Day 3: Roncesvalles to Zubiri
Well, after crossing the Pyrenees along the route Napoleon used to move his troops in and out of Spain, and arriving at Roncesvalles on day two, Andrew and I packed our gear for the arduous trip to Zubiri. We had a quick tortilla de patata with Michael from Poland, then said good-bye to him. The morning was a scorcher, and the temperature climbed to a ridiculous 42C. This is one Canadian girl who just can’t handle heat like that. Add a 16-pound backpack into the mix, a couple of blisters, and Spanish hills, and you have a reason to stay out of hell. Say your prayers all!

The morning started out beautifully. We passed through Burguete (again I missed seeing the bar with the piano signed by Hemingway), walked through pastures, past wild poppies, and onwards to a lovely stream that ran over dangerously slippery rocks. There was an alternate route, but pilgrims stayed by the stream and cooled their sore feet in the icy water. At one point we warned an elderly cyclist using pantomime about the slippery conditions, but he ignored us and wiped out hard. It was a hint of things to come.
The descent into Zubiri is famously hard, yet somehow I’d managed to forget most of it during the two years since my 2013 Camino. Andrew was so far ahead of me, that my only option was to tackle the rocky descent on my own. I sat on my ass and thought I’d slide over the shale, rather than slip on the flat rock face while on my feet. Don’t try this at home, kids. My Macabi skirt protected my buns for about two feet before I went into an uncontrolled skid. My hands scraped along the shale, my skirt rode up leaving my ass and legs unprotected. I stopped the skid with my hiking poles (worth their weight in gold) just as my Dutch saviour … not Andrew … and his wife happened along and offered me a hand.
After the adventure, California Kate and I pushed a stalled car up a hill with our last reserves of energy. Of course it was uphill! The guy was embarrassed that two girls with backpacks and hiking poles had to help. Ah, Spanish machismo!
Pictures to follow. Eventually. No pictures of the fall. Who the hell needs that visual?!
Ultreia. 
Penny

Day 2: Orisson to Roncesvalles

I will forever associate the sound of cowbells with the Pyrenees. I love the music of cows and horses and birds and flies and bees mixed with the cowbells. I would have done a Julie Andrews run down the mountain path except I was supported by two Gumby legs and a pair of hiking poles.

The day reached a striking 38 Celsius. Quite a temperature change from September 2013. Strangely, I found day two this year easier to do than day two in 2013. At the Pic D’Orisson, I was able to climb further up to pray at the Virgin, Vierge d’Orisson, a weathered statue of the Virgin holding the infant Jesus against a backdrop of sky and mountains.

Some things had changed. Human nature, for one. A random pissed off shepherd driving along the path with his dog, tried to run me and a cyclist off the road. He’d been hanging out with the Virgin and hitting on younger women. When rebuffed by a Californian girl, he got into his car and played pilgrim pin ball with me and the German bicigrino.

Temperatures and tempers only got hotter. I reached the magnificent peak, looked ahead to the steep descent, and texted family and friends that I’d arrived. Then the downhill … into the Valley of Thorns and petty marital disagreements. It was a quiet descent into hell. But it ended well at the monastary at Roncesvalles when Andrew handed back my wedding band that had mysteriously fallen forcefully from my finger onto the tarmac. Don’t know how that happened.

We scored basement accommodations for the night. The monastary was nearly at capacity … 272 pilgrims … so we got the basement bunks. At least it was somewhat cooler. I had to use the men’s toilets in the middle of the night … outside. Surprised a young Vancouverite named Ian on the other side of that crazy heavy door. Now we are bathroom buddies. (Just when you think, “Well I’ll never see him again,” he pops up at every stop.

Dinner was a healthy serving of fish, followed by a beautiful pilgrims’s mass in the church. The benediction was read to pilgrims in their various languages … including Korean with a Spanish accent. Heavenly.

Day 1: Tuesday, June 30th

It has taken me five days to (1) write this entry, (2) find reasonable wifi, (3) feel well enough and rested enough to write anything … either by pen or keyboard. At times my pen felt too heavy to lift, and the lack of wifi made keyboard entries impossible! (Don’t even ask how Andrew managed to write a couple of times on his blog. Something about being taller, thinner, fitter, and a walker-of-dogs.)

After leaving 15C temperatures Sunday morning, we flew from Toronto, to Madrid, to Pamplona, to 40-freakin-degree weather. The bus ride from Pamplona, Spain to St. Jean Pied de Port, France was uphill and beautiful, but the temperature only dropped by a couple degrees. Brutal. The French say Europe is in the death grip of a massive heat wave. Figures. Didn’t see that coming in March when we booked our trip!

So, two years older, twenty pounds heavier (thanks to Andrew’s awesome meals) and sweating litres, I climbed to Orisson, France … five hours to climb 7.8 kms. I asked Andrew to go ahead. Some things your loved ones should never see. Such as? Your wife so exhausted she flattens out on the roadside, falls asleep for thirty minutes until three passing pilgrims (one from Chatham, one from Montreal, and one about to attend Brock’s Faculty of Ed) whisper among themselves, “Is she dead?” I waved my hands to ward them off. I think I scared away a number of Griffon vultures looking to “do Canadian” that night.

The first day’s climb was even harder than 2013 for reasons listed in paragraph one. Arriving at Orisson on a clear day, the Pyrenees surrounding our auberge, and the random thunderstorm at 10:00 pm, … priceless.

June 19, 2015

Looking back: Camino 2013, September-October. Joy. Injury. Interruptions. Patience. Grace.

Looking ahead: Camino 2015, June-August. Excitement. Anxiety. Wisdom. Questions.

In the Moment: “The Way” is the destination.

I fear sharing my plan to walk the Camino Frances into Santiago de Compostela. I know what you’re all thinking…God, I’m thinking it too. Do I swap out hiking poles for my crutches at the beginning? Knee brace or tensor bandages? Sweltering heat. The Meseta.

During my last pilgrimage, I encountered various expressions of “The Way is the Destination” and “The Path is the Goal” printed on postcards, t-shirts, and decals. The sentiment is spray-painted along walls and sidewalks throughout Spain. When I feared I could not finish my pilgrimage in 2013, “el Camino es el destino” felt like a loser’s consolation. Yet, I experienced a stroke of insight during the twenty-two months since I schlepped my way into Santiago on crutches.

One Friday night, my good friend Paul observed, “When you talk about the Camino, you bring to life your experiences and conversations with the people you met along the way. You say very little about Santiago itself, or what it was like to finally be there after what you went through.”

And there was the evidence for “el camino es el destino.” Paul was correct. Although I hadn’t noticed that theme of my Camino, Paul traced it through my pictures and stories.

My feet will hit the Camino on June 30th, 2015 in St. Jean Pied de Port. Do I tackle the Pyrenees via Route Napoleón (again) or Valcarlos? Will I make it all the way on foot? Without crutches? Without leaning too heavily on Andrew? 🙂 Does it matter?

From where I sit now, I’m just looking ahead to a long walk. A pilgrimage enriched by French and Spanish scenery, vino, vino, vino, prayers, peregrino stories, and the call of Buen Camino with each passerby and bicigrino.

Did I mention the vino?

Ultreia,

~Penny

Transition.
Plan B.
Acceptance.

Between Navarette (Camino 1) and Sarria (Camino 2.0), I spent many hours on the R.I.C.E. program: Rest (…ya think? I could NOT walk), Ice (…but not really. Just try to get ice in an albergue or two-star hostal), Compression (…thanks to the good doctors at the Burgos hospital, I sported a King Tut wrap that threatened my circulation), and Elevation (…I now salute with my left foot).

In Navarette, two strong men and the hospitalero’s wife carried me from my second floor bunk bed outside to a waiting taxi. 130 Euros + a well-deserved tip bought me a trip to Burgos where Raoul the driver deposited my backpack at a 3-star Hostal, and then drove me to the hospital.

Then I waited all day and into the evening for Andrew to arrive from Madrid. We discussed our options following my second trip to the hospital. Andrew taught me how to use crutches, and how to be patient with myself, then helped me to an outdoor cafe where I could put my good foot on the Camino.

We decided to give my knee a few more days of RICE in Leon. As in Burgos, Andrew wandered the city and brought back pictures and stories. We found a room at a comfortable hostal in the shadow of the great Leon cathedral. I struggled with crutches and visited a physiotherapist.

Now the physiotherapist, Dr. Bob, was awesome. He used some gentle massage and ultrasound on my leg, before graduating to intense Spanish Inquisition-style stretching, deepER tissue massage (ouch!!!), and electric FREAKIN shock.

I suffered. Andrew and Dr. Bob talked politics.

Dr. Bob asked me if I had hope. Each time I left his office, I experienced four or five minutes of tolerable weight bearing movement. Yes, Dr. Bob, you gave me hope. As well as some wicked, deep-tissue bruises.

On our last night in Leon, Andrew and I attended a Pilgrim Mass. As is the custom, the priest called the peregrinos up to the altar and blessed us. He winced at my knee and asked what happened. Then the good Padre blessed my knee. I kept repeating the phrase, “Just say the Word, and I shall be healed.” The walk back to the hostal was easier that evening, and Camino 2.0 on crutches began to feel like a real Plan B.

Now, I know you’ll say thank the doctors, the drugs, the King Tut wrap, and the Spanish Inquisition stretching. I did…and do. AND I thanked God. Because every blessing, every prayer, every good wish from my friends at home and the peregrinos along The Way helped to put my feet on, yet, another brass shell embedded in the concrete along the Camino in Leon.

From Leon, we travelled, again by bus, to Ponferrada. Gotta say, if you are going to spend time holed up in bed with Spanish tv, no books, and iffy WiFi, you should score a room in a hostal that resembles a medieval castle. Complete with a balcony and a view of mist covered mountains!

Andrew toured the 12-century Templar castle. I toured the front lobby and had my photograph taken with the armour. Oh well. We also enjoyed our first McDonald’s meal in Spain. Did you know that the drive-through in Spain is called McAuto? I thought it was the name of a new model of McDonald’s car. (Nah. Not really.) McDs was within walking distance and not too tough on my knee. So, I think we enjoyed(?) a couple meals there. And WiFi. 🙂

From Ponferrada, we travelled by bus to Lugo. All my Camino research had been focussed on the Camino Frances, so I wondered at the many arrows for the Camino in Lugo, and the many peregrinos, and the many albergues for peregrinos. Lugo is along the Primitivo route. The original route. It’s a nice university city surrounded by an intact, two-kilometer 3rd century Roman wall. Andrew loved the wall, and walked often along it. I walked some of it, but I hungered for Sarria and the Camino Frances. I moved well, though painfully, and painfully slowly. Through the Pyrenees, I’d wave to the Griffin vultures so they wouldn’t think I was dead. On crutches, I barely moved forward. In a Zombie Apocalypse, I was screwed.

The next morning, we reorganized our backpacks, tucked away the hiking poles we bought in Leon (one big vote of Camino confidence), and left Lugo by bus for Sarria. Sarria to Santiago de Compostela on crutches. 115 kms.

So Lugo is where the taxi/bus portion of my Camino ends. After the initial disappointment, depression, and frustration with my limitations, I had to accept that my injury was largely in my control. I could have stopped walking at the first signs of pain. I could have taken a rest day. I could have walked less, bussed more, and met Andrew on two healthy legs. People who bussed were cheaters, I thought. People who shipped their backpacks were not “real pilgrims”, I thought.

I couldn’t hear the wisdom of the Camino until I left her. Accept. Be grateful. Give thanks.

Ultreia!

Viana to Navarette

My final walking day of Camino Stage 1 was a mix of desperation, creepiness, and hope.

To begin, I struggled out of the albergue at Viana and, as already detailed, made my way well behind other pilgrims, past street cleaners hosing down the pavement following the Running of the Bulls. I passed a young girl flirting with a young man working inside a bakery. The bakery was closed, but the young man held up some yummy goods to the window to tease the girl. Young love looks the same everywhere. Beautiful.

A peregrino wished me a Buen Camino. He said we made turtles look like hares, then he passed me too.

I leaned heavily on my metal-tipped walking stick, and tick, tick, ticked through and out of Viana. I can’t tell you how far down the Camino I got before reading various signs in various languages about a man whose house had been taken by the bank. After the police physically removed him and his wife from their home, he began offering tea, coffee, and biscuits for a “donativo” from the back of his van. He was articulate, a “friend of the English-speaking peregrino” and kind. He pulled up a folding chair and insisted I sit and talk. Many pilgrims tossed some Euro coins into his dish and either did or did not enjoy his Camino treats.

Many more peregrinos looked away and continued their conversations on the long road to Santiago.

Then the creepy….Maybe Zoe should stop reading. I can’t bear the “I told you so.”

After I left the man in the van, I continued up and over a pedestrian bridge that ferried pilgrims safely over a busy road. In the distance and down in a valley was parked a white van. I thought it was odd. I couldn’t see any farm work or construction work or ANY work for that matter. I continued to step, grimace, step, wince my way along a quiet dirt path next to a sparse forest when a young Korean girl I recognized ran up to me sputtering something about a “so bad man.” She kept looking over her shoulder towards the pedestrian bridge I had just crossed and in the direction of the homeless Spanish man.

“He’s not a bad man,” I said. “He has no home and wants you to buy a tea or cookie.”

“No,” she insisted.”A so bad man in the trees. He so bad man.”

I looked into the forest I’d just passed through and saw a man dressed in jeans and a blue shirt hanging out in the trees. He watched us, but didn’t move. The Korean girl finally rushed ahead, leaving me to wonder what I could have done on a gimpy leg. I couldn’t save myself or anyone else in that moment. I never knew why the Korean girl thought the man was so bad. I never saw her again. And, thankfully, I never again saw the blue man in the forest. (Did he own the isolated white van in the valley?)

And then the hope.

I dragged my left leg past a huge community garden as I prepared to walk into Logrono. People were enjoying their produce and each other’s company. The book Seedfolks came to mind, and I started to miss my classroom. Although, I suspect I liked that damn book more than my students. I also passed an old woman selling leather bracelets, necklaces, and pins. She offered sellos for free. I found myself frequently explaining that my “rodilla” hurt. “I can see that,” she said. Her place was a rundown hippie establishment with a good vibe. I bought a leather bracelet with the iconic shell, and hoped Logrono was an easy city to make my way through.

(Re)Enter Italian grandmother Angela. Angela kept popping up along the Way and in some of the albergues I slept in. I’d pull her raincover over her backpack, she’d offer me cream for my knee. Her English was as wide as my Italian. We could both swear in the other’s language. 🙂 If Angela hadn’t asked to walk slowly with me through Logrono to Navarette, I would have ended my Camino long before I did.

Angela was likely suffering tendonitis in her ankle. She kept pace with me and offered encouragement. We slogged through Logrono, past the long fence adorned with crosses woven through it by passing peregrinos, until Navarette came into view. (I tried to weave a cross through the chain link, but couldn’t stand long enough flamingo style with my walking stick in hand to get the twigs to stay put. I’d like to think they didn’t blow away after I turned my back.)

Spanish towns/cities present difficulties for pilgrims. They appear like an oasis in the desert. But it takes so damn long to reach them. Then you have to climb, climb, climb another Spanish hill to reach the city. Then you have to find the freakin’ albergue you reserved before they give your top bunk away to another peregrino.

Somehow that gutsy gramma and I made it to Navarette and upstairs to our twin beds in a room for three in a wonderful modern albergue. I didn’t know then that my Camino was over. Peregrinos went out to buy me supper. Again. Getting to the toilet involved sliding along walls and lowering myself by using my death grip on the sink.

When morning came, Angela hugged me goodbye. A Korean girl I’d been pissed at the night before for rustling plastic bags after “lights out” offered me her shoulder and humped me to a bottom bunk in a new room. Often albergues will not let you stay more than one night. I managed two after Celestino and his wife Alicia saw that walking was not in my immediate future.

Uli, a German transplanted to the United States, loved Navarette enough to stay one additional day. She also stayed to care for me, tell me stories and discuss life.
Celestino and Alicia made Uli’s extra day possible, as well. I spent most of the next day and the second night putting bags of frozen peas and frozen shrimp on my swollen knee.

I believe my Camino may have started in earnest from my bunk bed in Navarette. Uli’s Camino is about human connections. I’d never considered that. I wanted to walk, think, meditate, pray, consider my studies and figure out who the heck I was as a retired teacher without a classroom identity. I didn’t have to travel to Spain to work this out. And I didn’t have to travel to Spain to remember that I have caring, kind, funny, compassionate friends at home. And I cannot begin to wrap up Uli’s wisdom, or Angela’s spirit, or Celestino and Alicia’s generosity and understanding. But while stuck and scared and alone in a foreign country, I realized we must be there for each other through our unique offerings. It’s not just the way of the Camino or the pilgrim. It’s life and it’s love.

Ultreia!

Ya, but…Friedrich, how FAR do I have to walk to finally have a great thought? My blisters and aching knee pretty much consume my thinking moments every inch of every kilometer of every day!

Estella to Los Arcos

Strange day. Many reminders of home. Even in Spain, I am the one changing the toilet paper roll. When I unplugged my phone from the wall charger, the time was 7-11. Made me think of Andrew and Super Big Gulps.

I started by getting lost. Again. And again. Cities give me trouble. I hate entering cities, and I frequently miss the yellow arrows when leaving cities. But the day was cooler and mostly overcast. So retracing my steps was not such a heated, miserable process as in days past.

I finally walked up to the famous water and wine fountain, Fuente del Vino at the Bodegas Irache. Now, you should really only sample the wine. Not fill your beer stein, or water bottle, or your freakin’ mouth after jamming your stupid shaved head under the spigot. Besides, it was 9:45 a.m. Leave some for the afternoon winos! So the asshole under the spigot bathed in the vino, then stood up proudly and dropped his cell/camera on the pavement. And that’s how I understand Karma!

The rest of the day was uneventful. I took a picture of another “No dogs pissing here” sign for Jessica, and scored the last bed in a fine albergue in Los Arcos where I unexpectedly reunited with my original Camino family. We went out and drank way too many pitchers of Sangria, made way too much noise outside the church walls where we gathered for protection from the wind, and were asked to move just before a hearse pulled up with pedestrian mourners following behind. I believe I sent Andrew a drunken text before entering the (most spectacular) church for a sello and forgiveness. 🙂

Los Arcos to Viana

I expected trouble the moment my knee gave out on me as I descended from the top bunk. That mishap was followed by the first truly bad coffee I had to dump from my Timmies mug onto the Camino.

So, walking stick in hand, I shuffled past an abandoned pair of hiking boots atop a Camino kilometre marker, numerous rock cairns(?), and toilet paper in random pee places. And then I watched a shepherd move hundreds of sheep from one pasture to another with the help of three expert dogs. I waited with five other peregrinos. Mesmerized. The shepherd moved toward us, asked us where we were from, and called out commands to the dogs. He wished us a Buen Camino and continued to control the flow of sheep as the sheep passed within feet of a busy road. That shepherd’s dogs made poor Abby and Bob look like lazy four-legged moochers. God I miss those lazy four-legged moochers. 🙂

I climbed another bloody hill, and continued on to Viana. Of course, I had no idea how far Viana was from where I was. I checked the guide for important information like fountains dispensing potable water, and cafes dispensing cafe con leche. Reading maps has never been my thing. When a Spaniard on a scooter stopped me along the highway and handed me an advertisement for a new albergue in Viana, I assumed I was close to another top bunk. He waggled his fingers from his forehead to imitate a bull, and explained that Viana was hosting a bullfight and a Running of the Bulls contest.
By the time I reached my bottom bunk in Viana, Carmen, the kindest hospitalera ever, said it was really a running of the cows, but it was worth seeing. Sadly, I was only capable of sliding to the shower and back to my bunk. My knee was fubared, so peregrinos brought food in for me, and I avoided dealing with the moral/ethical issues surrounding bullfights by remaining bedridden. Some peregrinos boasted they had run ahead of the bulls. Which brings me to…

On the way out of Viana, I passed the bullfighting ring and the city workers cleaning up the street garbage from previous night’s festivities.
Now, there is often animal crap on the rural roads in Spain. But after a Running of the Bulls, I wonder if city workers can tell the difference between the bullshit and what passes when a peregrino shits his pants?

On that note,

Ultreia!

While the WiFi holds out, I’m going to catch up my pilgrimage to the point when I became disabled. As far as the bursitis or tendonitis or whatever-the-hell-I-have goes, I have restarted my Camino from Sarria…115 kms outside of Santiago. On crutches. Today, an E.M.S. worker was concerned that I might be developing tendonitis in my wrists. My thumbs don’t work properly, and I find myself envying monkeys. I can’t hold a pen to write in my journal. My signature is unrecognizable. HOWEVER, I am now only 52 kms outside of Santiago. Andrew is pushing hard so that I don’t give up. And I’m buying a shit-load of bandages for my hands, as they now serve as feet. More on these last few days into Santiago later.

Camino: Maneru to Estella
One day I will send the hospitalera of the albergue in Maneru a picture of me in Santiago de Compostela. When I twice left her albergue (I’d forgotten something and had to return), I twice took a wrong turn. She is definitely not convinced I’ll find my way to Santiago. But I also learned to leave places when there was enough daylight to see the yellow arrows.

The road to Estella was a rocky road…always a good thing when it’s ice cream. Not so freakin’ wonderful when it’s underfoot. If you’ve been reading any of these posts, you might see a pattern emerge: rocks, hills, boredom, rocks, hills, “why am I doing this?”, boredom…oops, where the hell am I?, rocks, hills…..You get it. So I’ll spare you the repetitive details. Some of the day was broken up with farmers showing off their produce. Old guys proudly pointing to their big tomatoes, or waving big cucumbers (or zucchini?) and wishing us a Buen Camino. I will never tire of hearing that phrase.

I photographed my shadow today. It’s been my constant silent companion, since St. Jean Pied de Port, but it does seem to be losing more weight than I am. Curse those delicious Pilgrim Meals!

Not too much happened on the road to Estella. I saw the usual lavender-coloured butterflies, then the usual nasty flies that seem to cluster around me in greater numbers as I get sweatier and smellier. I learned of three separate pilgrims who ended their pilgrimages because of sprains or tendonitis. I photographed some amazing graffiti, a “don’t let your dog pee here” sign, and a picture of Jesus advertising a WiFi zone in Lorca. Hey, it’s all in a day’s walk.

I was relieved to get one of the last beds in the Municipal albergue in Estella. That’s when the fun started. I love albergue life. Number 1 question? Do you snore? As I had scored another top bunk, something that stops being fun after childhood, a Polish peregrina gave me some special naturopathic cream to rub into my aching calf muscles, a Chinese peregina gave me drugs, and the Farmacia sold me some Compeed for my blisters and hot spots. That stuff is great and expensive. Not sure why we can’t get it at home.
I wasn’t interested in spending 11 Euros for the Pilgrim Menu, so a guy at the deli made me a good bocadillo (I would go on to dislike those things) and sold me a Coke. I ate outside under a metal ring that was attached to a VERY OLD building. Two ancient Spaniards explained that those rings were used to tether the burrows and horses “back in the day”.

Of course, I was unable to blog any of this at the time, as I believe most of the places I have stayed in are still tethering their asses to metal rings, and not working on their WiFi connections. I listened to Little Mary from Nigeria now living in Ireland preach about the merits of marriage, then I crawled up to my top bunk and fell asleep to the Camino sonata of snorers. And some farting. And coughing.

(Doesn’t look like I’m going to finish the next few days to Navarette, as it’s lights out here.

Ultreia.

The WiFi has been mostly unavailable or iffy at best. I have so much to tell, and now two separate Caminos to write about, I’m not even sure where to begin. Since Andrew and I started walking out of Sarria, I have been calling this My Camino 2.0. Of course, for poor Andrew, who has been unfailingly supportive at my side, it is the beginning of his pilgrimage.
I really should finish the tale of my pilgrimage from St. Jean Pied de Port to Navarette, where everything came to a sudden and painful end. But know that even after two doctors at the Burgos University Hospital, and one fine physiotherapist in Leon said my camino was Kaput!, I am on my feet with the aid of two crutches and one fine man who often acts as my left crutch. In addition to Andrew, a pair of 36 Euro crutches (with reflectors!), some very strong drugs, and encouragement from the most amazing peregrinos along the Way, prayer has been most healing. We manage to find a church in every town that offers a Pilgrim Mass complete with a special Pilgrim Blessing. The priest in Leon said a little blessing in Spanish for my knee. Actually, I was a bit shy going to the front of the church for the blessing, given I completely botched the passing of the host while balancing two crutches and trying not to fall over. I think God and the priest forgave me!! Oh, and, did I mention the great drugs? 🙂

So, before I miss my curfew at the albergue where there is NO WiFi, let me continue with Camino Part 1: Zariquiegue to Maneru.

Spain has one hell of a lot of hills. Going up is murder when you are out of shape. Going down is murder…even if you are in shape. I went up and down many, many hills on my way to Maneru. The downhill experience is further complicated by large, loose rocks that I managed to mostly navigate at a speed that rivaled fossilization.

The climb to Alto de Perdon (the metal sculptures of medieval pilgrims) was a challenge. At the bottom of the hill, I remember thinking, “At least I don’t have to climb up to those wind turbines.” Well, I was close enough.

At the summit, I posed for an iphone picture at the ass end of a metal horse. It was the only way to look good. I mean, how can you look bad next to a horse’s ass?

Then came one of THE worst rocky descents of the Camino. I can’t speak for the descent into Roncesvalles, as I took the pussy path down. Well, it WAS longer than the harder path.

The rest is pretty much a blur of heat, thirst, difficult paths, blackberries, and beautiful graffiti. I passed through Puente del Reina, said goodbye to my Korean companion, and continued over yet another medieval bridge toward…well, I wasn’t really sure where I was headed. But when I arrived, I was damn happy to snag the last bed (top bunk again) in a 12-bed albergue that felt like an oasis. Welcome to Maneru. Say God bless to a meal that included white asparagus, tomatoes and olives, and wine, wine, wine. And the company of peregrinos is always the best part of the day.

I have yet to really enjoy the meditative aspect of the walk. Yes, I should have trained. Yes, I should have carried less. I should have lost a few pounds, too, so I could better enjoy a daily 20 km walking meditation. But I enjoy the camaraderie of pilgrims. We have the Way in common, and I draw much peace, philosophy, laughter and balm from their banter in the wildest mix of languages outside of my ESL classroom.

And I miss my home.

Love you all.
Ultreia!

A quick update:
We left Ponferrada today for Lugo. I believe Lugo is part of the Camino Primitivo. This explains the number of brass shells embedded in the pavement, the occasional yellow arrow, and a sign offering direction to pilgrims on horseback. Lugo has a 2 km long Roman wall that Andrew and I walked tonight under cloudy skies. I hobbled. Andrew walked the entire 2 kms.

Tomorrow we leave for Sarria, about 115 kms outside of Santiago. As I am able to walk on crutches with less pain tonight, we are hoping that, with one more day of rest, I might be able to put in 10 km days all the way to Santiago. While it would be nice to walk to Santiago using my new hiking poles, I might instead need to lean on my crutches all the way. Shhhh…don’t tell Dr. Henry!

Trinidad de Arre to Zariquiegui
A group of five (including 4 Canadians) left the monastery at Trinidad de Arre and searched for breakfast. I guess we pissed off Ted, as he wouldn’t enter the bakery with us. He went looking for protein. I ate the Spanish version of the donut. Yummy. I know Ted is still walking. Others have seen him. Given my knee problems later on the Camino, I should have been more focussed on the protein.

Anja, Gary, Mary, and I took a slow walk into Pamplona. I had one of those “pinch me” moments. Pamplona lived and breathed around me. Colours. Smells. Fun! As I parted ways with my three Camino friends, a tourist bus unloaded near us, and we were suddenly the subjects of their photos. We were real, live Pilgrims! I guess this 60 seconds goes towards my total 15 minutes of fame.

Anja needed to take a short day to heal her sizable blisters, and both Gary and Mary had planned a full day in Pamplona. I would have liked to stay, but Burgos by the 21st of September beckoned. Once I was outside Old Pamplona, I managed to twice lose my way in New Pamplona. Don’t ask. Twice I was helped by citizens who yelled “Senora Peregina” and pointed the way I should have travelled. Not sure how I managed to miss so many of those shiny discs engraved with shells along the Way. It is hard to gape at a beautiful city and watch where you are going at the same time.

Not everyone in the “big city” was especially kind. Or perhaps the lesson is that teenagers are pretty much the same the world over. I was trucking along in my Keen’s hiking sandals and black skort, both knees hidden under thick black tensor sleeves, when I encountered a group of cool Spanish girls. Supermodel types. You don’t need much Spanish to know when you are being ridiculed. Meh. I’ll pray for them in Santiago too. On the cheesy side…they called me “Americano”. I didn’t correct them. hehehe

Outside of Pamplona, I again got lost in Cizur Menor. The problem with getting lost is having to retrace your steps…in the heat…in pain….I was so disoriented by this time, and frustrated at my apparent inability to follow a clear way-marked path. A nice hospitalera at an albergue resembling an oasis pointed me in the right direction, and offered me water. I nearly refused out of politeness. THAT would have proven a serious mistake later.

What’s the rule? If you can’t say anything nice, yadda yadda yadda. I sweated, and burned in the sun, and climbed, and sweated, and burned, and swatted at flies that loved my brand of sweat and smell, and climbed some more. I climbed past a castle ruin at Guendulain (?) and didn’t care. I passed Lena from Denmark who looked like I felt. We both feared we’d run out of water before finding a fountain offering potable water. After checking in with her, I continued to climb, sweat, and conserve what little water I had remaining. Lena caught up with me at a sign posting a 2 km walk to the nearest albergue. So close yet so far.

I’ve been thirsty before, but I’ve never experienced fear over running out of water and perhaps becoming sick as a result. Scary. I paid my respects at a memorial to a fallen pilgrim, and slogged through the heat again. When Lena and I arrived at Albergue de Zariquigue, I think Lena was prepared for violence if they had turned us away. “I just cannot walk anymore,” she said. Neither of us needed to walk further that night. However, if you must know how BAD I looked, even with pigtails and a skirt, the hospitalero entered my deets into the computer as MALE!!! ‘Nuff said.

Today was a day I asked myself often, “Why am I doing this? Surely there are steep rocky or dirt paths along the Bruce Trail I could climb near home? Did I have to spend my time in Spain living like an ancient penitent on the road to Santiago? Maybe I should have stayed in Pamplona.”

After a shower, a great pilgrim’s meal, a couple litres of water, and the bottom bunk for the night, I was able to look fondly at my Keen’s hiking sandals again.

Ultreia!