would have otherwise missed it.
Leaving Logroño is a long walk through a long park. Spaniards use their parks every early morning to bike, walk, and jog for miles. This is a truth for every city and village Andrew and I have passed through. We meet the very young and very old, usually walking, in the morning heat. We’d fit in if not for our heavy backpacks.
We weren’t sure when we’d finally left the park, but ahead we saw a Moses-like figure sitting at a booth. Marcelino, the pilgrims’ helper, greeted us with fruit, souvenirs, and advice for a donativo. He stamped our credentials and wrote a lovely blessing above the sello: May the sun and moon light your Camino and your life. He was a philosopher, suggesting that we are all one in the heart of the Camino of life. I loved this guy. He came over to where I sat with Andrew near a bush, and shared his orange with us.
Navarrete was an emotional experience. I found El Cántaro, the albergue I stayed at in 2013. Celestino and Alicia, the owners, were there and remembered me. I got my bottom bunk back, toured the city I saw from a taxi window two years before, and attended a beautiful mass in the evening. 
At night, after tapas with friends, Sam and Laura came to the kitchen with a bottle of wine. We talked books, music, philosophy, and family, until Sam curled up to sleep on the floor. He gave the hospitalera and Andrew quite a surprise the next morning.
Navarrete played a huge role in my past Camino drama. Expectations can disappoint, but that was not the case this time. The old memories mixed with the love of new friends that went long into the night. My Navarrete drama is now a beautiful memory of Canadians, Irish, Swiss, Danes, and Germans, around a table, sharing food, drink, and stories. A true pilgrim experience and blessing…and another answer to “Why do you walk the Camino?” I wish the same for you on your life’s Camino. 
God bless and Ultreia!
~Penny

Day 10: Torrres del Rio to Logroño
It is hard to walk without expectations. I remember clearly my 2013 walk to Logroño: the good, bad, and the painful. Mostly painful. So I walked hoping to see things remembered. 
The path was frequently downhill or level. We walked through vineyards, vineyards, and more vineyards. Reminded me of home. 😀 As we approached Logroño, there were many abandoned vineyards, and we wondered if these were more examples of farmlands left by the children of farmers who were uninterested in vineyards or farming. 
In fact, we see mostly elderly farmers working the soil and baling the hay. Old men stop and wave as we pass them rota-tilling the dirt. Men drive the John Deere machinery, very often they are old men who wave and mouth “Buen Camino.” From the too-busy-to-look-up business types, we rarely get so much as ¡Hola! They seem bored by us. But the old ladies standing amongst the olive trees still ask us to hug the apostle in Santiago, or to pray for them.
We passed many pilgrim built rock cairns, often plastered with prayer cards or slips of paper in languages I can’t read, and even cigarette wrappers and boxes. I think people make resolutions, and leave a piece of themselves (boots, shoes) or a symbolic representation of the habit they wish to leave behind. Rebirth. (Jan, our Dutch friend, said you had to die on the Camino. There are paper evidences of symbolic deaths at every cairn we pass.)
We passed a stone igloo with a ratty looking sleeping bag inside. I didn’t go in. I feared what would try to get out as I crawled inside. We went inside a magnificent church in Viana, collected our sellos from the church, saw our friend from Montreal now walking on crutches, and rediscovered the Buen Camino blue shell graffiti that I’d like to have as a tattoo someday. 
But it was the smell of the evergreen forest we walked through that made magic. A mixture of pine, soil, and vegetation that reminded me of church kept me walking blissfully onwards towards Logroño. We passed a “hippie stand” I recalled buying a drink at on my last Camino. The heavy old lady and her heavy old dog were still there, trying to stay cool in the extreme heat, but another woman greeted us with cold drinks, religious items for sale, and shade trees under a park bench. We spoke in the usual mix of Spanish and English, and she rewarded our efforts with a gift of hand picked apricots from the tree we rested under.
In Logroño, I saw storks in chimney stacks again and in the church towers. I heard storks in the church towers. I had never before wondered at the sound a stork made, and there it was! If I had been listening to music on my iPhone, like my fellow pereginos, I would have missed that crazy stork sound, and other Camino music that makes the journey easier and hypnotic at times.
So I was pleased by the familiar and surprised by the new. But the familiar brought up memories of home, as I repacked the items I purchased at the hippie stand for my daughters. And, as if on cue, Zoë called me in a blue moment. She missed me, and hours before her call, I had photographed some dandelion fluff that reminded me of her tattoo. I missed her. Familiarity allows the heart to roam comfortably to other familiarities in otherwise strange lands. And that is a good thing. We are not on vacation or running away. We are on pilgrimage, thinking and praying for our loved ones and ourselves, grateful for the privilege, and always connected to what matters most in our lives.

Ultreia!
~Penny

Day 7: Muruzábal to Lorca
Well, I had better add this quick piece into the order. Muruzábal to Lorca should have come before my Lorca to Villamayor de Monjardín entry. It was such a dreadful 40C day…again…that my notes were almost non-existent. Sorry about the fuck up.
When Andrew and I started out from our lovely albergue with pool 😀, we began walking through the sweltering morning heat and the hum of Spanish everyday life. We passed a farmer setting up the sprinklers in his cornfields. Now, you guys know my love for the corn cob, so of course I had to take pictures of the great plumes of water as they fanned out across the cornfield, wetting us in the process. The rainbow created a magical moment, as we continued down the humid path to other wonders: Storks! Lots of storks! Storks in chimney stacks, storks atop churches, storks on hydro towers. Not sure why storks make me so happy. I suppose because they never seemed real before. They were useful as the bearer of babies in cartoons and Hallmark cards.
I nerded out over the storks, using up most of my camera storage on unclear images. And then we saw salamanders. So many little salamanders running across our path. Andrew tried to catch a few. Don’t ask why. No room in my backpack for a salamander, now that I’m packing a stork. 🙂
And we saw swallows. The swallows appear wherever we see storks, so much so that I wonder if there is a relationship between the two. Like falcons and those little birds that always seem to annoy them.
If only salamanders could fly, I’d have a theme here!
Anyway, we ended our walk at Lorca in an albergue I’d stopped at for coffee in 2013. The room was too hot to sleep in, so one guy draped himself from the bottom bunk onto the floor, and I wandered around trying to discover a cooler room. With no a/c, I was shit out of luck. 
We did not cover enough kilometres today because of the damned heat, but the little surprises along the way distracted us from our discomforts. And so did the several helpings of skewers loaded with olives, hot pimentos. and tuna fish dipped in oil.
My greatest pleasure today? Knowing that a field of corn rests at the end of the rainbow. Not sure how my Irish friends feel about that!
Ultreia,
~Penny

Day 9: Villamayor de Monjardín to Torres del Río
Best. Day. Ever. Temperatures in the mid 20s, strong breeze all day, fairly easy terrain. It was possible to walk without hiking poles and hold not-sweaty-hands for a bit. Heavenly. 
Many of the hay bales in Spain are rectangular, unlike the great round ones we have grown used to. As we walked past yet another mown hay field, we spied a peregina stretched atop one of the random bales in the middle of a field. Her ruck sack leaned against the bale, and she comfortably read a book. I guessed it was the John Brierley guide to the Camino. (Don’t leave home without it!) It was the ultimate pilgrim experience and photo op. We shot off a couple of pictures, only to know later that the peregrina was our Irish friend Mary, waiting for her daughter and catching up on what to expect on the road ahead. I believe she might have a new travel book in her future: Hay Bale Surfing the Camino on a Budget!
Andrew and I stopped for two hours in Los Arcos, the scene of my 2013 Sangria drunk, and met other pilgrims we’d lost touch with. Many had moved forward and then back to Pamplona for the San Fermín running of the bulls. We heard that many of the Danes had returned home because of the unbearable heat.
We left Los Arcos and enjoyed the continued weather, countryside, and the sound of our feet crunching over the gravel roads. The music and rhythm of walking becomes hypnotic. It is a spell that somewhat numbs you to the discomforts of the road, and lulls you into believing there is nothing else you’d rather be doing. Or maybe I’m nuts or suffering the after effects of heat exhaustion or delusional. 
People are happy today. The Spaniards are smiling. The pilgrims are smiling. We made it to Torres del Río, checked into a nice albergue with too many stairs and a great bar, and stayed up with the Irish over a respectable amount of beer. We talked and laughed long into the night (clearly no curfew here), then snuck into our bunk beds so as not to wake the “true” pilgrims who have the good sense to get some sensible sleep.
I have now collected sellos from bars, templar churches, and albergues. I covered every toe with bandages, reacted to the latex in my Tommie Coppers, burnt in the sun. None of this puts me any closer to knowing why I am walking 900 km to Muxia. But these friendships formed in a quick few days and the love shared amongst strangers through stories, songs, and food do help me understand the hold the Camino has on me. And these lovely people we meet along the way prove we are the same lovely people all over the world. We sound different, we cook different foods, we even look different, yet we are the same. We are one loving heart beating to the rhythms of our individual footsteps along our Life’s camino…the most important camino. 
I’m getting emotional. I so miss my lovely pilgrim family and friends at home with every step and every story shared over a glass of wine or pilgrim meal. 
Ultreia!

Day 6: Cizur Menor to Muruzábal
Stayed up way too late enjoying conversation and beer with the Irish last night. When we were shushed, we slunk to our bunk beds, and hoped we weren’t recognized in the morning. I remember being shushed in Los Arcos in 2013. That involved sangria, a church, and a funeral. Sounds like the beginning of a joke.
If there is a thread to this pilgrimage, it’s heat. The 38-42°C temps are a real game changer. In average temperatures along flat terrain, it’s possible to cover 5k in an hour. Now we are lucky to do 3.5k or 4k an hour. Spaniards look at us like we are a bunch of crazy fuckers moving about in weather they avoid. I’ve repeatedly sworn off walking past noon, only to check into an albergue at 5 pm. “Why?” you ask. Because we have covered so little distance, to stop earlier would result in a six-month long Camino!
Today we had lovely visual highlights. The same field of sunflowers I passed in 2013 was now blooming, rather than dying at the end of a season. I nearly fell down the embankment for the photo op, but you’ll see how the stumble was worth the picture…as soon as I can figure out uploads.
I stopped into a church in Zariquiegui to have my credential stamped. (Our Irish friend opted for the stamp from the local bar. Is that a stereotype or going against type? You decide.) We did an arduous climb up, up, and up towards Alto de Perdon. It was quieter around the metal medieval pilgrim sculptures, and much easier to get photos. The heat was so intense, not even the statues looked like they wanted to be there. (Andrew was looking über pissed, so I explained how I needed him to show me a happy face as encouragement. At that very moment, a pilgrim passed us with a ridiculous neon green happy face attached to her backpack where the shell should have been. Andrew demanded I manifest a taxi immediately.)
At Alto de Perdon, I was reminded of an experience in India, in 2000. I remember being too hot to really appreciate the Taj Mahal. And now, at a significant stopping point on the Camino, again I was too hot to give a shit. (I did care about the vendor selling refreshments at the top of the climb. No souvenir pictures of me posing with her, though.) We are strange beasts who travel so far, put ourselves through so much, and when we arrive our reaction is, “Just get me a bottle of water or I’m going to die.” 
Anyway, we did a crazy, 5k, rolling rock descent from Alto de Perdon into Uterga. I took another shade tree break and nap cut short by a soccer ball to the face. Kids are out of school, and they play soccer in the park. I believe the soccer ball was a kick-the-peregrina-when-she’s-down prank, because I enjoyed two balls to the face that afternoon. (I know what you’re thinking, but there’s no other way to say it.) I swore in Spanish, and the kid said “lo siento.” But I’m pretty sure I was the target.
We walked on to Muruzábal to a new albergue WITH pool. I didn’t have a swim suit…had to make a choice between it or deodorant and iPad. So I swam in man-shorts and t-shirt, looked dreadful, made Canadians look fashion challenged, and felt great!
Before the communal pilgrims’ meal, Andrew and I thought we’d walk to Eunate to visit a Templar church and go to mass, but we wound up in Óbanos at a closed church, and several sweltering kilometres from supper. How happy was I? Fearing a repeat of the wedding band incident on the path to Roncesvalles, I chalked up my temper to the heat and empty stomach, ate the best supper on the Camino, yet, and stayed married. 😀 

Ultreia!
~Penny

Day 5: Trinidad de Arre to Cizur Menor
Last night Andrew and I decided to make today a short walk. I don’t think I will ever get used to 40C weather, so stopping a bit in Pamplona for early San Fermín festivities and carrying on to Cizur Menor made my spirit soar.
As Trinidad de Arre and Cizur Menor feel like suburbs of Pamplona, you don’t really see much countryside between boundaries. And I love Pamplona. I love the old buildings (largely cleaned up of buckets of red paint thrown over building crests in 2013). Perhaps in preparation for the running of the bulls? I love the energy of the city, especially hyped for their annual bull run.
I don’t want to wax political on the appropriateness or ethics of San Fermín activities. I was caught up in the energy of the place buzzing with excited children, music, artisan exhibits, parades, and dance. We were leaving Pamplona just as the Parade of Giants and Heads lined up. Honestly, it was colourful, fun, and unlike anything I’d ever seen before. Google this parade to see why children suffer nightmares later, but can’t resist the spectacle. (I’d upload photos, but WordPress hates me at the moment. However, Andrew has some nice photos on his blog 1millionfootsteps.blogspot.com). But it has a multicultural feel that I loved…obviously!
On our way into Pamplona, Jan-the-Dutch-guy-who’d-walked-97-days-from-Holland-to-Pamplona, called to us from the street. It was his final day in Spain, so we accompanied him to the Pamplona Tourist Office, got our credentials stamped, and went for a final café con leche. Jan also enjoyed a final smoke. But one café con leche turned into another, and Jan enjoyed one more smoke before leaving us across from the cathedral and a line up of giants and heads.
Andrew and I roamed the streets of Pamplona before braving the heat. We arrived in a little oasis-style albergue, with terrace, garden, cooking facilities, great rooms with bunks, and a wonderful group of Irishmen (and women). We talked too loudly until 11:30 pm about U2, dissing Bono, why Irishmen love to slag you as a sign of affection, and ways of saving humanity…as only drunken adults can do. Then we were shushed, the rain fell, the storm raged, and, well, it really was time to go to bed.

Ultreia everyone!

~Penny

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