Victoria Osborne

There you go
a personal, vegan, teetotal, account of walking
El Camino del Norte / Primitivo
1 written in Blanes

Some kind of why and Barcelona

Spain 2016-17

wherefore
My Australian father used to say to me,
‘Remember, Victoria, you are a citizen of
the world.’ (English speaking world, that
is.) I was born in London to a mother from
New Zealand. I’ve lived in Sydney, Hong
Kong, Auckland, Dunedin and Melbourne.
Physical barriers, like seas or cliffs make a
lot more sense to me than arbitrary
political borders. I was with John Lennon;
“Imagine there’s no countries, it isn’t hard
to do, nothing to kill or die for and no
religion too, imagine all the people, living
life in peace … “ Seen in graffiti on the
approach to Santiago, this quote was
witnessed by thousands of people every
day, from every country in the world, all
walking the same path. As far as I could
see all these people wearing backpacks
had far more in common than their
language differences. And once you had a
smart phone and a translation app, that
barrier dissolved too. It really wasn’t hard
to do.
The luggage for my Gap Year included a
daypack, a hiking backpack and a large
2
suitcase. Like an interstellar rocket, I
planned to drop excess fuel tanks as I shot
out further from my Melbourne launch pad.
I would leave the suitcase in Madrid
storage for four months and cut down to
two packs for the next few weeks. Then
divide again, post half ahead to Prague
and keep half to walk the Camino de
Santiago. I would take only the bare
essentials to the end of the world,
Finesterre.
One of those things deemed essential was
a stone. My friend, and Camino mentor,
Keira, gave me a clear, circular crystal. It
was a formal thing, like a flying saucer,
enclosed in a blue velvet bag, handy to
absorb everything I no longer required over
six weeks pilgrimage. It would be
jettisoned at the end of the walk, at
Finisterre, land’s end. I would throw it as
far as I could and that glowing crystal will
be dissolved by the elements over the
months and years to come, along with the
characteristics, assumptions and ideas I
no longer needed.
So what were the things I no longer
required? I’d have to think about it. I had a
lot to think about. My family. The
environment. Our species. Our planet. And
six weeks is a lot of time to think in. Isn’t
it?
‘You’re going by yourself?’ People said to
me, ‘You’re so brave’.
Nah. We live in a technological world. I had
a smart phone. Sometimes it even worked!
What had I got to lose? If I died, that
would be the end. If I suffered, well, hardly
alone there!
I did want to be by myself, though.
The Camino de Santiago. Well. A common
refrain on the trail was, “Everyone walks
their own Camino”. It was a pilgrimage in
ancient times but what did that mean
now? For me it was a chance to reset.
Reboot. Re-evaluate.
For others it ranged from extreme sport:
barefoot running, eating only bananas
while wearing only a swoosh, cycling,
racing the calendar, ready for a conference
in Washington the next week; to extreme
devotion, hairshirt-crawling-on-knees
prayer, covered in ash, right up to the altar
of the Cathedral de Santiago de
Compostela. (I may be exaggerating. I
never saw anyone crawl.)
My way would appear a little austere to
some and wickedly middle-class to others.
On the Camino we were all individuals -
yes, even you, you heckling upstart.
3
My advice to anyone contemplating a
Camino? Get fit. Wear in footwear. Trim
your toenails. Learn some Spanish. Don’t
take my advice. Read everything you can.
Don’t read anything. If you camino from
your front door and you’re open to
possibilities, then who knows? You might
find a nice hairshirt. Or a glass of fizzy
cider. Or a juicy plum. Or a nerve-wracking
dog. Or a blister. Or a friend. Or yourself!
I would be walking over June and some of
July, trying to avoid holiday crowds. I
would be walking El Camino de Norte and
the Primitivo. Mainly because I wanted to
attend an international puppet festival in
San Sebastian in May and that took place
just next door to Irun - on the border of
France - from whence the Spanish section
of the Camino del Norte commenced.
From Melbourne, I pre-booked
accommodation for a Spanish language
intensivo in Madrid, two Spanish puppet
festivals (Titirimundi in Segovia plus
UNIMA in San Sebastian) and a visit to my
friend in Mallorca; everything up to the day
when I would first set foot on the Camino. I
booked myself into a month-long puppetry
course in Prague afterwards. In the trips
before and after the Camino I would be
staying in Airbnbs most of the time. After
that I would start work as an English
conversation assistant in a small Spanish
secondary school in October. Some called
it a Sabbatical. Others, a Gap Year. Others,
An Epic Journey. I called it inevitable.
I left Melbourne on my fifty-seventh
birthday. While I was booking Airbnbs, I
chose Blanka’s house in Prague because
she described herself as being of The
Golden Age. Past child-rearing. As each
child left, she had another empty room to
rent. All the Airbnbs I chose to book were
hosted by women of our Golden Age. It
became a deal-maker. Therese in Madrid,
Rosa in Segovia, Lourdes in San Sebastian
and Dolores in Blanes.
The Golden Age; what a very interesting
time of life. Some of these women had
elderly parents and some had
grandchildren. But that time between,
when children were gone and parents not
too demanding, well, that was Golden!
When responsibilities lightened. When you
downsized, creamed a little from the top
and escaped, took the plunge, to see how
the other half lived …
I prepared while living in Melbourne.
Nearing my departure date I volunteered
with a young woman from Vietnam,
helping her English language through
AMES (Australian Migrant Education
4
Service). One day she asked me what I
meant when I said, ‘There you go’.
Consider that phrase. ‘There you go,’ as I
did, when I looked at her, nonplussed. She
was right to be confused. What exactly did
it mean?
I took ‘There you go’ to mean, ‘You’re on
the right track’. ‘Yes, that’s correct.’ ‘That’s
the way to do it.’ It was a phrase that often
rolled out of my mouth, in order to
encourage, to praise, to support. After I’d
burbled out something that appeared to
make some kind of sense to her, we both
left the building by way of the staircase.
My continual Camino training meant I
never set foot in a lift if I could help it. We
met a large, kind lady on her way up. I say
kind because she pressed herself up
against the wall saying, ‘There you go… ‘
as she gestured generously to the inviting
space she’d just created for us on the
steps down. And on we went!
So, given the Camino, ‘There you go’
seems to be inclusive, energetic and
befitting a travel account that you may like
to read wrapped in a blanket, wearing
slippers and never setting a foot on the
trail! There you go! I invite you to proceed
… thirties. I told my family what I’d
There was an expectation that walking the
Camino would amplify significance. I
suppose the solitary nature of pilgrimage
provided plenty of opportunity to reflect.
And sometimes that did happen. One’s
past, relationships, health, humanity …
Mostly I found little time for philosophy.
While walking there was constant scanning
for yellow arrows, water fountains or loose
dogs. There were physical discomforts;
blisters, sore knees or heavy packs. There
was constant planning for food and
shelter, looking for toilet stops, bars or
albergues and the never-ending attempt to
find a moisturiser that wouldn’t bring me
out in a rash. And walking made me tired.
But, occasionally, some things did take on
greater import than normal, or perhaps the
time spent gazing at them meant a better
chance to recognise the significance that
had been there all along.
I was not a Catholic. I was baptised in the
Church of England (my mother a
Presbyterian if we want to keep that
inclusive theme!) and proudly strutted my
atheist colours at university.
I had a near death experience in my
experienced (usual things: light at the end
of the tunnel, loving figures and rejection
5
from Glory back to real life to fulfil the
things one has to do) and my
brother-in-law said, ‘I don’t believe that’.
Well. I guess that was the point. It didn’t
matter what he believed. Believe it or not,
it was my experience. And so it was with
the Camino. Where I slept, who I met,
what I ate; that was my Camino. All the
research in the world could not have
listening to a choral song ‘Of a thousand
birds’ by Sally Whitwell (from her album, ‘I
was flying’) when a blast of sunlight
through the port holes of the plane as we
turned to land in HK flashed like thirty
spotlights and roamed over the opposite
wall in a perfect tumult of light and sound.
When we took off from Melbourne I leaned

predicted, or repeat, my experience of this forward, my mouth open in a keen bite, a

ancient walk. For me. Millions of other gnash of teeth, lifting my seat arms, so

pilgrims have had millions of other keen to rise, so urgent to leave, I was the

experiences. Your Camino would be force pulling up the craft behind me.

different too.

For a shallow person like

myself, sometimes resonance
(or do I mean spirituality?)
could be surprising. And
sometimes, it could be banal.
Sometimes you just realised
that you were on the right
track. Sometimes that was
enough. Sometimes that was
a BLOODY RELIEF! A rescue.
A fortune. Facing the right
direction and carrying on.
What more did you want in
life? There you go.

There was a wonderful

moment on the plane leaving
Australia. I was half dreaming, There you go.

6
CAMINO COUNTDOWN
I arrived in San Sebastian (also called
Donastia - two names for everything in the
Basque Country where they speak
Euskara) at the end of May, mainly to
attend the UNIMA puppetry festival and
also, to prepare for my Camino.
I had a book to listen to on the train. One
of the Titirimundi volunteers, or it might
have been the intense young woman in the
Madrid juice shop, on hearing I was about
to do a Camino, insisted I HAD to read
Paulo Coehlo’s The Pilgrimage. So I
bought it on Audible, downloaded the app,
and managed to listen to it.
The Pilgrimage was narrated by an
American, sonorous, pause-heavy, male
voice. It droned on and on and Paulo took
his SWORD so seriously and he belonged
to a secret organisation called RAM - I
mean - really? RAM? And emerging from
the WATERFALL, nude, in a birthplace
between a rock and a HARD place with his
7
gorgeous male mentor (who was a
successful designer when not leading
Paulo into the wilderness) and my head fell
forward onto my chest and I hoped I
hadn’t dribbled. I did miss something
about exorcising a black dog but I
or hang on, wait for it, the HOLY GRAIL!
And my great challenge? Find out what to
do with it? Oh, boy oh, boy. Why didn’t we
just get on with it, Paulo?
That said, that was my experience. Other

imagined I’d be hearing about that again. experiences are absolutely available.

We did get to hear about most things more

I decided to try out my new bastónes
than once. Seriously? The Seed Exercise?
(walking sticks) by marching up the
I went to acting school. Did Paulo think a
nearest mountain for some splendid views
reader would voluntarily curl into a foetal
of blue sea-sky. The mist hid the horizon
position at the same time every day for
as I walked up, testing different heights
seven days, slowly unfurl into a plant and
(lengths?) of the hiking poles. I felt pleased
when it started to hurt, scream? Really?
with myself, fitting in, just like a real
Without the benefit of health and safety?
peregrina (pilgrim). The crowning glory of
Think of the neighbours.
Mount Igueldo was a macabre Fun Fair. It

Spoiler alert: in the end, he found his was deserted. The highlight was El Torre

sword when he knew what to do with it. (The Tower), which used to be authentic

Fine, but the last time we saw it was when but in 1975 was redecorated like some

his wife went off to hide the sword. His kind of Disney set, topped with parapets

WIFE! She hid the sword. As well she to help sell the Fun Fair.

might. He ran all over Spain with a

So silent up there, perhaps the mist helped
handsome, rich, successful
muffle the air. A hotel, planted squat at the
designer/secret knight looking for his
top of the hill, overlooked the four beaches
sword and who should have it but his
of San Sebastian/Donastia. A beautiful
MASTER and we never saw the wife again.
view where sky and sea conjoined in
I had to say, Coehlo’s The Pilgrimage had
smooth surface. The dodgem cars, the
limited attraction for me. If it were me, my
scary shooting gallery things and the
secret organisation would be called EWE
haunted house all waited, silently, while as
(Erudite Women Experts or Early Worm
many as FIVE TOURISTS walked around.
Earthlings?) and I would have to search for
my female-orientated shell or cornucopia,

8
Whilst atop El Torre, I spied a man below,
walking with an enormous bird flapping,
flapping. The flapping drew my attention.
Did he mean to hold the creature upside
down or had it had fallen? It looked
communication as a matter of principle.
Fair enough.
However, I did have a chat to the Torre
woman during which time she offered me

uncomfortable. Oh God. This Fun Fair had her banana to add to my apple, offered to

a raptor display. stamp my credential (which I did not yet

I should tell you, when

I arrived at El Torre,
sweaty and tired, I was
pressed for two euros
and fifty euro cents to
enter. Before that, even
to enter the Fun Fair, I
had to pay two euros
and thirty euro cents to
a dour woman with her
hand on the bar that
closed down over the
street to prevent
vehicular access. It
was something to do
and I was curious. have) and went specially to get a piece of
Curiosity adds up. paper to make me a demonstration sello
(stamp), a rather large blodge of Torre. She
Sometimes, when I was speaking Spanish
insisted I returned to get the real deal
(okay, attempting to speak Spanish)
when I’d organised my credential. It would
people looked at me like I was speaking
be a big climb to go back just for a stamp
Maori (I can’t). I supposed they probably
but I told her I’d certainly give it some
spoke Eurskara as first language and
thought.
didn’t appreciate my attempts at Spanish

9
She was concerned I was walking the
Camino by myself. She explained, with
some relish, that in Salamanca, or
Santander, or maybe it had been Santiago,
there was a chino girl, or maybe de Japan,
with those slope eyes, yes? Young, yes,
young, that had been caught by a crazy,
tied up and then she was dead. Well, I told
her, I was sorry for the young girl, but as
an old lady, I wasn’t worried. I tried to
explain by saying ‘Cuando tu numeró esta
arriba, tu numeró esta arriba,’ but
apparently when your number is up lost
something in translation or perhaps it was
lost in pronunciation. Or maybe my
number wasn’t up!
I demonstrated how I would beat loco folk
away with my new hiking poles and that
seemed to satisfy her. I enjoyed my fruto
seco (fruit and nuts) bun and apple for
lunch. There was something to be said
about simple fresh fare after climbing a
mountain, even if you were resting with
your feet up in the middle
of a set entirely suitable
for a Hitchcock film with a
woman determined to
milk all the juicy horror
elements from her Tower.
Just to make sure I was
still on the right track, I
slept in my sleeping bag a
couple of nights before I
left my Airbnb. I was very
comfortable. However, I
was still on a cosy homey
bed with pillow. I thought
of that scene in WILD
where Sheryl prepared for
her long walk into the American desert and
couldn’t lift her pack from the motel floor.
Perhaps I would practice packing again.
And again.
For a solitary person I was managing to
have quite a chatty time of it in San
Sebastian/Donastia. The third shop I asked
about reflective tape started a
10
conversation with the two fellows working
on bike repairs. They involved a more
senior fellow, perhaps their dad, who
decided to take me around the corner
(bend) to the bigger bike shop. He told me
he’d been born in San Sebastian, in a line
of four generations. He told me he’d seen
many changes but he felt Donastia now
was better than any time he’d known it
before. He worried young people did not
understand history. He said there were
political difficulties (Occupy, set up in the
central gardens here, were highlighting a
number of issues facing Basque people,
not least the political prisoners held too far
from home).
He said things were so much better now
with income from tourists, and people like
me (I think he meant pilgrims). He was very
concerned I should get my reflectando
tape. He agreed that walking on busy
roads, either in dawn or in rain,
necessitated some kind of visibility
assistance. After the bike shop turned us
away empty handed, we popped in to the
motorbike shop and that fellow seated
behind his broad counter thought about it
and said no, but his large body kept
moving through space, bending towards a
drawer in front of him. (I don’t think he
stood up very often). He found a couple of
packs of reflective stickers, designed to be
given out with motorbike helmets. And he
didn’t want money. Because it was the
Camino. And the bike repair man, who had
so seriously gone out of his way, said
‘Buen Camino’ (Good Way), the first time
I’d heard it said to me, and it was all so
genuine and rather overwhelming.
Gratitude. The Camino fuel.
On another day, I marched up Mount
Urgall, the hill on the other side of the bay,
to see Jesus. I was surprised to find a
military citadel there, with gun placements
and batteries, disused now of course, but
centuries old, older than Napoleon. It was
Napoleon and friends who laid waste old
San Sebastian, apart from the one road,
sensibly, where they were all staying. Now
the hill is a park and Jesus was an
afterthought, planted high on the hill in
1950. The sculpt was dramatic, visible
from everywhere in the town, not quite Rio
but big enough. The walk was a leafy
outing and I enjoyed yet another chat with
the man who ran the museum up there. I
thought it all very tucked away and
under-advertised. As I came down the hill I
could hear a band playing ‘Somewhere
over the rainbow’ with a clear trumpet line.
On the way back from the theatre after
seeing a puppet show from Italy called
Out, tears still in my eyes from admiration,
11
yes, of a perfectly formed small show and
a message to me, personally, the idea that
I had to be open to experiences as I
travelled, I set foot on the bridge directly
outside the Victoria Eugenia theatre. There
I saw two groups of people watching a
seagull eat something. I thought at first it
must have been one of those large fish
visible in the water in the mornings - much
lower then because of the tide - over the
green mossy stones, mostly cube shaped,
I supposed left over from road building, or
formation of the river mouth into the sea
somehow.
The seagull was not eating fish, but bird.
All that was left was a leg and part of a
wing. As it pecked at the remains the
exposed leg was flattened out, stretched
and flipped on the rock. The foot appeared
to open and claw the air.
It made me think again, back to that
chained eagle at the fun park at the top of
the Mount Iduell. The bird held upside
down that had first attracted my attention
was then planted by the entrance to
advertise the installation. Next to El Torre,
beside the swimming pool, near the
dodgem cars. All of which stood silent. I
watched the bird, still ruffled, pick up her
foot, showing me clearly how it was tied.
Then she stretched out her big yellow
claws. Clearly uncomfortable. She
changed feet, showing me the other. I felt
she was watching me, tilting her head to
one side, challenging me, what are you
going to do? I felt helpless. I couldn’t do
anything. And, even if I did have
wirecutters, what then?
I watched a young, fashionably dressed
couple, he in tight-fitting white tee and she
carrying a small boutique bag, though
where the boutique was in that god
forsaken Fun Fair I don’t know, and they
barely glanced at this magnificent creature
as they went past. She was looking at her
phone. Another group arrived at the
bottom of the steps and the two women
stood beside me as the man climbed up to
assess the value of the visit. He studied
the bird’s leg. It appeared to be held by
some kind of plastic coated wire. Rigid.
And the man voiced what we were all
feeling. ‘It would not feel comfortable to
pay to see birds held in captivity.’ No, it
certainly would not.
So, instead, in freedom, one could
photograph a large seagull eating another
bird, and watch that foot, twitching and
stretching out claws on mossy green
stones in a river, for free.
12
On the way home up the steep hill to my
Airbnb I passed a fiesta. The smell of
barbecue was strong and merry voices
rose in song, ‘New York, New York, these
vagabond shoes are longing to stray, I’m
gonna make a brand new start of it … ’
and then Fernando, outside with Lourdes
and I, with chip and fizzy drink, decided to
play Freddy Mercury at the top volume on
his phone, ‘I want to break free … God
knows, got to make it on my own … ‘
Restless, restless, restless… Trying to
organise, find a place for everything, a
thing in its place. Posted 3.5 kg to Czech
Republic. Along with the previous 3kg it
must have lightened me.
Trying to listen more to Paulo Coehlo’s
Pilgrimage. So sober and serio. So
sonorous and repetitive. I wish he’d stop
saying, ‘The Strange Road to Santiago’.
Better, the ‘Road of the Common People’.
Interesting how Coehlo’s first impulse to
write about the Camino was so
quintessentially masculine. So off-puttingly
sexual to my mind. I supposed Secret
Knights’s Orders were usually blokes
dancing about in trances and waving
swords in candle light but it didn’t mean I
had to like it. The focus was too narrow.
I wanted to think. The world was getting
smaller, our population getting larger and
now humans wanted to shut out ‘the
other’. If the camino was a walking
meditation or prayer, then I wanted to think
about our planet, meditate upon our
species and pray for my family; my
personal little family and our great, wide
family of man.
Strange how every day the upcoming
weather gave warning of tormentas
(storms) and then as the day progressed, it
would always turn out warm and sunny. I
reminded myself to buy sunscreen.
Martes 7th June - Day One - The leaving
of San Sebastian - (only to return in two
days) A pleasant chat with all the family:
Lourdes, Fernando, Hermano and
Carmela. A one euro ninety cent train
ticket to Irun. And then, smooth gliding
steps onto a magical Camino.
Yeah. Right.
13
2 La Comida vegana
¡Buen Provecho!
If I ate out I usually had salad and chips
but normally I prepared food for myself. I
carried two plastic containers (which fit
inside each other for travel). The larger
proved useful as bowl with the lid as
chopping board. The smaller kept teabags
or oil/vinegar sachets. One little fold-up
Plant-based food
How to survive in Spain
Some flexibility
knife and one of those plastic
splade/spork things. I did not carry coffee.
Better to buy it at morning tea/lunch time
to meet some other pilgrims and to use the
facilities! Always good to have an excuse
to use the bathroom.
14
IMPORTANT NOTE: ALWAYS carry
tissues. Many public toilets don’t have
toilet paper. Or the toilet paper is outside
the stalls. Gather BEFORE going inside!
Commonly available from
Supermarket/Herboristeria
(or farmacias)
Most albergues do have some kind of
stocked kitchen; fry pan, pot, plates, cups
and cutlery
 
STUFF TO CARRY If you have
room in your light, light pack.
Dried cup-o-soup (miso/veg) or low salt
veg stock cubes
Crisp breads / corn/rice cakes / tostadas -
CRISPY BREAD SNACKS are everywhere
and super excellent - watch out - some
flavours are really salty
Smallest possible museli
Wholemeal pasta (can cook in half a soup
cube and chuck a chopped fresh
tomato/can of peas thru it)
Single-serve integral rice/quinoa/chia –
there’s a pre-cooked version made by
Brilliante (most albergues have a
microwave at least – if not, you’re having
salad!)
Dark chocolate
Small almendra (almond) /arroz (rice)
/averna (oat) milk
Dried fruit and nuts – can often buy loose
from large health food shops or fruiteria
Individual oil/vinegar/salt packs
Mini patés – there’s a smashed black olive
one I loved and the mushroom one is good
Mini nut butters – watch out for the really
sweet almond one! Surprise!
BROCCOLI or kale chips!! Other chips will
do too – there’s some nifty chili corn chips
that are vegan!
Multi-vitamins for those weak days
Probiotics
Your fav tea bag - mine was a
relaxing/chamomile type thing
  
15
Fresca (fresh) from Fruiteria All the fruit and veg! 

or market stalls (I was surprised when I first saw a fellow

pilgrim eat a whole punnet of strawberries
You can buy separate single things from at a sitting and then I thought, why not?)
‘mom & pop’ type stores and have a funny
friendly conversation! (eg can often buy  
just a few strawberries) And for peas or
beans I normally mime a handful (un mano, Things to cook into the
por favor? Es possible?) pasta/rice

a carrot (also handy to eat raw as snack

as are red peppers - big in Vit C)

tomato

little green pimientos

mushroom

shallots

Handful of leaves

Peas or beans

Keep your eyes peeled for things on the

counter near the knife – and watch
previous shoppers; sometimes you can
get a rodaja (tronza) de calabaza (slice of
pumpkin)

a slice of col (cabbage)

NO TOCAR - Don’t touch! The mom/pop
will pick up and bag your items for you. I normally say ‘una pequena, solo para yo!’
You must speak! and we all laugh and smile … 

16
AND watch out for an already cooked Jar of asparagus
batata (sweet potato) from surprising
bakers Jar of cooked beans

For the salad: leaves, of course If sharing then Mercadona do a nice

guacamole and there’s a choice of
Avocado hummus - but perhaps you can manage a
whole container on your own with some
Cocktail cucumbers delicious bread?

Other common things from Depending on how hungry you are you
may need to ask if there is any dairy-free
the fruiteria/market
bread. Often there is.
Handful of walnuts – many rice/pasta
In Oviedo there was a lactose-free spelt
dishes are improved with the addition of
specialist baker. Pan sin lactosa.
walnuts!
It depends how hungry you are. If you
Almonds (almendras)
don’t ask, there’s always the chance it
Dates (datiles) could be … (most bread in Spain is made
with milk. Sorry.)
Figs (higos)

Cocktail mix of fruit and nuts - salty with

big chunks of corn
Things to order in
cafes 
SMALL – not to carry – eat
that night Breakfast/morning tea – tostada integral
con tomate y aciete (normally in deal with
Tin of peas zumo de naranja y café) - tomato on toast
with olive oil and garlic or a variation
Can/jar roasted peppers
thereof.

17
Churros! But make sure the choc is made
with water.
say: Soy vegetariano/a - vegano/vegana
(I am veg - a is for girls)
say: SOLO VERDURAS (only
vegetables)
say: SIN PRODUCTOS DE ANIMALES
(without animal products)
say: SIN (without) jamon (ham
pronounced hamon) atun (tuna) queso
(cheese) huevos (eggs) miel (honey)
mayo (unless it’s vegan!) leche/lactosa
(milk) nata/crema (cream)
say: Por favor (please!)
Look for:
Parrillada or Escalivada de verduras
(roasted vegetables DELICIOUS! – hold the
mayo)
Zanahorias aliñadas (marinaded carrots)
Esparagus con aciete
Gazpacho (or Salmorejo but hold the eggs
and ham)
Pimentos al padron (those little green
peppers roasted SO YUM with nice bread
and oil)
Espinachas con garbanzos (spinach and
chickpeas)
Setas or Championes al Aljillo
(mushrooms, garlic and olive oil)
Berenjenas (eggplant)
Pisto (roasted vegetable stew like
ratatouille)
Ajo Blanco (chilled almond soup – haven’t
tried this yet, sounds great)
Crema de verduras  (veg soup)
Ensalada mixta; (lechuga, maiz, tomate,
esparagus, pepino, pimento, acuacate
¡SIN PRODUCTOS DE ANIMALES
POR FAVOR!
Here! She says it better!
https://www.thenomadicvegan.com/the-ult
imate-vegan-guide-to-spain/
AND remember to use
https://www.happycow.net/ – the
friendliest café with vego options can be
found in the most unlikely places
18
3 Las Cosas

¡Buen Camino! Things to take with you

Keep it small
Keep it light
Do you really need it?

Please note: the longest time on the Try to get biodegradable - you may need to
Camino del Norte/Primitivo without a shop bury rubbish. The following are only
is 22km. There will be a shop soon. suggestions! Go your own way.

19

Ask yourself - do I need it? Can I live
without it? Can I buy it along the way?
(Yes, you probably can.)
boots. These are your homes for six weeks
or however long you walk. Mine feel like
slippers now. Vegan boots are available. (I
know Dubbin’s not vegan. And neither are
the boots. I try.)

See the book: ‘To walk far carry less’:

Socks that fit well and are geared to the
https://www.amazon.com.au/Camino-Sant
weather - you don’t need fluffy winter
iago-Walk-Carry-Less-ebook/dp/B005NK
socks in the middle of summer. Get expert
NB0I
advice. Do not skimp on socks. I took
three pairs. Two is enough. But it will rain.
Two outfits as a general rule - one to
Keep one pair dry at all times. This could
wear while the other washes. I preferred to
be in a special lockup plastic bag
sleep in a third outfit - tee-shirt and
running shorts - heavy!
Toenail clippers and foot moisturiser.
You must love, massage and thank your
Take plenty of time. This is probably the
feet every day. Keep your toenails short.
last time you’ll do this (although some
You may use the same moisturiser for your
people do it over and over again) so make
face. See a podiatrist six weeks before
sure you’ve calculated enough
walking. No closer than that. Let your feet
rest/exploring days. Why rush? Do a
be as soft and relaxed as the smile on your
shorter camino like Portugues or English if
face. Have you trimmed your toenails
you can’t afford the time.
today? I know I have.
CHOOSE THE SMALLEST, LIGHTEST,
Sleeping bag and inner sheet - suitable
PACK POSSIBLE
for the prevailing weather. I took a pillow
Actually, choose lightest, smallest case to fill with a jumper as a pillow but
EVERYTHING you don’t need to. There’s often pillows in
the albergues. In summer you may not
Camino rule - your pack should weigh need the bag.
one tenth of your body weight

Boots that fit - get an expert’s advice.

Wear them in well. Do not skimp on your

20
Protective sheet - If there’s been a
bedbug infestation certain albergues will
provide you with a protective sheet for the
mattress but I saw no evidence of creepy
crawlies anywhere I stayed. (Don’t put your
backpack on the bunks.) Towards the end I
did carry diluted lavender oil to spray
around me and still I never saw a bedbug
but did I feel slightly more relaxed?
Plain comfy cotton underwear that
washes well and dries fast
Walking trousers that zip off to shorts -
make sure the zip does not rub against
your skin - handy to have safe zip pockets
for phone / wallet
Walking shirts (I prefer long sleeved for
sun protection) Many walking shirts have
turn up collars that tuck under a hat. Also
if you have front pockets you can get away
with no bra. Most walking shirts might
seem expensive but they dry super fast,
have sun protective fabric and last for
years and years of solid wear. I took two.
Zip up sleeveless warm vest - I like these
- lots of pockets with zips. You will be
walking by the coast. There will be breezy
days.
Jumper / hoodie - LIGHT warm thing -
avoid big bulky favourite knitwear!
Sun hat - really. If you are outside for
hours you will be vulnerable to sun no
matter what temperature
Raincoat - I had a poncho which was
brilliant as a ground cover to sit on as well
as a sturdy windbreak - it needed the
structure of a cap to keep the hood up
away from my eyes. It will rain on the
Norte. It rains nearly every day in the
Basque Country and maybe every second
day in Asturias and Galicia. It will certainly
rain. Consider walking with bare legs in
rain - shorts or skirt - much easier to dry
Water bottle/s - consider carrying on your
front - perhaps in a fanny pack or front
holsters as well as sunglasses and snacks
- weight on your front balances the weight
of the backpack - 2 litres of water plus
stuff will weigh you down
Going into town outfit - comfortable and
decent - shirt/skirt/shorts/trousers /dress -
light - just one - do you really need it?
Sandals / jandals / thongs / flip flops - in
certain shower stalls and perhaps going
into town
21
Essential medications - whatever you
need for as long as you need it - but do
you really need it?
Bar of soap - plain - not just for skin - hair
- clothes … Same thing! Some people take
mini clothes pegs or travelling clothes line
Small travellers towel (also consider a
tiny corner of a face washer if you like a
little scrubber with you)
Toothpaste / toothbrush / floss - some
people like to saw the end off their
toothbrush to save weight. Well. If you’re
that fussy … cut the labels out of your
clothes too
Moisturiser
Sunscreen
Muscle cream - For those strained or
twisted aches and pains - BUT FIRST be
careful - take your time! Avoid injury. Take
a rest. (Keep your eyes peeled for Pomada
Sant Juan - a magic lotion I was
encouraged to buy in Donastia - includes
hypericon)
Hand sanitiser
First aid - Bandaids, antiseptic cream to
keep hurts moist / iodine to dry out
wounds / Sting/insect bite
cream/paracetamol - but you can buy stuff
on the way.
A wrap / sulu / fabric to cover head in
church / sunscreen over shoulders /
warmth / instead of sheet in heat … this
could also work as a travellers towel
Tissues / toilet paper
padlock and key - some
hostels/albergues have lockers
Headtorch
Plastic containers for leftovers
Travellers probiotics - hopefully you
won’t need them but if you do get the
squitters …
Walking sticks (bastónes) - take 30% of
your body weight and give your arms a
good work out - some folk love a rustic
wooden walking stick for that pilgrim
feeling - can you take it through customs?
You might find one on the way. And leave it
there. Handy if you meet an angry dog
Notebook / journal / pens /pencils
/watercolours etc (Think of the weight!)
Guide book? Up to date? Some people
rip out pages as they go - getting lighter ...
22
 information is published all the time.
And you will do your Camino your way!

Some people listen to music / podcasts

/ audio books etc while walking. I like to
keep my wits about me while walking.
Listening perhaps for twinkling creeks,
rushing rivers, birds or cars, dogs or
approaching walkers. I would save the
audio books for those grim snorey
nights.

Smart phone and headphones. Do you Wifi is pronounced ‘wee fee’ and there’s
really have to take an extra camera as plenty of it.
well? There are lots of Camino based apps
and info - always upgrading - so up to you Charger - do keep an eye on your phone.

- or choose to stay off grid.

Ear plugs / eye mask for sleeping

I only used paper maps from Tourist

Sense of humour
Offices (I used them as a touch stone for
advice) and the Gronze app Sense of awe
(https://www.gronze.com/) which helped
my written Spanish understanding. Now I Flexibility
think I would take maps.me
(https://maps.me/) and download each Time - lots of time - be rich in
map for the next stage before I travelled. I time - and patience. You’ll get
did that when walking from Pamplona to
Burgos in 2019 and it definitely cut out a there in time. 5km in one hour.
lot of walking in circles for me. Roughly.
A good place to start is the forum
(https://www.caminodesantiago.me/comm
unity/) but do your own research. New

23
4
Camino del Norte
The Coastal Way, the Northern Way, the
Green Way, El Camino del Norte is the way
to get to Santiago de Compostella across
the top of Spain. They say you begin your
camino when you leave your front door. In
Spain you might begin your camino from
Irun or if you have a spare day or two, you
might leave from Hendaye in France.
However you go, you will do it your way.
There you go. Buen Camino!
24
Pasages de San Juan, Martes 7th Junio - DAY
1 - Hospital de peregrinos Santa Ana - 16.7km
(with additional km for lostage)
A deep hulled rowing boat with thirteen
rowers and an oarsman steering heaved
across a perfect postcard fishing port. The
water was such a deep green blue it was
almost black. A motorboat flashed white
alongside, an encouraging loud trainer
shouting instructions. There was some
kind of diving bird nearby. I kept catching
tantalising splashing out of the corner of
my eye. I couldn’t imagine a fish that size
and I didn’t see the bird resurface
anywhere nearby. My chocolate melted in
the setting sun as I studied this
old-fashioned wharf. No roll-on-roll-off
containers in sight. Piles and heaps of
things and cranes and a marina crackling
full of tall-masted euros. Nothing too
ostentatious, mainly fishing vessels mixed
in with the odd yacht and some cute
brightly coloured dinghies.
I looked out over this port and considered
my day.
25
The train, running past grim deserted
buildings, had taken me from glossy
touristic San Sebastian to the more
austere Irun. First stop, Officina de Turismo
(Tourist Information) to find the map and
ask where I could get my pilgrim’s
credential. The smiling, kind ladies in the
office provided me with a map of Irun and
another of The Basque Country containing
delicious photos of seaside scenery and
information about El Camino de Santiago
del Norte. With the traditional tourist officer
pen swirl and flourish arrow across and
around the map, they told me I would be
able to catch the priest before he stopped
for lunch if I hurried. By the train station.
Where I’d just come from.
I trotted back to the station, back to the
church, the office beside the church and
found the priest, who during the course of
our pleasant chat, almost smiled once. He
carefully examined my passport and filled
in the credential, a card with information
about the Camino and gaps for the stamps
I would collect from each place I would
stay. I went to put it in my pocket. I must
have appeared too casual (because I was)
and he shook his head, warning me this
was a precious document. Luckily I’d
bought an assortment of strong plastic
bags from a camping shop in Melbourne.
One had been intended for the mobile
phone. It was on a lanyard, empty, already
attached to the backpack. The perfect
place for such an important document.
The priest got out his yellow marker and,
instead of pointing the way marked by the
scallop shells, coloured in a ‘short cut’ on
the map of Irun with an almost
tourist-office drag and swirl to the left. He
assured me this would be by far the best
way for the likes of me. Now, this could
have been in deference to my extreme age
and infirmity or it could have been a secret
priest’s way but to make sure I was on the
right track …
WAIT! What’s all this? I thought I was
going to stay in Irun? The fact of the
matter was the Irun albergue would not
open for another five hours. There was
nothing to do in Irun. So I may as well
crack on, right? Off you go. Pasages a
mere 17km ahead. No problema. We
waved cheerio and he hastened to his
priest’s lunch.
Just to be sure I was facing the right way, I
asked two police officers marching along
on their beat. Correcto! Reassured, I
walked a small distance and put my pack
down on a bench. Pulled out the two front
pockets designed to carry my water
bottles, plugged them into the belt of the
26
pack, smeared sunscreen on my nose and
ready, set, magical, gliding steps onto the
Camino de Santiago.
The sun was shining. Just enough to make
me hot. I kept walking. At last. I had made
it to the Camino del Norte. This was it.
There were no other pilgrims in sight.
I asked another woman, just to be sure,
who said, in words of Spanish, NO, I
should have turned off back there. Really.
BUT I didn’t trust her, she looked shifty. I
knew directions could be erroneous.
indeed. But the way to Santiago is there,
to the right. His stubby finger stabbed the
by now well-worn map with yellow priest
streak. Said the man in the bar, ‘This map
is WRONG’. How could it possibly be? A
priest had made that yellow mark. A priest!
I trusted the priest, not the man in the bar!
I marched on with head held high. And I
found myself in a busy highway. With no
path. And MUCHAS TRAFFICAS! And an
extremely large flattened snake curled
across my path.

In hindsight that was stubborn of me. It

only gave me further to travel back when I
asked another hombre and he assured me,
no, I really should have turned off back
there. Go back two roundabouts and do
not collect any money. Right. Trudge,
trudge, trudge … Back. Ask someone else,
am I correct? Si. Phew.

Still no other pilgrims.

Going past a bar I asked the mujer

(woman) sitting outside in the cloud of
tobacco smoke. She didn’t have her gafas
(glasses) with her (or maybe she couldn’t
read maps). It would be much better to ask Oh, I really didn’t think this was going so
him, in the bar, there, that man, another well. The cars were flat-footing,
hombre. Right. He looked very suspicious zip-zapping, very close by.

27
I came to a bold red bridge across the
highway and decided to cross. Two men
painted the structure, hanging out over the
edge in a little box, and, although tempted,
I thought they were too busy to interrupt,
hanging out in space as they were. I got to
a safe position at the intersection of two
busy roads and a quiet path leading to a
nature reserve. I asked a man with a
fishing rod over his shoulder coming from
the reserve. And he said, ‘WRONG WAY
GO BACK’. But, I protested, saying, ‘Look,
here, the priest said … ‘
And up came another walker from the
sanctuary who was carrying two white
death lillies. They both insisted that I was
wrong, the priest was wrong, there was
only one way to Santiago from Irun and
this was not it. There was only one thing
for it. I had to go back through the
sanctuary to find the road to Santiago.
(Not the strange way or the common
man’s way, just the signposted way!) They
would brook no argument.
I trudged back along a path through the
sanctuary along a creek. I felt miserable.
Tears ran down my cheeks. I was tired and
hot. All along I’d been waiting for a bar so I
could reorganise the pack and have a wee.
I was so uncomfortable and wasn’t this
just like me, I had to get lost every time I
started something new. I’d been lost so
many times, I always went in the wrong
direction, I always did the wrong thing…
Weeping and feeling incredibly sorry for
myself, I heard a splashing at my feet.
There was a school of large, shining fish
swirling in the creek. There were also two
tyres but I decided to stop and smell the
roses. Or at least watch the fish swimming
for a while. The path wound through a
nature reserve and even though I was
confused and bothered I could see it was
lovely and the sun glinted from the water
as the fish swirled beneath.
I made a deal with myself. If I went near
the restaurant I passed earlier, I would go
in and ask about somewhere to sleep.
There was no point in being sad about
this. The air was clear. The sun was
shining. The fish were silvery-beaut.
The track was long and finally, it was true, I
came out near the restaurant. I went in and
fell upon their mercy. The two women were
so happy to help, as were ALL the peeps
who had given me advice throughout this
tortuous day, all so pleased to assist a
goof like me who could only understand
limited words like a two year old. I was a
pilgrim who needed help and, of one thing
28
I was certain, the kind people of Irun were
keen to help.
At least, at this restaurant surrounded by
lines of bright green grape vines, I received
a nice cup of herbal tea and that did
restore me. I sat in the sun with my cup on
a half-barrel table and thought about
failure and life and what this meant for my
Camino. The kind ladies both insisted I go
to the local hotel and start again tomorrow.
Fine, I completely agreed with them. The
hotel was right up the road by the green
metal door.
I set off, reconfigured and ready. I didn’t
see anything green up the road. I saw a
red door but I kept right on walking until I
found an elderly man trimming his ivy
hedge. He was on the inside of the fence
with his cute little dog and I was on the
outside. He told me, NO, the hotel is
closed. It would not open until July. Right.
But I had been thinking about my friend
Sally-Anne Mill and how ashamed of me
she would have been if I’d just stopped on
my first day because I was sulking about
walking too far. So he told me I could just
walk straight up this hill to Guadaloupe.
Just go a la izquierda (left) and a la
derecha (right), keep on the path amplia
(wide) and go up. Arriba! (Up!) But he said
A LOT more than that and I had to keep
saying, ‘Simple! Por favor!’
And it was. Simple, I mean. All I had to do
was go up hill. I had to get out my
bastónes and get serious. Not quite
bush-bashing, but this was well off the
beaten track. Okay, I thought, I had to
make Sally proud. Onwards and upwards!
I got into my stride, found the hiking poles
to be of benefit and got into a rhythm of
sorts when suddenly a large glossy black
horse appeared ahead and above me on
the track. It was a beautiful creature and
the man aboard seemed grateful when I
squashed myself into a shrub on the other
side of the track. He was a nervy horse.
Highly bred. Like me.
Onwards and upwards we went and the
shape of the track was like the old bed of
a creek - and it probably would have been
serious if the rain had been coming down
but it was warm and sunny and I kept
going ARRIBA until I finally came out at the
top, to find a road and a great big yellow
arrow! The first I’d seen. And on the top of
the hill, there was the Ermita de
Guadalupe, a graceful spire-topped
church. It was shut. I walked all around it
and looked down the proper road to the
29
beautiful curve of a beach called
Hondarribia. Why hadn’t I stayed there?
It looked picturesque, a perfect Spanish
beach, crescent-moon of sand.
It had taken me way too many hours to
walk five kilometres.
After that, it was easy! I just followed the
arrows along the path for the next 10kms
and got to the albergue. Along the way I
saw cows with pointy horns, and there
were dragonflies, some with azure bodies
and some with brilliant green. Onwards,
onwards and there was even fresh water
coming out of the wall - I was too scared
to try it but later three Canadians said it
was good.
A few kms along there was a sign, pointing
to the Camino Alpinista. There were some
warning hints this was probably a more
difficult way, words like Alpine generally
implied steepness and height to me, so I
chose to walk the midway point. The
Canadians and a German woman reported
that when they went the alpinist way they
all variously got lost AND chased by cows
with pointy horns, a bull with love on his
mind and assorted horses. But they saw
incredible coastal views.
At least the low road was clearly sign
-posted. Every time I saw one of the many
reassuring yellow arrows, I was thrilled!
And, after a while, I began to whistle. A
man went by and asked, ‘Mas contenta?’
and I said, ‘Mucho!’ I think Sally would
have approved.
Eventually I got to the Albergue Santa Ana,
which I found ironic, because Santa Ana
was the name of Cathedral in Vittoria
Gasteiz I could not escape as I kept going
round in lost circles. This Ana I was
beyond pleased to see.
On arrival a genial mine-host, our
hospitalero, grabbed my bastónes to put
into the large container near the door,
indicated the boots shelf and led me (in
sweaty socks) up to the top room where
30
he was decanting the female walkers. He
was so reassuring, presumably used to the
sight of hapless walkers on their first ever
outing into the wilderness. Or not
wilderness, really, because this spot was
well-habited and welcoming with pots of
geraniums decorating the path heading
towards the albergue.
And, after a shower, a wash of sweaty
clothes, all was well again. I sat in a
beautiful position with my back against the
warm stone wall of the albergue,
overlooking the port, almost a fiord. The
water had an unctuous roll in the setting
sun as I tucked into biscuits and
mushroom paté. I watched the rowers, the
sun and the deep blue sea. And the bell
tolled above me. The other pilgrims had
gone to the town down below to find
banks, restaurants and pharmacies.
Apparently (in 2016) only 6% of all pilgrims
choose to do the Camino del Norte. When
I stopped to photograph the dragonflies,
one came to sit on my hand. She had large
eyes. She was extremely beautiful.
But, why did the priest tell me to go the
wrong way?
31
San Sebastian/Donastia, Miercoles 8th Junio -
DAY 2 - Albergue juvenil Ondarreta (La Sirena)
- 10km
There was a gentle thrum of girlish snoring
in our albergue bog overnight and hot and
airless it was too. But plenty of sleep even
though the bell of Santa Ana rang the
hours and the halves as well. Up and
going before mine-host cleaners swept us
out to breakfast on the verandah
overlooking the quiet port.
As I was leaving I saw a small handful of
scallop shells hanging by the door. That’s
right! I was going to buy one in Irun. Here
was my opportunity to brush up my pilgrim
act. In the old days one went to Santiago
and came back with the scallop shell as a
symbol of one’s success. Because that’s
where the scallops grew. That’s where the
scallops covered Saint James’s stone
coffin. A likely story. But these days, we
stuck the scallop shell on the outside of
our packs, indicating that we’re probably
lost and when we ask can you point us
towards Santiago? Thanks.
32
I joined a small clump of pilgrims and we
marched together to the water’s edge to
catch my first boat of the Camino. The
water was languid and soothing. We
stepped on board and I really felt like my
journey had begun. This was utter bliss.
The trip lasted all of three minutes, but
going over water implied going to another
land. I suppose too, a different form of
transport from walking, one that has lasted
the centuries. Although it had an outboard
motor and not a rowing slave!
Another debate over our next choice;
whether to take the headland path or cut
inland? Inga, the young German from
Hamburg, and I decided to go the long
way around to see the coastal views and,
given the perfect weather, it was the
correct option.
We walked along the cliffside of the sea,
gazing at deep blue sky, gentle water,
listening to sea gulls calling. These were
verdant hills with a shock of
weatherbeaten rock scratching up parts of
the rise, perhaps pitted with nesting
hollows. A distant castle punctuated the
headland. It was a clearly defined walk. As
we contemplated a fork in the road, a
caballero came along (there were many
retired gentlemen walking their dogs, or
possibly their prescribed hearts, along the
path) and told us the scenic route was
much better than that signposted.The
yellow arrow would only take us quickly
back to the road.
So we went the white/blue/green stripe
way and it was SO beautiful by the sea,
lighthouse castle, remainders of
battlements and fortifications, and the far-
off sighting of Mount Igeudo.
Back home in San Sebastian, we walked
down into the town, landing mere metres
from my favourite cafe. I tucked into
tostada con tomate y aciete (tomato and
olive oil on toast) followed by fruit salad
drenched in fresh orange juice. Inga and I
were joined by newbie Caterina from
Belgium who was just deciding if she
should start her walk this day or the next.
We sent her on her way to Irun after
comparative pack weighing. She was
ready. My pack was by far the heaviest.
33
We strolled along the beachfront. I felt a
little sad to be finally saying goodbye to
San Sebastian after this fortnight and I was
able to point out areas of interest to Inga
like an experienced guide.
The albergue was right at the other end of
the beach. It was actually a huge Youth
Hostel with all things needed, including a
French school trip! The two job’s-worths
on duty took their time to work out which
bunks were booked and eventually we
joined twelve other dames in a clean airy
room. Most were backpackers but later, in
the kitchen, it became clear that some
other folk were on the Camino. One just
had a tiny daypack and she expected to
be finished in under four weeks. (I planned
six weeks.)
I hired a towel and popped down to the
beach. Lovely just sitting in the sun in my
black undies. Then I decided to swim. I
was very brave and went right into that
freezing water. There was a woman
swimming far out, an astounding feat in
that chill, and as she came in I realised she
was wearing a wet suit. Cheating! That
was it for me. I sat in the sun to dry and
went to organise myself.
I took out another kilo of extraneous stuff
and posted it to Blanka in Prague. I hoped
she was not bearing me too much
antagonism. I was so lucky my Airbnb host
was generous enough to put up with my
nonsense. But,1.3kg lighter. It all added
up!
I went in search of sustenance. It took
time. A weekly Guardian to read, rice milk
to drink, some olives and an aqua con gas
(fizzy mineral water) to snack upon. No
food until 7pm. But it was worth the wait -
a delicious salad sandwich and crispy
chips. Pretty expensive and such a long
wait but I wasn’t going anywhere. Sweet
crispy bread, splashed with olive oil, laden
with asparagus, lettuce, tomato and salty
chips. I loved it.
Back at the hostel, a cup of peppermint
tea, catch up on notes, a spot of apricot
soy yogurt and the hilarious Year 9 French
camp. Or so it seemed. I still had a lot of
tea. Why shouldn’t I take it upstairs? I was
being youthed out here.
After midnight one of our room mates had
the decency to open our windows and
shout down to the rowdy and still hilarious
French camp to please shut up.
Ah, thank goodness for the kind Camino
people. Gratitude rules.
34
Orio, Jueves 9th Junio - DAY 3 - Albergue de
peregrinos San Martin - 14km
The wind flapped the umbrella over the
cafe table outside the kitchen cabin where
I sat to write my notes. This was a kind of
playhouse decked out as a kitchen cum
dining room. It overlooked a swelling
horizon of distant blue and the river. I was
right beside an orchard and a veggie
patch. The air was rural and crispy clean.
Having enjoyed a shower and managed to
wash my clothes, things couldn't have
been nicer.
One of the highlights of this albergue was
an electric centrifugadora (clothes
spinner). It was a single purpose machine,
reaching almost to my hip height, where
you placed your wet clothes evenly around
the column of the tube and shut the lid.
When you turned it on, it spun, and water
ran out of the bottom into a catcher bowl.
This was much more effective than
wringing your shirt by hand. I loved it. San
Martin was a good albergue.
35
I could see baby apples in the aged trees
beside me. There were sparrows
squabbling in the next tree - a nectarine
perhaps. The public trees I'd noticed in
plazas on the way here were so heavily
pruned, one could only hope they had
enough strength to shoot forth leafy new
growth for shade in the depth of summer.
I had arrived early to the albergue San
Martin - a rural casa in the midst of coastal
Basque country. Somehow, this truly felt
like my first albergue. I'd fallen unawares
into Pasages and I'd already spent time in
San Sebastian but this town, Orio, was all
new. It was green and deep in the heart of
rustic farming country. There were
numerous welcoming signs and greetings
around the little desk at the front door. A
distant woman shrieked at me that she
was coming when I rang the little bell and I
slipped my bastónes into the container by
the boot rack and sat down in the chair,
reading the poem over the door about
persisting through all weathers, not giving
up being the pilgrim's relentless purpose.
She looked at my driver's licence,
stamped my credential and showed me to
the bunkroom. I was the first one in and
chose an upper bunk near the door as the
bulk of the room was not near fresh air.
She told me Orio was fortunate enough to
have an interactive information centre
about the Camino de Santiago, plus two
beaches and two health food shops! All
earthly needs. Was regretting posting my
skirt on to Prague as now I only had my
walking trousers as 'going to town'
clothes. Of course I arrived in the small
village centre just as everything was
closing but found a pleasant cafe with a
patio, serving a generous salad and chips.
It had been another beautiful walk this
morning. Back in Donastia, I was
awakened by the Spanish girl's alarm, I
suppose at 5:30? Jeez. With a dozen
females in the same youth hostel room this
seemed a bit heartless. Even so, I was
awake already, thinking of my bladder and
hoping I would not be the first to flood the
main room with light, opening the door to
the automatically lit bathroom. So, I
wasn't.
I hopped up to get my breakfast
ingredients out of the locker, so pleased I
brought the padlock. I fitted right in with
everyone else! I tied the key to my Knight's
Templar necklace (another token from
Keira, reminding me I had to look after
myself) and was easily able to find it in the
dark, attached as it was to the body of my
pack. I worked like an expert safe cracker,
now with only nine sleeping chicas in the
36
room, working the key into the lock in the
dark with barely a clink.
Down in the bowels of the Youth Hostel I
enjoyed breakfast with that exemplary
Spanish girl of tiny backpack. I questioned
her closely to discover she was only
carrying singlets, shorts and a raincoat. (!!)
There was a Russian girl chatting to a
spritely French/Belgian lady, who was
smartly dressed in crisply pleated hiking
gear of the high-end style, the kind of thing
the-almost-elderly-lady-really-ought-to-
wear-on-a-modern-walking-expedition.
She explained she had walked to Pasages
de San Juan but couldn't be bothered
waiting for hours for the albergue to open
so she'd caught the bus to San Sebastian.
She said, 'I have nothing to prove.'
A young Italian woman appeared and it
turned out this group had already done the
Camino de Frances so they were full of
anecdotes and comparisons for us
newbies. All of them described with some
zest the arrogant, 'I'm going to walk SO far
and SO fast' attitudes they had
encountered on the trail. They detailed a
strange and interesting thing that
happened to these most arrogant and
boasting ambitions. It seemed the most
superior of the men (how could it be that
these women only had memories of
arrogant MEN making this kind of boastful
announcement?) nearly always arrived
AFTER these female storytellers to
Santiago. The gals ended up laughing
happily, describing the disappointment on
the crestfallen and unshaven blokes as
they met their placid female observers in
the streets and byways of Santiago.
We all agreed the Camino was not a race. I
most certainly intended to go as slowly as
possible at this early stage, planning to
build up fitness gradually AND see
everything I could!
There were some familiar faces at the
Youth Hostel even though most of the
chicas I spent time with had pressed on to
the next pueblo, Zarautz. I intended to go
through there on the next day and find an
albergue in an old convento further on.
I had decided against carrying a
guidebook. The English one was not highly
rated on the chatty and opinionated
Camino Forum. The German guidebook
had the best maps and information but
was in German. I had decided to use my
limited Spanish to utilise the Gronze app.
This was downloadable (as I only used Wifi
at cafe/hostels I needed access to the
knowledge of the app at all times) and
detailed. Which meant that for every ten
37
words I didn't understand I could guess
one or two and put the pictures together
with some on-track gossip and some lucky
guessing. And who wants to know the full
story before you get there, anyway? Isn't it
better to be continually surprised?
(Pleasantly, of course.)
As I walked along the forest track, I
enjoyed convivial encounters with various
retired gentlemen. One had a very sore
eye, no top and a little camera bouncing
on his belly. At first, I thought he might
have been a bird watcher but I think he
was one of those fellows whose wife
wanted him out of the house in the
morning. As early as possible.
I, however, was a bird watcher of much
ignorance. There were some red robins
along the track. They had tiny spindly thin
legs. I think one must have been a baby,
for it had no fear, hopping around a muddy
patch, pecking away, completely oblivious
to passing pilgrims. Various peregrinos
tiptoed around this tiny little bird to fill their
water bottles at a water fountain nearby,
signposted as potable. I watched his mum
pop down to feed him once but as more
humans joined me to admire him and his
tiny stick legs she chivvied him on and I
also left the robin deli.
I also noted a small striped bird, perhaps a
honeyeater. It went by very fast. There was
some sort of falcon, or perhaps a kite,
surveying the lands slowly from above and
also some wrens hopped in the shrubs.
There were blackbirds and thrushes. I saw
a thrush beating a snail to death on a step.
You have realised by now my interest in
birds is purely superficial.
Mainly, we were in fairyland. I walked past
a picture-postcard cottage, geraniums
blooming in pots, an old dog spread out
like a frayed hessian doormat and several
cats crouched by the door. Opposite the
lane, still in front of the door, a bay mare
with bright blonde mane watched me
implacably as I walked by. I possibly had
my mouth open, for I was truly amazed by
all this rural glory on display.
I found a flat rock upon which to gnaw my
apple, knowing full well there would be an
even more picturesque place just around
the corner. But it was a sunny spot from
whence to bid the peregrinos, 'Buen
Camino' as they passed.
One, my pal Inga from Hamburg, wished
me well, saying she was impressed with
my bravery, coming to Spain for a year
knowing hardly any Spanish! Well! How
DARE she! I knew HEAPS of words!
38
Inga had a great job. For eleven years,
or the equivalent, she was allowed to
work for a year and then to take a
sabbatical for a year, both on half salary.
Sort of two for one. So she had an
income to do whatever she wanted. She
said some of her similarly employed
colleagues were artists who worked six
months on their own stuff and then six
months for the educational
establishment that paid them. Extremely
civilised. She was set for twenty-two
years, half of which was to be travelling
the world.
After my comfortable lunch in Orio I went
into the bar to pay. There, I saw my first
cider pour in the Basque Country. I've
pointed out before my lack of interest in
things gastronomic and now I have to
admit I'm a wowser, or teetotaller. (Or
coffeetotaller). I can still see dramatic flair
behind a bar, though. When people pour
cider in the Basque country, and I believe
in Asturias, the next province the Camino
would visit, they do it from a great and
very splashy height in order to bring in
some airy bubbles. Well worth hanging
around a bar to see that! Not too close,
though, you will get splashed.
I decided to head down to the beach. The
sun came out. I wore flip
flops/thongs/jandals (whatever you want to
call them) for the first time that season and
you couldn't wear them for long the first
time, could you? The beach was further
along than I'd estimated, beside the
concrete edge of the well-controlled river
port entrance. I marched along, past the
school sporting grounds and eventually
made my way onto the sand. Far, far away,
was the sea. I didn't know why there was
such a stretch of sand. The structure
appeared to have been manufactured as
part of the control of the river mouth. I
thought the sand must be imported from a
sand mine. It was one of my first sightings
of boardwalks across such a sandy
expanse. I don't think I've ever seen them
in Australia but perhaps it might be useful
in the future? Little wooden duckboards
cover the distance across foot-burning
sand to arrival at the water's edge; a less
39
hoppy, skippy experience than I'd
undergone in the past. But unnecessary as
we were not in high sun season yet,
although it was warming up. I strolled to
the water's edge, eyeing some pallid
swimmers with suspicion. It was true. This
was cold water. I would not swim that day.
Instead I went to wash my slightly sore
feet and find a bathroom. There was a
brick building that looked a bit like a Surf
Club, actually it was a Surf Club, but with
public toilets attached.
Here was Mr Grumpy, guarding both
female and male sanctuaries from his
vantage point, sitting in the middle of the
bathrooms. He was large, serious and
wearing a black tee shirt with something
heavy, muscular and grim over his
obviously not muscular form. He listened
to Spanish heavy-metal hip-hop rap music
on his radio. He waved me in to the ladies
toilets, to the right. As I left his vestibule
area he turned the music up.
He forgot to tell me about the paper! There
was none. Not even a hook to hang an
empty dispenser. Luckily, I had a tissue in
my pocket and after I'd finished and
washed my hands, I turned, helpful,
slightly embarrassed, to tell him there was
no lavatory paper. That's when I saw it. On
the wall. A toilet paper dispenser. A
communal roll for all. You took as you
needed BEFORE you went into the
cubicle. How could you tell before the
event? As I choked back outrage a
chattering cheerful school visit arrived at
the bathroom. The children poured in and I
couldn't get out.
Mr Grumpy leapt from his nest behind his
bench and his round red face split open in
the most genuine and kind, welcoming
smile I've ever seen. He beamed at the
two teachers and bent to encourage each
child to partake of as much paper as they
required, shepherding each to the correct
cubicle in turn. He was a lighthouse of love
and gentle guiding. Mr Grumpy had gone.
He had transformed into Cutie Darling
Sweetie Pie. I sidled out beside the stream
of excited chatter and disappeared into
the world of duckboard.
Beside the beach there was an aviary of
sorts, a demonstration of correct bird
housing. It was a large fenced area with a
built-in river, stylish cacti and citrus trees.
Strolling, preening and sunning themselves
therein were: chickens and geese, ducks
and turkeys. You name them, edible birds
of every shape and size strutted their stuff.
I watched a baby rooster being taught a
few lessons by his grand daddy. Kept in
40
place! Firmly! No crowing from young
wannabes around this old fella.
I walked back to the albergue, gathering
veggie ingredients for my dinner. The
thongs made the cobbled stones of the
town uncomfortable. It’s much better to
travel in boots in populated areas. The
ancient elegant old buildings reached into
the air over the thin roads in stylish
manner. I found the information centre and
modern and informative it was too. Then I
meandered back up the hill towards my
rural haven. Everything was peaceful. A
dog barked on a far off hill. A tractor
started in a paddock nearby. Rural bliss.
And, from right beside me, in the most
terrifying and scary way possible, a sheep
BAAAAED. Loudly.
I leapt into the air. Now, dogs do that all
the time, we've all known the sort. They
wait for people to get just to the point in
the fence where they’re most exposed and
then they create maximum fright.
Deliberately. I swear that sheep had taken
lessons from experts. I nearly died
laughing. Wily baaaastard.
On my return I found freshly arrived
pilgrims had taken up position in the
bunks; a young German couple and
various others I'd met either at Pasages or
San Sebastian. This albergue provided
dinner but due to my weird diet I decided
I'd get in early and make my own meal.
A tall young man with pale straw hair,
about sixteen, looked hungrily at my
frypan stirring. He did not meet my eyes to
talk but slid words out sideways from his
mouth. I'd seen him embracing a very thin
lady on the swing seat on the far side of
the veggie patch and was relieved when
she arrived in the playhouse to chat.
Turned out he was her youngest son and
he was on the Aspergers scale. She had
four children in total, all of whom she'd
home schooled. Her older children were
busy with their lives back in the States and
her husband had decided that was the end
of their marriage. She'd moved to a
strange town. He was a pilot who could
afford to fly them anywhere and she was a
dreamer who loved the idea of the
Camino.
She felt she could not put this trip off any
longer and she'd taken steps to bring her
unpredictable son and enjoy the ride.
She told me that as they arrived in the
casa there'd been some confusion in the
household as the kid ran straight through
the space reserved for the albergue - the
downstairs sort of large garage or perhaps
41
rumpus room in some parts of the world -
flung open the secret door to the family
living area upstairs, rushed up and crashed
into their toilet to relieve himself.
Apparently this was quite common with
other direction, averaging forty kilometres
a day.
Once he'd worked out there were more
Caminos than just the Frances he had felt

people on the spectrum and even makes some urgency to walk from Irun.

an appearance in a 2008 Australian film Immediately. And he'd met this slender

called ‘The Black Balloon’. I hadn't heard lady with her wandering son and known

of the movie but the mum admired it, straight away he was on the right Camino.

telling me it was fraught for some parents

The boy leaned over to explore his head
to contemplate watching something so
and the Swede, retorting, pulled his nose
very close to their own lives.
right back. He was very familiar and

Meanwhile, he enjoyed my rice crackers. straightforward with the boy, engaging him

Turned out he was coeliac. We chatted and reassuring the woman, 'Let him go.

about food matters briefly as I concocted The other people will cope with him.'

a veg stir fry with a sweet potato, green

It was a beginning and I wished them all
pepper, two mushrooms, tomato and a
the very best. I saw them in the distance
handful of spinach together with a couple
over the next day, far ahead of me. He had
of veggie burgers. He wasn't interested in
said he was tired, that he felt like he
all that. He would join in with the shared
needed rest but I think that Swedish man
dinner.
had marched so far, so fast, he could not

I became aware of more folk entering the slow. But it did not seem to matter. He was

playhouse, tables now pushed together on the right track. There you go.

and set for about a dozen people.

My first Camino Moment.

One of these was a grizzled, weathered

man from Sweden. He explained he'd felt
a need to do the Camino. So he'd
marched along the Camino de Frances,
feeling somehow at a loss. Unfulfilled, he
walked back along the same track in the

42
Zumaia, Viernes Junio 10th - DAY 4 - Albergue
de Zumaia (Convento de San José) - 15.5km

That morning was cloudy but warm and I the playhouse to prepare my muesli. I was
hopped up and took my breakfast bag to glad to have access to a kitchen. I’d read

43
that some albergues had them, with
different levels of amenities, and noted
that I must check BEFORE I went to the
shops next time because the hospitaleros
at Orio had urged me to use whatever I
could find in certain cupboards. Sure
enough there were basic supplies, oil and
spices together with rice and pasta.
I did my stretching in the orchard. As I
saluted the sun half-a-dozen black ponies
came as close as they could over in the
next paddock. They had a good long way
to run and the sight of them with their tails
streaming out and their manes flying and
their hooves pounding into the verdant
green meadow grass was joyous. Just
them flying and me saluting in the early
morning sun.
By the time I got back everyone was out in
the forecourt, quietly packing. Some left
early WITHOUT BREAKFAST HOW
COULD THEY? Including the mum with
the sixteen year old son with Aspergers.
And so to the leaving. For some reason,
packing seemed to have increased in
difficulty over the previous couple of days.
I don’t know why. The sleeping bag was a
big trouble to squash and then I forgot the
towel, on it goes, or had to get the rain
poncho out … I expected once I got a
system established, a kind of check and
double check thing, I felt hopeful things
would get more streamlined.
All the peeps that had been chatting and
laughing over a glass of wine with their
dinner the last night went their separate
ways with quiet determination and little
socialising in the morning. There was
balking at first with some refusing to wear
wet weather gear fearing the mere act of
pandering to the climate was showing
weak pilgrim attitude and others, like me,
keen to try out my theoretical Danish rain
poncho (derided in Melbourne as too
heavy) to see if it would cover the pack in
practice. It did!
And so I walked out, past the accosting
sheep, with the air cooled by a misty rain
that came and went during the day. After
the heat of the previous three days it was
calming to walk in cool. Only a couple of
times was the heat of the rainwear
oppressive and all I had to do was just
fling open a couple of pops down the side
and I had air conditioning! By the time I got
to Zarautz the breakfast had worn off.
When I saw a man carrying a baguette
wrapped in paper I deduced it was time for
coffee.
44
A charming lady in a nearby grocery shop
directed me away from the yellow arrows,
towards the beach and a rather smart
beachside cafe where I utilised los
servicios and enjoyed a tostada integral
con tomato y aciete. The bottle of oil had a
large golden arrow pointing upwards.
Delicious. Best tostada so far.
The sea boiled around the rocks of such
intense sloping sides that I began to pay
attention to all the rock formations, both
on the sea side and the cliff side on the
other side of the road. It was amazing, all
those upward thrusts, the same that might
have caused the Pyrenees and Picos, I
suppose, that snapped this coastline and
folded it up like a
mille-feuille on edge.

The rain did nothing to

dampen my spirits. I
felt complete freedom
of mind. I was happy to
examine cows (with
pointy horns) some
sheep (though none did
the sneaky hide-behind
-the-hedge to bleat at
the pilgrim ambush
thing).

There were grapevines

and many veggie plots.
Once refreshed I marched back on course,
To my untutored eye it looked as if
admiring dramatic surf and delicate
individual farmers and their families were
sculptures on my way to the sea side road.
still working the land the old way. I
Much like Wellington, NZ, the space
guessed the kids headed off to towns for
between hill and sea was slim. Unlike NZ,
work and maybe brought the grandkids
here was a shapely art deco fence linking
back at weekends to help.
each glamorous street lamp curving ahead
for kilometres.

45
There was a large sign at a vineyard that
said they’d cut down on chemical use in
viticulture but generally it didn’t feel like
land owned by banks or corporations
managed by agricultural college trained
keen beans. There were some very old
tractors and hay balers in amongst just a
few fancy new sheds.
The urban areas of the towns themselves
appeared go ahead; Zarautz, Getaria and
Zumaia appeared to have a lot of building
works. And, from the looks of it, the
occasional smart graphic designer was
getting some work. It seemed the new
buildings were propped up by the same
old bars, so the people might not have
changed their seating arrangements too
much over the years. Just had a new
building come up on top of them.
Didn’t feel like I’d walked that far this day
but in truth it was the furthest I’d walked
since my lost and weary first day. I’m very
glad I stopped in Zumaia. It was so
interesting and it was all about geology
which I can’t say I’ve ever had the pleasure
of being interested in before.
If it was as cold in Zumaia as it was in San
Sebastian I would not be swimming. (I
didn’t.) Zumaia also sported a
manufactured beach to open the river port
to safe shipping. The beach also featured
a similar line of wooden boards as Orio’s
had, out across the presumably imported
sand leading the happily cool-footed
tourist to the waters of the Bay of Biscay.
When I stopped to buy ‘walk-in-to-town’
trousers at a roadside stall (for the
exorbitant price of 10 Euros) (cotton, blue,
they do fit and they’re not that heavy
although not that ideal light
scrunch-up-small fabric I’d eyed off
previously) the stallholder turned out to
have been from Zumaia herself - probably
half an hour’s walk away - and she was
wistful for home. She was very proud of
her pueblo and told me specifically that
the flysh was muy bonito. Had I heard of
the flysh? Of course I thought she was
talking about some kind of sea food so I
smiled and nodded and said, ‘Si, si,’ as if I
knew what she was on about when of
course I had no idea at all. She probably
thought I was incredibly rude. Or just
rather pathetic.
When I walked into Zumaia I turned into
the tourist office to discover I had two
hours before the Albergue opened. She
suggested I go to the mythical flysh. Of
course I would! I’d heard all about the
flysh. Whatever it was.
46
She drew all over the somewhat stylised
and rather unhelpful map in that practiced
swirly way of the tourist officer - each thing
making absolutely perfect sense as she
said it, ‘Go left here and you can easily
turn here, go straight ahead and, of
course, it won’t take you more than an
hour … ‘
But she didn’t factor in the lossy nature of
touristic instructions. She did look at me in
some disbelief as she kindly showed me
the way down the street and I couldn’t see
the blue building straight ahead for love
nor money. But when I did see it, it had
blue edges around the windows and
doors, not all blue at all, it wasn’t my fault!
She wouldn’t admit to anything.
By 13:30, I could see I would not be back
in her office to collect my bag before they
shut for lunch given I was half way up a
cliff at the time. I was stuck until four, when
they would re-open. I do have to tell you,
marching up that hill was fantastic. I felt as
light as a bit of dandelion fluff without my
pack. And fit! I was fit! I skipped up the hill.
I cavorted. I gambolled. And then I stuck
my head out over the edge, by the gorse
bushes, and that’s when I saw the FLYSH.
From above. And across the water.
Amazing. It is a multilayered club sandwich
of thousand year old rudely disrupted
rocks. An upending of Earthscab.
I saw a school trip down below. I
wondered if they were my hilarious school
trip pals from France?
At the other beach over the headland, past
my cliff, along the side of the beach were
great caverns and on the other side of the
sandy cove, a line of slates and shales
marching out into the sea like some kind of
demented rock army from Game of
Thrones. Further to that was a great cliff of
such rented zig zag power they went
ahead and named it Flysh. The Flysh
covers over ten kilometres. I later heard it’s
possible to examine the jagged stretch of
shore from a boat tour. If I’d only heard
that then. But the big slices of mille-feuille
rock lines I saw were terrific. This was the
Flysh then, a great rending of the surface
of the earth.
To fill in time, I went to a bar, like the mess
room of a large wooden ship. Behind the
bar was a cheerful young woman who
spoke in that unaccountably deep voice
that some Spanish women inhabit
naturally, relaxed in their own bodies and
their breathing and their own selves
somehow. I wish I could find the centre of
my voice and stick to it! I fear my own
47
voice was often lightly caught in my
chest/head with uncertainty and nerves.
That was probably an area that could get
in with the stone that Keira provided for
the rubbish of my life. I had not looked at
the glowing crystal spaceship but
understood it was busy absorbing those
unwanted items and feelings in the side
pocket of my pack like a mini emotional
vacuum cleaner.
After my street clothing transaction, which
I felt immediately I should have haggled
more because, really, yuck trousers, but
she was so nice about the mysterious
flesh, flush, fish, FLYSH what could I do?
Again, that sincere Spanish
communication. Not false and certainly not
entertaining for the sake of it. People
didn’t readily smile until they were sure the
situation deserved a smile. I felt taken
seriously.
Especially when arriving at an
albergue. That’s a very serious thing
to do. I found that very reassuring.
When walking in the footsteps of
millions of pilgrims before me, I like to
think it mattered. And at the steps of
St Peter’s church, near here, there
was no doubt of the wear that millions
of feet had had on those curved
steps.
Speaking of wear, let us turn now to
Roman roads. These are incredible
cobblestone pathways, arduously
patterned, that still existed in fragments
along the way. There was a section on
arrival into Zumaia. I’m not sure if it was
the interactive display at Orio or in a
pamphlet somewhere else but I was sure I
had read that the Romans supported the
pilgrims going off to see the remains of St
James. Is that really possible? I thought
the Romans were anti-Christianity? I
mean, look at St Sebastian? Not a happy
outcome.
And what’s with Romanesque
architecture? That’s not even Roman! My
ignorance of European history was like a
knife in my side. Every time I saw anything
over two hundred years old I turned into a
blithering idiot. OMG that’s really OLD …
48
I was going to have to find a basic Spanish
history primer for kids. In Spanish. So I
could decipher it as I practiced my
language. As if I should buy more stuff. But
I could get it out of the library! When I
stopped walking. Because I wouldn’t be
putting anything extra in my pack that I
couldn’t eat.

I stayed that night in Saint Joseph’s

convento, a monastery. The hospitalero
was a very quiet, calm man who was later
joined by a comfortable older woman.
They both attended to every strangled
Spanish word I squarked out and after the
formalities of credential, sello, boot and
bastion were over, guided me to a room
where there were only TWO single beds
quietly empty. A window looked out into a
drab courtyard. There were three floors but
the albergue felt to only be on the one
floor. I’d noticed the convento went for
nearly two blocks, including a large old
people’s home and a school, I think. I don’t
know if the religious order worked with
people or just their spirits.
Once I had arranged my belongings I went
to the Flysh information centre and
watched a film about the beginnings of
known time. Scientists had found dust
from the meteor that crashed into the
earth, killing off the dinosaurs, embedded
in the layers of the Flysh. The information
centre has displays not only about the
geology of the area but also the flaura and
fauna. I was interested to note there were
indeed more than one species of snake to
be found in Spain, none of which were
venomous.
I was writing notes in the communal room
with couch, computer, short table (so I was
leaning badly), surrounded by six chairs.
There was some sort of boardgame
offered on the table too.
I asked the kind hospitalero where I could
boil a kettle. He frowned at me and took
my cup with teabag. I followed. Then I
realised I still had my boots on and could
go no further down these ancient dark
wooden hallways, so I rushed back to the
boot depot, wrenched off my greasy

49
boots, stuck them on the shelf and by the
time my slippery socks had made their
way back he’d returned with the warm
water. When I asked him, ‘Donde?’ he
showed me this room. There was no sign
of the promised kettle. I ate heartily of rice
cakes, vego paté and fruit all washed
down with my lucky lukewarm chamomile
tea. If I’d known where he’d obtained the
hot water from I would have gone there
myself for a refill but I did not know. I
thought the guia had shown there to be a
microwave and or kettle to heat water
available for the pilgrims but not so,
apparently.
This was an enormous place. The walls
were thick, painted white. The ceiling was
held up by dark wood beams which had
been plastered between them to create
white vaulted curves. The floor boards
seemed impossibly wide and held in place
with large fat nails. The wood was smooth
and warm. I’m guessing it was oak as the
interpretive museum mentioned oak
forests in the area, so oak. I heard children
in the distance.
There was a male gardener and our main
hospitalero is male. Both male and female,
friendly and considerate, tapped on the
door to ask if I wanted a blanket. I was
finding the sleeping bag very hot, or at
least it had been the last couple of nights.
First night spent in a nunnery (or perhaps it
was a monastery) and hopefully, it will not
be my last in this OMG it’s OLD walking
trip.
And, even more THRILLING, it looked like I
might have a room of MY OWN!! There still
hadn’t been another person added since I
went to collect my dinner stuff but I kept
all my belongings firmly on one side when I
went to the bathroom just in case. There
were three bathrooms along one side of a
corridor crossing this one. One with just a
toilet and sink, one with bidet,
bath/shower, sink, toilet and one with just
shower but then there’s rooms and rooms
and rooms … So big and quiet and once it
was full of nuns (or monks). There’s stuff
left in the wardrobe. Someone stays there
sometimes.
I heard running and talking. I didn’t see
one other pilgrim that night.
I hoped I would sleep well and I did.
Another new person did not arrive in the
dark and I SLEPT RIGHT THROUGH!! With
NO SNORING!
50
Mutriku, Sabado 11th Junio - DAY 5 - Privado
albergue: Izabide - 17.3km
As I wrote notes I sat at a glass picnic
table, whippersnipper whining to the left of
me, lawn mower growling to the right,
wondering if four-thirty in the afternoon
was too early for dinner. I thought it might
have been. Just. I was really feeling the
need for the winter woolly I had posted
ahead to Prague. Bah. Oh well. I could
always go inside. Didn’t.
Such a peaceful night in the convento last
night. It smelled sweet, with a soft mixture
of beeswax and incense. I wish I’d
donated some Frag money to their good
works and now I see I can do that - I’m not
sure why it hadn’t crossed my mind
before.
The Frag were a group of mothers I’d
worked with as our children progressed
through the same school. We were the
Get-Things-Done Gals. One lunch time
(was it the Chinese restaurant with the
dead fish floating in the ornamental tank?)
51
we’d laughingly agreed that we were all
fragile but strong enough. And from then
on we were known as The Frag. When I
left Melbourne they clubbed together to
give me some money. I felt my expensive
visit to the scalp massaging hairdresser in
Madrid had come from them - I had taken
permission from their tacit approval - but
there was still cash left over. I would have
to think of something they would all like to
give me. I was leaning to the indulgent but
in reality they would also be interested in
the charitable. (Thanks, Frag!)
Perhaps that was the beginning of my
self-reflective mood. I had a good long
chat to myself as I walked. I started
thinking as though I was writing which was
slightly annoying because I didn’t have a
pen and paper to hand, couldn’t have
utilised one if I had and would have felt
really stupid dictating into my phone.
I meandered along, mentally answering my
friend Fran’s question about my feet - they
were great. I put that down to wearing my
boots (bought before transition to
veganism) for a good year before coming
to Spain and walking a great deal so they
were distinctly not new and very
comfortable. To the extent that the leather
had cracked and I had that Great Internet
Debate of oil/dubbin or even buying a new
pair and quite severe worries about
locating this sort of stuff in San Seb. But
then that passed when I easily found
non-vegan Dubbin and smeared it over the
boots. They would probably leak under
duress but luckily, I hadn’t had any duress
so far. Yet.
I could trace my fitness back to a dance
school in Melbourne, My Mother Said. I
knew Barre class was supposed to be
good for the glutes and yes it was - glutes
an essential part of the walking machine -
but it was the rise and plié, the point and
flex of Barre that strengthened the feet and
ankles. I’m not sure I would be so
comfortable marching along these twisty
forest paths, rural or not, without those
feet exercises. I would like to add that Lisa
and her feisty team in Seddon were a force
and an inspiration and really helped power
me up!
As I walked I continued to ponder fitness
and gratitude. So much of the Camino I
found to be about gratitude. We stayed at
albergues at a fraction of the cost of any
hotel. So far I had found them to be
clean-ish, comfortable and safe. Would
you like a warm shower with that? How
about a place to wash and hang your
sweaty clothes? And if you like, dinner and
a show! (Not really.) I was grateful. Really.
52
This private albergue is adjunct to a farm -
we all walked past the cute little baby
piglets to prove it. It was no tranquil solid
antique convento. It might have been a
converted cow shed. Still, I was by a
window, the bunk was comfortable and I
had cut 5km off the next day’s walk into
Markina, which would be my last stop in
Basque country and another convento.
This was the day of dog. Previously, I had
seen many cats but not so much today.
Most dogs that barked like they really
meant it were on chains. But, coming
down the hill not far out of Zumaia, I
watched an elderly labrador get to her feet
laboriously (see what I did there?) She
checked me out, nodded and perfunctorily
wagged her tail. Leaving me, she crossed
the road, relaxed, and wandered off into
the vicinity of her house. There was
something far too casual about the way
she moved. Something cheeky about the
way she studiously ignored me. Something
just too sauntery. Remembering the Ninja
Sheep in Orio that waited until I was within
the magic maximum scaring distance, I
became wary and proceeded as close to
the opposite side of the road as possible.
Watching. Waiting.
On I walked. Two cars were parallel parked
by the door, out into the curve of the road,
which widened at this point. The house
was quiet. Too quiet. My boots crunched
on the gravel.
Suddenly!
One by one, half a dozen assorted mutts
came out of hiding; barking and laughing,
especially that tricky golden lab who hung
back in the middle of the pack, grinning fit
to bust, tail swirling. The tough guy in front
was a low slung bristly fellow with a big
black nose and a solid skull. He was the
fierce fighter, the sergeant major. Nothing
bigger than the lab, they all barked fit to
bust, putting on a great show. They made
me laugh. I urged them, ‘Tranquillo’ and
sniggered on my way.
There were a lot of dogs on this day,
walking away from the coast, around a
National park or special farmland perhaps,
53
certainly through farmland that overlooked
the endless ocean horizon. I saw two
enormous long haired Shepherds
wandering loose across the road but the
owner called them to him before they
became too interested in me. Walking
through an idyllic farm with sloping fields
filled with juicy green grass I saw a tent.
Nearby a man ran his four dogs, lolloping
and leaping over the long luscious grass. I
went by in a tiny thin hedged pass beside
the field.
The paths were incredibly varied. Roads,
quite busy highways, thin disused roads
and tiny little tracks. Incredible
cobblestones and there was a beautifully
crafted path coming down into Deba,
perhaps one of those vestigial Roman
roads, each stone placed carefully by hand
by a master in stone craft.
There must have been a master who
visited Deba for a time as around the
fountain by the church is a wonderful
patterning of stones.
I saw butterflies; yellow, black and one of
those common red, black, orange things.
I saw birds; mostly robins by the track,
seabirds of course and a brown and white
giant of a seabird pretending to be a
goose in a paddock.
Went pretty hard in the morning after I
stopped and had a little readjusting
moment overlooking Zumaia. Then
marched on for two and a half hours
without stopping. Good breakfast? Not
necessarily. Couldn’t find a good spot to
sit and eat my apple!
Today’s new Camino ingredient was
Private Property. The arrows relentlessly
led into a gate clearly stating this was
private. I searched all sides but there was
no choice. The way went straight into a
private farm. I examined the gate. It was
not quite a Taranaki Gate, the famous New
Zealand system of shutting access roads
using any and all available material.
Taranaki, Northern dairy country, meant
putting effectiveness high over beauty. If it
worked, you beauty. If it looked nice and
didn’t shut, what’s the point of that? How
54
to tell a Taranaki Gate from a distance?
Why, it could be part of a fence, it could be
a hedge or it could be a tip. Often based
on something like a bed frame, a Taranaki
Gate could fair crackle with add-ons,
some of which may date back decades.
So, this first one was pretty new, not quite
all shop-bought, but not quite a
handcrafted utility based true Taranaki. I
entered the lush lands, a rough track
leading into winding pathway through
shrubby twisty trees with a chuckle in my
mind.
Before long I came upon a gate featuring
finely woven rusty barbed wire. This, I
climbed. (I was up to date with my tetanus
inoculation!) Some of them had built-in
ingenious self-closing mechanisms.
Clearly some pilgrims had been more lax
than others in the farming department. I
should have taken more photos but I was
a bit aware that this might have been the
day the bull got a run in these here parts
(mostly forest dells) and still, felt that I
couldn’t be too careful. The biggest
creatures I came nose to nose with on the
curly trails were two long-haired billy
goats. They both were on long chains but
were too busy eating and scratching
themselves with their pointy horns to
bother about me.
At the last gate was a little farm side stall,
the first I’d seen, with a handwritten sign
encouraging pilgrims to try a bottle of
home-made apple cider for two euros fifty
cents. Buen Camino!
I found it surprising how few people were
profiting from the Camino. Obviously this
very albergue where the whippersnipper
wines and the mower growls around tiny
little piglets was a private concern and it
seemed the whole family was part of the
business and wasn’t it commonsense if
the Camino passes nearby then why
shouldn’t one consider the owners of
those high-end hiking boots and
backpacks as a source of income? Then
again, the Camino has that special
philosophy that might prevent actual
exploitation of the pilgrims.
I passed horses wearing bells wandering
high in the hills. Bells and horses didn’t
seem to fit together. Sheep, yes. Goats,
yes. But not horses. Took me some time to
realise it wasn’t all the horses. Only the
pregnant ones. That made sense.
Forerunner of GPS for the worried farmer
and the potentially valuable foal and mare.
Their gentle bell tones added to the
harmony of the atmosphere.
55
By the time I got to Itziar I was weary. I
looked for time for a rest and place for
apple. But only a busy intersection
overlooked the glittering sea. As I climbed
up and up and crossed the four lanes of
road I looked back to see a bar behind me,
the waiters wiping down outside tables. I
hitched up the pack and crossed the road
once more to inquire if they were open yet.
Yes, it was fine to use the services and I
came back to enjoy a hot cup of brown
liquid and a tostada con tomate
overlooking a beautiful rolling valley down
to the sea. Why not? The world became a
more cheery place.
Speaking of which, as I gnawed a rice
cake smeared with a veggie paté I would
not write home about, some sun came out!
The mowing stopped and the bar picked
up. There was a leek cooked into the
middle of the paté. I quite liked that. The
dog food aroma was somehow endearing.
I was surprised to see there were so many
people walking into this joint at 6pm. The
washing machine was on and the tv was
on …
I chatted to an Aussie Mum based in
England who was doing the washing for
her son and husband. Didn’t seem fair to
me but she took it all in her stride. I
acknowledged her acceptance. It was
normal, wasn’t it, for mums to do all the
washing for the team. Why was that?
Back on the day’s musings again, through
the private property and again, this variety
of road/path/track. As I descended that
elegant impossibly steep Roman road into
Deba I heard an agonised male voice
scream, “Mi Dios!” Such pain! Such
passion! Immediately my brain went into
emergency mode.
Straight away I expected some poor
pilgrim to have tumbled down the hill!
Silence. Then, as I carefully scanned the
horizon and watched where I was putting
my feet, I heard the familiar plunk and
plock of a tennis match. Just shows how
the solitary brain can stroll into danger and
threat if not supervised and corralled into
reality. Forty - love! My God!
For some reason I thought at this time it
was important to remember the Lord’s
Prayer. Possibly because this was a
pilgrimage. There I was, walking along
reciting, ‘Our Father, who art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name … Okay .. Um …
Then I remembered that nun, Sister Janet
Mead, so tried singing along with her, Thy
Kingdom Come, Thy Will be done on earth
as it is in heaven … Sorry, I hope you’re
56
too young to remember otherwise you’re
humming now, aren’t you?
And, as I was muttering to myself, trying to
unknot the old version from the stark new
version, I walked past a restaurant with a
very loud sound system. Who should be
blaring out but Patti Smith. And what
should she be singing but that lovely
anthem, ’Smells like Teen Spirit’?
If I was having trouble working out how
God’s will is being done on earth then, the
trouble only increased as I struggled with
that immortal chorus: ‘A mulatto, an
albino, a mosquito, my libido, a denial.’
What’s that about, then? ‘Give us this day
our daily bread and forgive us our
trespasses, as we forgive those who
trespass against us.’ That’s a tricky thing,
isn’t it. Must be where Louise Hay gets her
ideas. I hope all those Christians
remember they’re supposed to forgive
everyone. And lead us not into temptation
(stop that, internet, you, just stop it) but
deliver us from evil. A mosquito, my
libido… For thine is the kingdom, the
power, a denial, and the glory, a denial, for
ever and ever. Just you. Right. A denial.
My brain was curdling.
I found a healthfood shop in Deba. I
walked right in to the middle of the main
plaza to find lots of restaurants, bars and a
fruit and veggie shop. Not sure why I was
getting a few curious glances my way. Was
I still singing the Lord’s Prayer? Surely
none would think twice about a
middle-aged lady singing Smells Like Teen
Spirit. What a mash up!
Anyway, the healthfood guy thought a nice
restaurant just on the edge of the town
might have been vegetable friendly. They
were indeed. I had the window table in a
slim little cafe overlooking a park. My
ensalada mixta consisted of tomatoes,
lettuce, spinach, carrots, green beans,
mushrooms, onions (removed), asparagus
and dressing. (Tomate, lechuga,
espinacha, zanahoria, championes,
cebollas, esparagus, aciete y vinagre.)
!Hombre! Patatas fritas and bread, lots of
bread, which I left. Pretty expensive I
thought but super nice and great variety.
After lunch, Turismo assured me this
albergue, recommended by the cabarello
(gentleman) at the Zumaia convento did
exist, was open and I would be able to
sleep there even though it was not on
Gronze. If Tourismo knew about it and a
hospitalero whispered to me about it, for
sure, it existed!
57
It was going to be interesting leaving the
Basque Country. Not sure what would
happen and even less so the next day and
the day after … why, that’s deepest
darkest mystery level. I would try to
remember to pick up the next stage map
from the Turismo.
Another self discussion, as I strolled, was
about my backpack. Purchased in
Melbourne particularly for the walk, it was
a NZ designed system with a lot of pulleys
and flaps and I was not entirely convinced
I had it working in my favour. The last day
or two made me realise the hip flaps were
uncomfortably bent inwards so I had
strange dents on my sides but I was on to
that. I had been supposed to return to the
shop to be readjusted before I left but I ran
out of time. I suppose it was all part and
parcel of rushing into things to start
quickly. Never helps, really.
Unlike the people stamping credentials.
Although at this private Albergue the
hospitalero was much more cavalier.
Straight to Steve Irwin. How he got
stabbed in the heart by a manta ray! What
about that? I completely agreed, it was
amazing. My usual ID conversation doesn’t
range that far. First, normally, there were
remarks and jests about that famous
Spanish name, Osborne. We laughed and
smiled and I apologised that I was not
related to the great family, in case they
thought I was going to buy them dinner or
a farm or something. Then, when they saw
I was from Australia from the driver’s
license, we chatted about dangerous
animals; spiders, snakes, sharks, usual
contenders. On this occasion, we got to
poor old Steve Irwin. Right through the
heart. That really was awesome. On earth
as it is in heaven, eh?
But at Izabide, life was fast. I could now
hear twenty pilgrims chowing down
together in the bar. My pal Michael warned
me about Chaucer!
I did have a jolly pre-dinner chat to a
young German who had been living in
London for five years, about Brexit and
Trump and all the current affairs. He was
not worried on either front. Although he
knew the dire implications of both nations
choosing the negative shutting down
option he believed his friends would save
the day. You would hope the London
financial market peeps would trot off to the
voting booth, wouldn’t you. Out of our
hands. Good luck with that.
See? I did have conversations. I was not
entirely silent all day! Crikey!
58
Markina, Domingo, Junio 12th - DAY 6 -
Albergue de Markina de Padres Carmelitas -
This was the day of insects. Nothing
remotely serious, just those little midges
clouding, but I’d suffered bites and stings
before so I felt cautious about anything
approaching me on wings. (Didn’t see any
angels, well, not that day, anyway!)
Stretched in a patch of sun outside,
enjoyed my brekkie and got on the track in
reasonable shape. Mum and Dad from
Sydney with fourteen year-old Kid were on
the road too. Dad told me the story about
their parental decision to give the Kid
some responsibility. Let him carry his own
passport and money. He was old enough.
It might help him grow up a bit. This was
on route to Bilbao from the UK. So, when
they got to Bilbao it was hot. Kid wanted
to get changed into his shorts. He went
into the toilets, got changed and came out,
ready to go. Dad said, ‘ Got the money
belt okay, son?’
59
Uh oh. Kid panicked. Returned to
bathroom in fancy shopping centre. Even
though only two or three people had come
and gone in the intervening few minutes,
the money belt, including passport, was
gone. So much for early responsibility.
The family were then sentenced by red
tape to hurry to Madrid to organise a new
passport. Dad, who told me all this as we
marched towards Markina, wanted to hire
a car to get in and out of Madrid as quickly
as possible. I thought that was a shame
and suggested they could take Renfe and
stay in a hostel or something. At least
spend a day in Madrid. Even though Dad
had been to the Prado, seen all the sights,
Kid hadn’t. Didn’t it seem a waste to be so
close to so many interesting and famous
things - not least those fantastic clicking
tinsel people in Plaza Major - and miss out
just because of a lost passport and
slipped responsibility?
But they were all steamed up to quickly
get to Madrid and then back on track as
soon as possible so they could catch the
flight home in a couple of weeks. And he
said, “I think we’ll go past Markina to the
next albergue in Zenarruza and stay there -
it’s a big old monastery, about 8km out of
town.’ Sounded lovely, big gardens, a
brewery and orchards and I thought, hey, I
should do that too! So then I was
computing, okay, get to Markina, get some
gear from the healthfood shop, get up to
the monastery, check, check, list,
organise, right. So we sauntered on and
Dad went on a bit quicker to catch up with
his family and whip them into a frothing
frenzy of hurry.
I trailed on behind, thinking slow and
steady thoughts about the stresses of
raising a son to be responsible. They had
other children who were living in the UK so
I could see the youngest might have felt
the pull of acting older. I missed my own
son, who was living with his father in
Melbourne. My only child, in his twenties,
was very independent. I had missed him
for many years, much, much longer than
this Spanish time. I had plenty to occupy
my mind as I walked slowly along the
beautiful pathways. The small pueblos
along the way were beautifully kept, with
red painted window boxes and bright
geraniums. Everything was
picture-postcard along the populated
routes. The forestry areas were stark and
industrial and we passed another
well-benched quarry, too.
But soon enough, another clonking along
with her bastónes, and who should it be
but Caterina, our comrade from the cafe in
60
San Sebastian, the
Belgian/German/Spanish woman. She told
me she was from the Costa de Golf - her
son was a professional golf player. I
commented on the environmental
problems golf courses cause. She didn’t
think that was an issue in Spain. I looked
at her sidelong. She looked very smart,
having had paid a hairdresser in Zarautz
40 Euros for a nice cut. She said the use of
a hairdryer would have added another 20
Euros! She’d been worried about hair care
whilst on the Camino and this new, short,
easy style had taken the weight off her
mind. Literally. She’d been powering
along. Her day three was my day six! I
must say, when she too said she was
going to the Zenarruza monastery, I
thought I’d better crack on. So she
marched off, saying we all have to find our
own rhythm, and I meandered along
behind her.
When I found her again she was parked by
the side of the road, held up by a cycle
race. Young men, around that
fourteen-year-old (ir)responsible age,
practiced their Tour de Spain tactics on the
very road we needed to cross. Unlike the
Madrid Marathon police, earnest parents
were strictly keeping observers from
wandering all over the road. We waited for
a suitable pause. It was a 10km race
around a circuit. We managed to cross
during a reasonable gap in the
proceedings but there was a following
motorcyclist who gestured strongly that
we should leave the road immediately. He
left no room for doubt. It was too thin for
both walkers and cyclists at this point and
the next wave of cyclists was about to
arrive. This found Caterina and me waiting
in a cul de sac. So it went that she started
eating dates and talking about how it was
Sunday and how nothing would be open
and how I probably wouldn’t be able to
buy food. She had spent many years in
Spain. She knew the ways of country
towns. Spanish people kept Sunday
afternoon exclusively for family. All would
be quiet. Suddenly the sunny day with
cheering families around me was
condemned. Clouds of doom pressed
down from the sky. I would starve to
death. Everything was misery and gloom.
She pressed a date upon me. Have two. I
did. She reassured me. She had spare
food. Being vegan I preferred to feed
myself and I wanted to rush to the shops
to make sure I got some rice milk or soy
yogurt or something to go with my museli
for the Zenarruza monastery was well
away from any shops.
We couldn’t get past the cyclists because
we might cause one to fall and that would
61
be dreadful but as every panting young
fellow in advertising lycra hunched over an
expensive racing bike pushed past with
their faces grimacing and teeth bared and
their parents and teachers yelling, ‘Venga!!’
I thought no, it’s all a disaster, I’ll have to
spend the night in a gutter, starving like
Shirley Maclaine.
Finally, on the last round with the
stragglers struggling, I could bear no more
and pushed past and marched down the
street without knocking anyone over and
found the tourist info office but it was shut.
I accidentally turned in at a door that led
into a kitchen so I knew there was some
food available somewhere and I rushed
back to the arrow road and stormed
around a corner. As I marched, I caught a
glimpse of something out of the corner of
my eye, something unusual. I backed up to
investigate. It was a chapel.
Inside the chapel was an enormous
boulder. It leaned over another boulder
and under it was a roughly hewn stone
altar. There was a statue of Our Lady and
an incense burner and some fake covered
chairs like the ones people whip up for a
wedding with those big fabric flowers
gaudy over the backs, all arranged over
and around huge rocks. It was
incredible.The enormous boulders must
have suggested sacred space to those
who were building the town. I assumed
they built the chapel around the
pre-existing great stones. It was
wonderful. It was called San Miguel de
Arretxinaga. I stared in complete wonder.
I did not forget my beating heart for long.
Soon enough my mind strayed back to my
disaster mentality. Nothing would be open.
My vegan goose would be well-burnt. But
persistence is all. I would have to do a last
minute search before giving up. I surged
forth into the town. Not only was there a
cycling carnival but also a pelota (handball)
extravaganza here and, for the girls, some
kind of fancy calisthenics. A major
Sporting Sunday. The girls were covered in
make-up, mincing around in their black
leotards. There were balloons and the
sounds of happy dads cheering on the
handball and kids were opening packets of
chips, bags of fairy floss and chupa chups
and other delicious Spanish treats.
(Seriously, chupa chups were invented in
Spain. To keep los dentistas in business?) I
couldn’t find a shop and then, suddenly, I
deflated.
What was I doing? I didn’t need to rush
and dash. I didn’t have to be anywhere
until August! I didn’t need to get caught up
in other people’s speed and need and
62
ploughing on. I eventually found my way to
a restaurant that time forgot. A gentleman
signalled to the waitress that I was there,
needing attention. She gestured to the
corner table and I sat and contemplated
the ships, framed arrays of knots and other
nautical pictures that graced the walls.
From my table at the back of the room I
could see through the lacy windows to the
square where the family throngs were
thinning out a bit.
The poor single waitress was having to
deal with more and more people entering
the quiet restaurant. She was a young
woman, pale, large and deliberate, with her
dark hair swept back into an unflattering
ponytail. She had a large round pale face.
She wore a crumpled black shirt and
baggy black trousers. She kept her cool
but the speed at which she managed to rip
the cork out of a bottle and slice up a
baguette was deeply impressive. In the
end I had a fresh salad and bread with
some separate white asparagus laid out
across that may even have been fresh. It’s
quite something, that blanched fat stem -
extremely tender - there is almost nothing
of the green sprout version in flavour -
more just soft-textured almondy vinegar.
An orange for my dessert was wrapped in
paper twisted impressively at the sides like
a great fat globe mintie. Delicious.
I really enjoyed the flavours and I really
enjoyed stopping. The rushing and
white-rabbitness of the woman from Costa
del Golf and lost-passport tension of the
harried Australian family had infected me.
Once I calmed down completely all was
well. I left my waiter a generous tip (well,
for me). I was very tempted to get up and
help her but I knew I would be far more
trouble than I would be worth. Imagine
trying to explain what to do in a different
language to an overly-worried, terribly
helpful old woman who couldn’t
understand you.
One can read too much in to the Camino
sometimes but for the sake of argument,
life does just carry on. One’s own personal
story goes at one’s own personal time. I
could see that when I got caught up in the
higher revving engines of others I started
to get anxious and stopped looking at
butterflies.
The need to rush about and look for shops
or things in any way dissolved. I did not
need to go another 8km this day. I would
get to the lovely big monastary in good
time on the following day.
For now, I thought I could lounge about in
Markina, get up on Monday, have
breakfast in a cafe, wait until the
63
healthfood shop opened and quietly
meander for a couple of hours, looking at
the clouds and the birds and try to see
more butterflies. Just 8km. Nothing. That
would be really taking it wonderfully slowly.
Even less walking than my second day
from Pasages to San Sebastian but,
maybe, the next day I would be able to
skip Gernika - or not - depending on the
shape of things. I must remember to go at
my speed and pay attention to the things
that interest only me and remember I had
plenty of food and even if I didn’t, if I ate
my apple and my orange, I would not
starve, in no shape or form. For just one,
or even two nights there would always be
water and I was very well nourished. All
was well.
So, theme of the day; insects. Another
gated section; not quite Taranaki, this was
a very neat macrame in blue string and
wire, a weaving really.
A kind of walk-through stile
thing - blackberries grew
nearby and a couple of big fat
bumble bees were partaking of
blossoms loudly as I squeezed
past.
Now, I’m not sure if I annoyed
the bees or if they thought my
bright green/yellow pack was a
superior blossom, but they
came after me!
Nonsense, I thought, as I sped
up, bees don’t chase people,
but loud in my ear was a determined buzz
and I began to run across the road, hoping
a big truck would happen past to smash
them to a pulp.
It wasn’t till I turned the corner that they
gave up, and my pulse was able to return
to normal.
64
I did see butterflies and some kind of loud
cricket creature was bursting forth but
mainly it was quiet. There were hills and
forestry today. Radiata pine in unnatural
blocks intermingled with bare patches,
spindly remnants of oak forests. The oaks
seemed to have some kind of milky
fungus, like the mould that grows on late
zucchini or pumpkin leaves. It affected
them all, the new oak leaf growth dusty,
twisty and curled. Tall silent forests stood
beside bare patches that showed through
to the blue remembered hills and their faint
pins of wind turbines.
The albergue here in Markina was in
another monastery. A great collection of
buildings around a church. The front door
was open but there was
no sign on the door. I
knocked and heard
nothing from both
doors. Then I grew
resourceful and opened
one to find a sign. It
said, Albergue. A clue!
Italian man of great style and élan, two
elderly Italian ladies, a Spanish girl, a
Danish girl and assorted other pilgrims.
There was trouble with the credentials.
Apparently our printed passports had gone
out of style. An order had come through
from head office in Santiago forbidding
their use. The charming gentleman thought
we might not be eligible for our
Compestellas (the certificates showing
completion of the Camino de Santiago)!
Oooophs! But nothing was certain. The
pilgrims all agreed to do nothing about it,
‘We shall see’. And all proceeded normally
after that scandal. Bastiones, boots, bed,
then shower, laundry, chatting, wander,
return, more chatting and our charming

I followed the arrow into

a wide passageway and
thence into a salon to
discover a charming
elderly gentleman trying
to wrangle a young

65
host slowly nodded his way to sleep on his his ankle did feel better. We agreed that
desk. Two young brothers from Montana Sant Juan was magic, pure and simple.
turned up. Jack and Oliver. Charming did
not stir. He slumbered on. Jack and Oliver from Montana told us we
might get tangled up with summer solstice
So the young gals offered to walk the guys celebrations along the way - at least the
to the shop WHAT DID YOU SAY? AN young people were really hoping they
OPEN SHOP!?! would! The feast of Sant Juan had fire,
fireworks, parties, drink… Big city joy but
So I went too and bought fruit and nuts. no one knew what would happen in the
No starvation for me, that night! Excellent pueblos. It was very convivial to sit with
chatting with Ms Barcelona. She reassured these lively young people from all around
me greatly about living in Catalunya for the the world. People in the midst of change,
next few months. More pilgrims arrived moving from one place to another in a
and some, I believe, even tried to wake Mr number of ways. These were the thoughts
Charming. But he snored quietly on. It was that drove the Camino on this family
my first time to mingle en masse with other orientated Sunday! Everything was open,
English speaking pilgrims as we sat at the everyone’s minds, and even some shops!
long tables and compared travel notes.
The Italian Ambassador (not really, but a
lovely young man) advised me that
Sardinia would be an engaging place for
me to visit, with walking tracks and
nature reserves but that all of Italy would
be of great interest. He drew a detailed
map of the entire country in the back of
my journal. In return I offered him some
of my Pomada Sant Juan to try on his
sore ankle. He sniffed it and sneered (in
a sophisticated Italian way) that it was
just olive oil. But he took it anyway. Later
he gave it back and grudgingly admitted

66
Zenarruza, Lunes 13th Junio - DAY 7 -
Albergue de peregrinos del monasterio de
Zenarruza - 7.5km
Slow day. Very slow start. Got up in good
time, stretched in the corridor and
determined I would stay at the scenic
monastary a mere hop, skip and jump
away. The hospitalero was disgusted.
That’s far too close. But I had made up my
mind and instead of rushing out, I watched
as everyone prepared and packed,
particularly the Irish girl who was so funny
with her many bits and bobs all in different
crinkly plastic bags spread out over all the
tables. I was completely delighted when
the two boys from Montana, Jack and
Oliver, gave me a hug. And the young
Italian Ambassador shook my hand. Warm
thoughts of those three personable young
men, reminding me strongly of my own
delightful son, took me a long way along
the path that morning. BUT before I
stepped out for my short walk, I went to a
cafe and had a coffee, which I really
enjoyed and then waited for the
supermercado to open. Apart from rice
milk, I was able to get a good menu for the
67
day, including chocolate, spinach and
mushrooms. And then I set out. I was
determined to get into the monastery
albergue and I thought it opened at 11am.
There was a crossroads, one of which
roads I suspected lead right to the door
and the other through a small town with a
bar. I was annoyed, I thought I’d missed
the monastery. But, pressing on, I made it
through the ancient archway and into the
church grounds.
I gained an impression of honey coloured
sandstone buildings set into bright green
lawns, utterly beautiful surroundings but I
was rather overcome instead by the chill
wet weather. I walked to the little shop at
the rear of the grounds and found a large,
jovial monk overseeing the little dusty
shop. They sold beer, made on the
premises, ditto the honey and rather lovely
postcards. I waited while the elderly monk
made a phone call. He assured me it
would be fine to stay in the albergue,
especially as the weather was now closing
in to be horrid.
After a time a younger man, bustling and
busy, arrived. He was wearing blue
overalls and looked as though he’d just
climbed off a tractor. I turned to wave
cheerio to the monk but he had gone
already, leaving the shop untended. I
followed Mr Overalls around the corner
and down to a more modern and ugly part
of the outbuildings. He pointed downstairs
to the ablution block and showed me to a
large outdoor table and chair area tucked
in to a patio area.
Next to that, there was a small room filled
with bunks, a little kitchen bench and a
tiny kitchen table where a young French
woman sat. Victoire. She nodded at Mr
Overalls but concentrated on eating her
pasta. Mr Overalls said he’d be back later
to stamp my credential. I chose my bunk
and Victoire immediately offered me some
of her food. This could only be improved
by the addition of spinach, mushroom and
chopped walnuts, surely? And it was. We
chatted companionably. She was from
Paris but was studying in Lyon. She was
slightly judgemental of her family whom
68

she described as being serious Parisiens
to the extent her sister didn’t realise there
was an international airport anywhere else
in France but Paris. Victoire’s father was
an academic of some description, who
wrote books and speeches for politicians.
Some sort of French Bob Ellis, perhaps.
I sat and shivered, wrapped in a pink
blanket, overlooking a beautiful but
blustery hillside. I wrote a postcard to my
mother’s cousin, Sally, who had been on
my mind often, remembering how she had
prepared us to walk the Routeburn in my
first year of university. I dragged my
borrowed boots over Flagstaff, a hill above
Dunedin, with my pack full of books
wondering what on earth I had agreed to.
Actually I don’t remember ever getting a
choice. And Sally jollied us along
tremendously, teaching us how to march
to a rhythm either counting or music - a
song in our heads if not in our hearts. Of
course, when I made it over the
Routeburn, a wonderful track of mountain
pass and swimming holes, I couldn’t have
been more grateful for that training!
Then another post card to Penny, who
happened to have been a student of
Sally’s, and because she could have been
here, maybe, in her dreams. And another
to Eliza because I think she gets it. At
least, I think she will. I’m not sure if I do,
really.
In the shower area of that private Albergue,
Izabide, just outside Deba, was a large
postup of a praying Buddha with a lotus
flower. I suppose that all good things were
apparently ‘fighting the good fight’ but
sometimes putting Buddha into the
Catholic/Celtic mix seemed a bit rich.
Especially when you spent the night in the
corner of a Carmelite monastery, next to
an exquisite Cathedral. There were a
couple of other churches in Markina that
were falling apart with obvious holes in the
windows. In fact, generally Markina looked
very shabby and run down. I think arriving
in the midst of all those sporting
tournaments was a bit misleading.
As I walked around Markina in the morning
there were some fancy shops tucked away
69
and interestingly, all the shop signs in the
centre of town had been styled by the
same designer. They sported a rusty
rectangular box with the name, I presume
in Basque, of the commodity on offer, for
instance, OPTIC showed a pair of glasses
in a swirl. So there has been an attempt to
beautify the town.
Simon Bolivar had left his mark(ina), not
just a mere country in South America but
this was the town where he was born.
There was a museo to examine his past
but I just marched straight on past. Why? I
had time, I could easily have learned more
about an interesting historical figure?
Educational shmeducational … I felt such
a lightweight …
So, the Way as walking meditation. Why
don’t you get lost? Los flechas amarillo!
The yellow arrows are so constant that you
need only to raise your eyes at the very
moment you think ‘I haven’t seen one for a
while … ‘ And there was another arrow. Or
if not, there would be one shortly. That’s if
you were on the right track, of course. I
found myself talking in the Royal We. ‘Oh,
is that where we are going now … ?’
In Zenarruza we (most of the pilgrims
staying) went to vespers. In Spanish. In an
ancient monastery. The five monks sang
beautifully. Four of the five were ancient.
They all had wooden nooks to sit in. The
first leaned heavily on his bench. He was
bald, wearing a thin dark cardigan against
the chill of the stone building. The second
wore glasses, had prominent jowls almost
like wattles, missing teeth and a friendly
demeanour. His flared sleeves were tucked
back over his hands. The third looked like
a retired businessman. His large paunch
proved his interest in comestibles, possibly
it’s a taste for beer with the brewery on the
doorstep. He loved his sleeves, deeply
snuggling his arms into them. The fourth,
separate from the others, had white fluff
around the edge of his head like a tonsure
gone to seed. He was ill with a nasty
cough. Sometimes he couldn’t stand. He
was miserable but persisted with his Casio
on his lap, keeping the note ready for
applying to the air just before it was
required. Mr Overalls completed the line
up. He was the youngest, possibly forty or
70
so, and, out of his overalls, wore a cape
with no sleeves. He looked fit and alert
and his uniform was pressed and clean.
Above them, a centred two-storey high
sculpture was not Christ but a monk. At
the entrance of the gothic church was a
carved creature. The beams holding up the
eaves over the entrance way were
enormous, probably oak, and one was
apparently not part of the structure but
decorated the way to the door. At first
glance it was a threatening snake but then
you saw it had ears. The things it will have
heard over the last eight hundred years!
Including a classical concert the night
before.
That Australian family and Caterina must
have been here. If I had rushed here too I
would have heard some beautifully
incredible music echoing around the
ancient space. Victoire had wept, she told
me.
She told me many things, this young
adventurer who had already walked from
Sevilla to Santiago (Camino Plato) and
done the Primitivo. Currently, she was
walking back to France, skipping the cities
by hitchhiking. She was twenty-four with
no fear and no sense of her boundaries.
She wrote everything down and argued
with herself, naming her characteristics as
though she was her own toy theatre. The
players included; The Wise One and The
Victim. I used to do that too, when I was at
school, in my notebooks, argue with
myself. The Victim was such a strong
character in my own life. Things happened
to me, in such an inevitable way. I took
them on the chin and waited to be struck
again.
The monks prepared a large pasta for the
pilgrims, he thought it contained some
meat even as he assured me it was full of
vegetables and insisted I try it. I had
already cooked for myself and was pretty
happy. The rest of the group greatly
approved of the beer on offer. Apparently
the monks were able to appeal to higher
authority for their flavours.
71
Morga, Martes 14th Junio - DAY 8 - Albergue
Eskerika - 28km
Today was the day of the feather. I found a
large white and brown striped feather on
the way out of Ziorta, on the first wooden
stairway. In Australia I would have
hazarded a guess it was from some kind of
owl. Don’t know my Spanish birds at all
but I had seen an eagle, I think, and a
raven hassling it over a valley, but as I tried
to distinguish more details they both
swooped down and into the trees. It was a
very big brown bird and I think it had a
yellow beak but it happened very quickly
so I can’t be sure. Maybe it was some kind
of big falcon?
I was glad to have some different ideas
glide through my brain which was jammed
full of Victoire. She talked and talked and
talked yesterday. I got the idea she might
have been lonely? If that’s the result of
being continually by yourself for months
then perhaps clambering over an entire
country was not ideal for sociability
afterwards.
72
She had
overstayed in the
albergue. And it
may be that Mr
Overalls felt she
had outstayed
her welcome in
more ways than
one! Especially in
those places that
are donativo -
you only pay
what you think is
correct. I’d taken
to paying
10Euros
everywhere - it
being the going proud of the fact she had stayed in
rate in Pais Basquo but many people paid Santiago for three days for no money. She
less. Victoire had no cash. When Mr never did anything to get noticed in the
Overalls asked her for her donativo and huge albergue there and she ate for free at
she refused, he went away to think about a restaurant that allows pilgrims with a
it. He returned, still in his overalls and took compostella to have three free meals. So,
her downstairs to the ablution block. She she was resourceful with an eye for the
looked confused. She came back and main chance.
reported to me that Mr Overalls had taken
her into the bathrooms to say she could But, it is my supposition the monk had cut
stay for free. She said she couldn’t her a deal whereby if she cleaned the
understand what he was on about but she (decidedly stinky) bathrooms, she could
was glad to have permission to stay.l have a bunk for free. But that’s not the sort
of thing Victoire would have noticed if she
Now, Victoire was a free spirit, a wild child didn’t understand that particular verb;
of the wind and weather. She was very clean, work, effort, that sort of thing. She

73
was very self-obsessed which I supposed
most twenty-four year olds ought to be,
really.
But then, today, I walked from Gernika to
Eskerika with Sina, the warrior police
officer from Hamburg. She was 21 and
very serious and dedicated. She was also
fresh of face, blonde and slender. She said
it had been difficult for her mother when
she joined the force because it was her
mother who had to sign the document
stating that Sina would be prepared to give
her life for her job. I couldn’t imagine the
terrible feelings that must have overtaken
her mother at that moment. Knowing that
this was the right path for her daughter
could not have made it any easier to give
the life she’d birthed to her country.
Sina’s older brother had Down Syndrome
and possibly this was a relationship that
had given her such a responsible attitude.
So, in comparison, Victoire, from a
wealthy, privileged background where her
father writes political books and advises
government and business, had a kind of
meaningless point of view where she
couldn’t understand the concept of
working to cover costs of a roof over her
head. Perhaps. As we know, comparisons
were odious. Like the albergue bathroom.
Victoire went to school in Paris and her
two older sister and one brother are all
wealthy Parisiensess who can’t imagine
living outside Paris for five minutes.
Victoire and her younger sister were the
breakaway crew. She had squatted in
unused houses sometimes but mainly
studied sociology in Lyon. But for now, she
was going to hitch to her grandmother’s
farm just over the border in France. It
sounded like a good thing to do; an
extended large family would look after her
and comfort her. I think she was very tired,
carrying tent and cooking equipment over
mountain tracks must have been
exhausting.
While we sat inside eating my vegan
dinner, the rest of the pilgrims were
enjoying monk-prepared stew outside with
freshly baked bread and monastery
brewed beer. One of the men came inside
to tell how he had walked over the
Pyrenees, then from Seville to Santiago,
done the Primitivo and was now walking
back to France. My eyes widened in
surprise and I looked, with some glee, to
Victoire. She had done, more or less, the
same trip! His German puffed out chest as
he described his feats and his proud
74
demeanour shrunk visibly as Victoire said,
‘So have I’. Well. You could have knocked
him down with a feather. He questioned
her, testing to see if she was telling the
truth and then, reluctantly, had to give her
grudging respect when he realised she had
actually accomplished all that he had, a
lone slim girl, when he was a sort of strong
military figure in his fifties.
Meanwhile, Sina sadly had only time to
walk to Santander. She was extremely
grounded. Calm. She was aiming to work
with the dogs. In the police. To help her
community.
But even before I got caught up walking to
Morga, where the Eskerika Albergue is, I
was walking to Gernika. It was so quiet.
Perhaps because of the forestry, there are
not so many birds in radiata, and the
increasing sight of eucalyptus, foreign
trees to northern Spain. There were plenty
of birds in the hedgerows; red and orange
robins, finches, a small black and white
bird, small sleek versions of magpies and
some sort of flitty bird like a fantail. Many
more insects and the ever-changing
pathways, some improved with gravel and
granitic sand overlaying wide avenues
through farmlands, past cows, sheep and
goats. Dogs, miserably tied up, beautiful
roses and geraniums, fuchsias and the
beginnings of some hydrangeas. So green
and verdant and we could see why! It was
still raining. Every now and again the sun
would break through. I did get pretty
sweaty so I washed my gear which sadly
would not dry until Bilbao. I hoped to stay
a couple of nights there to take a good
look at the Guggenheim.
When I aproached Gernika I didn’t like the
look of the Albergue. It only had negative
comments on Gronze. I went into the first
cafe I found and had a dreadful coffee. The
worst I’ve ever had. But a very good fresh
salad. She had no idea what a tostada con
tomate ought to be. I got bare white
square bread with some sliced tomato on
the side. That was that. The limit. I would
not be staying there!
I buzzed along, no luck on the rice milk but
stood in line in the supermercado with
some good fruit and nut chocolate in one
hand (could contain traces of milk -
sometimes I just had to). It was just on
13:30 and there were three people with
enormous shopping carts ahead of me. I
calculated I had just enough time to get to
the fruiteria before it would close. Dumped
the choc. Picked up some fruit, found the
health food shop and bought snack food
bars. Found the tourismo, got directions to
the public WC and got out of town.
75
A word about toilet paper. This large
council run WC with cheerful yellow tiles
on the walls featured toilet paper
containers. They were all hanging open
and all empty. After my beachside
revelation that toilet paper is something to
negotiate BEFORE entering the servicios, I
had taken to ALWAYS having tissues in my
pockets. Thank goodness!
On the way I saw the big old tree in a
cage, saw the old Assembly buildings and
split. Something about that town, made
dreadfully famous by war recorded by Mr
Picasso’s 2D stretched agony, was not
comfortable. I had already walked 18km,
about the top of my previous efforts. Now I
had no choice but to walk another 10km. I
tightened my straps and marched on.
As I marched I met Sina and her gentle
conversation eased any discomfort I might
have felt had I been by myself breaking
these walking milestones. There was a lot
of uphill but we shared snacks and
ambitions and silly tales.
We arrived to find a little dog barking at the
bell on the gate announcing our arrival.
Her name was Lolita. The gentleman, a
hospitalero but of a privado nature, sternly
encouraged us out of our muddy boots by
the door. There was an outdoor kitchen
and a place to hang our washing. Then we
went inside to what was very like a little
cafe, well appointed and clean. Upstairs
the bunks were ranged close together but
very comfortable in a large airy room. The
owner had done the Camino del Norte
twice. He had a large framed picture of the
Louise Bourgoise’s big spider, Mother,
outside the Guggenheim by the
bathrooms.
I chatted to a lovely Japanese man,
Yositako, who worked in travel and a
Frenchman who had no time. A couple
from Brussels told me Flemish was the
same as Dutch and at last I felt I had
joined the swim of humanity I was hoping
to fall in with. There were a bunch of
Yanks, too. Three gals and two older
fellows. There was much conversation and
anticipation as we poured over maps and
compared guide books.
We would be in a city the next day. Bilbao.
And on the way in we would pass the
Camino de Santiago information centre.
We were getting somewhere. We were on
the Way.
76
Bilbao, Miércoles 15/16th Junio - DAY 9 -
Edifico Santiago - 24.9km
Uh oh. What started as a beautiful soft
misty day developed into forest workers
turning on their chainsaws and laying
siege to trees, turning them into troncos
while each pilgrim marched their solemn
way through the mud and on to
Goikoelexalde. And I felt great! Even
though I’d found it difficult to sleep I was
wired up! I was excited about getting into
a hostel like the one in San Sebastian with
a big kitchen and a locker and I was
imagining all the things I’d do and see in
the big city and even as I walked along
hitching and hauling at my pack (realising
my front pack pockets were a bit broken) I
imagined what it might be like and the
variety of tasty food options I’d have and
the cluster of pilgrims around the table at
breakfast had researched the best hostel
to stay and I got through Larrabetzu and at
Lezma I lost the track.
This is maybe where I lost my equilibrium.
The arrows pointed at the library and at
77
least there I could use the bathroom but
the only person I could find to ask were a
mum and baby who assured me there was
an invisible person in the library to ask. I
looked in the library! When I returned she
added, at a pinch she thought if I headed
that way it might get me back on the Way.
I really couldn’t see the invisible person so
thought I’d try her suggestion and luckily
that worked.
I found a beautiful church, Andra Mari. It
was shut. I thought about Neil Gaiman’s
places of power as described in American
Gods. As I’ve walked around Spanish
churches I can see how they are built in
the centre of the town (opposite the bar!)
or on a hill overlooking the town or in an
undeniable place of power, like that
strange and wonderful boulder chapel in
Markina. Perhaps sacred places, that
attract people and energise them, inspire
humans to build monuments to draw more
people. And I thought of the energy I’d felt
from the last monastery, particularly after
the vespers, the sonorous male vibrations
in those hallowed halls, repetitive and
calming. The warm stone walls, glowing
gold in the candlelight, giving off a tangible
power that I took with me on my journey,
refreshed and re-energised.
More and more I found walking into an
open church amazing. The idea of heaven
made manifest in a building was not
enough to see from the outside, not even
those little chapels with fences that you
could peer through. You had to get inside,
like those huge crystals you see
sometimes in science museums or
healthfood shops; mere rocks on the
outside but when they’ve been sliced in
half, it was the strange glittering growths
crowded around the inside that took your
breath away.
But most of the churches I found on the
Way, small or grand, were all locked up.
And in the case of the large San Martin,
arrows curving all around the industrial
by-ways, rather out of the way. Apparently
the Camino society or perhaps, Friends of
the Camino, were improving the approach
to Bilbao. It was pretty dire when I walked
it. I took the long way, just in case and
78
once through the industrial wastelands,
often covered in graffiti and lonely, scrappy
buildings, we were led through a hilly
parkland. There was some pretty grotty
scrawled slogans, not encouraging for
female pilgrim feelings of safety. But the
further I walked there were rural paddocks
where goats lay in shade, eyeing off the
passer by.
We seemed to walk right around the city. It
was incredibly frustrating. We could see
the city, on that day covered with heavy
dark grey clouds, we could see paths that
must lead down there but the arrows said
no and the descriptions said no and we
pressed on, though picnic areas and
running tracks. Finally, I came to the hill
above Bilbao. There were works going on
with an overpass and I don’t know if that is
where I lost the track or if the improvers
had not got to that bit yet but it was
dangerously close to serious traffic. After a
couple of cheery people in a passing car
79
gave me a bum steer, I eventually found
the beautiful ancient steps into the city (the
Santiago info centre closed!) stood outside
the Cathedral (closed) to watch the rain
pelt down and when I got to the
Albergue/Hostel I was disappointed. Yup.
Full.
It was raining. Grey. I was wet and cold.
But the girl in the hostel was kind and let
me sit in the empty dining hall while I
looked through all the places to stay, finally
picking a central serviced apartment with
kitchen. I would be able to do all my
washing and watch tv in my own non
snoring environment. My first pick
Albergue cum Hostel was in the old part of
town which had narrow cobblestone
streets, wet and slippery in the grey
afternoon light. Everything was shut
except a fruit and veg where I bought
myself an apple to eat for the short journey
to my new digs in the more recent city
area.
It was called Apartments de Santiago and
reasonably easy to find. The metro in
Bilbao was compact and straightforward.
Nothing was open as I made my way
through the spiderweb of roads in the
middle of town, filled with glitzy big name
shops.
The apartment, when I arrived, was in poor
condition. Everything was shabby and
when I asked for another blanket the
receptionist herself came up to help
remove the tatty old rag and bring me a
couple that actually had hems. We pulled
the grubby cover off the couch to reveal a
really, really nasty stain. It didn’t smell,
thank goodness, but it looked like a couple
of bottles of wine at least. I hesitate to say
what might have happened there. I didn’t
sit on that side of the couch!
But my favourite happy app, Happy Cow,
showed me there were healthfood shops
nearby and I was able to stock up on
supplies, feed myself while my washing
washed, empty the pack completely for
the first time on the road and try to fix up
the broken front pocket a bit. I was happy
to stare at various Spanish soap operas on
Neon channel. Passion was the name of
the game and as the evening wore on, the
budget went up together with the quality
of lighting, location and script! Some great
performers of all ages. The actors really
flung themselves into the scene. Some
stories are universal and others are just
stupid. Same old, same old!
80

On June 16th I took a day off. It was my
sister’s birthday, on that Joycean,
seemingly fortuitous date; 16/06/16. I had
been in such a blur the day before I had
left my VISA card in the healthfood shop.
Luckily I worked it out in the morning so I
was able to get a good night’s sleep. As
soon as I remembered where I left it I went
straight there. Still, it never takes too long
to imagine the most DIRE consequences!
backwards. Trying to be polite,
listening, nodding, smiling and my
heart was so deep in my guts,
pounding, bashing me up, so
uncomfortable, so gritando, telling
me to get out, to get away and this
is how I felt as I found myself on
that main road into Bilbao, with
no-where to walk and trucks, buses
and tractors coming at me. There
was nothing for it, facing the traffic
was essential and I had to go on.
Beastly bad it was.
Luckily, once I had calmed, I would visit
The Guggenheim (straight up the road, I
couldn’t miss it, that is unless I went the
wrong way to start with, which I did) was
wonderful. When I found it! Puppy, a floral

I arrived as they opened the till and the girl

behind the desk was able to hand it over
without a fuss. Even so, I knew there
would always be a way to survive.

Panic comes and goes - when Victoire was

talking at me, so many words, all about
herself, I started feeling so overwhelmed
and, taking a backward step, she would
come at me and I would go further

81
building of dogginess opens the fun arty
party planted in and around that mad curly
building, together with other shiny,
amusing sculptures. And, as I took my first
orientating stroll around the edifice, two
tinsel clickers! Been a while since Madrid.
They were really persistent, too, marathon
clickers.
more of her work; larger works and those
WONDERFUL cells. How lucky for her to
have landed in a disused factory filled with
all those terrifically cool things to play with.
And how clever was she to make the
evocative spaces and choose those
diverse and textured objects with which to
tell her stories.

I pottered about the gallery spending time I also communed with Richard Serra, him
with Modigliani. Just one nude but I was of the shipbuilding spheres and toros.
so in love with Modigliani at one time. And Bloody marvellous. How to define space,
then I turned a corner and came face to literally edge and form with incredible force
face with a Mondrian, the Ochre Tree, and and weight and sheer height? I was
tears arrived as I gazed, such a perfect intrigued he appeared to care so little
painting. I also spent time with a wide about the surface appearance in his
open yellow Rothko and dreamed into that interviews showing around the exhibition
scratchy red brushstroke heavy red and spaces but as the cameras passed over
then up into the white
blue red and further into
green but all yellow all
edged with red and it
was so uplifting and I felt
I was in the right place.
There you go.

Then, and again, Louise

Bourgeois was here. We
had seen her work in the
Heide Gallery in
Melbourne a couple of
years before but this
exhibition had gathered

82
installation processes you could see folk
polishing away in the background. Each
panel was differently marked and, given
Serra started as a painter, inspired by
Jackson Pollock, I found it disingenuous
that he did not rate those intricate surface
markings a priority. Of course, he is
singularly concerned with the (very) big
picture. He said at one point he is not
interested in stitching but of course he has
to be - in order to extend those panels
they have to join up somehow. Still.
Phenomenal and erudite man.
I was taken aback how many people
walked around those huge heavyweights,
given one topple and certain crush, how
many had their audio guia plastered to
their ears. I was overwhelmed when first
walking through. I really felt the need to
experience at first hand the rise and power
of the shapes. Similar to walking through
the thin gothic lanes of Barcelona’s old
town, not knowing where we were headed,
feeling the push and pull of history and
industry and weight all around. The last on
the floor of the Guggenheim is one that
ends with the viewer walking into a distinct
ship shape. Even before I watched the
interviews I knew Serra must have started
with shipbuilding. There is something true
about his presence in Bilbao, a
shipbuilding place of ages.
My shopping list included a warm top -
having posted my lovely blue woollen top
on to Prague I found this costal rain too
chilly without a jumper of some kind. I
looked through the Guggenheim sweat
shirts with some disappointment but one
would do. It was not too heavy and I didn’t
have to traipse around Bilbao more than I
had to, bar the post office.
Feeling lighthearted, I returned to the
scene of my entry into Bilbao and visited
the info centre half way up the old steps.
A wiry gentleman who had six Caminos
under his belt, preparing to do his seventh,
talked me across the hall to the bench of
informative literature. I donated to get a
copy of the Northern Caminos information
booklet.
My first guide book, it contained lovely
pictures and a good summation of each
town, giving helpful data like the
population. This was a good indication of
the sort of supplies one could anticipate. If
the town was very small, then the
chocolate has to last until the next decent
sized town!
83
Portugalete, 17th June - DAY 10 - Albergue
Bide Ona - 19km
Leaving Bilbao. I had a slow start to the
day with an email regarding my placement
in Catalunya causing me some concern. I
panicked and sent emails to everyone
remotely connected to the plan. Finally I
dragged myself out of bed and got to the
Post Office around 10:30am. Post cards
signed, sealed and delivered, I returned to
base to find the key to my apartment no
longer worked. After some negotiations
with reception I was able to proceed with
packing and throwing away excess weight.
It was cloudy as I hoisted my pack and left
the hotel. The way forward was clear. Past
the Guggenheim, turn left and stick by the
river.
But, not trusting to my instincts or my
ability to read the map, I thought I’d best
ask someone. One after another, each
Spanish lady that I asked grew
increasingly worried about my inability to
communicate. At first I saw the fear that
crossed their innocent faces, ‘Oh, no,
84
please God, there’s an alien talking at me!’
Then once I begged a bit, ‘Disculpe, por
favor … ‘ and I showed them the map and
pointed at where I thought I should be
going, they shook their heads, not wanting
to get involved with my strangeness. The
second lady had a baby in a pram, so she
short-sighted. I thought a young fellow
interested in engineering would find Serra’s
work at least intriguing. He would take the
train and I would walk but we were both
headed to the same place.
See how the Camino gave interesting

couldn’t run, and the third lady, well, they parallels that would resonate with the right

reluctantly looked at the map but with one pile up of thoughts? So many different

side of their body reaching for freedom, ways to get to your destination in life.

none wanted to be the first to leave the Visualise and you will get there, somehow

difficult situation. They flagged down a …

young man strolling past, ‘English?’ To

We parted and I walked along the river. I
which he nodded and all the ladies
really enjoyed my rice milk and my apple as
suddenly disappeared.
I walked. It was raining on the way and I

The young person was from Montreal, so was hungry. The bars in this industrial part

he had no more idea than I where we were. of town were none too salubrious. I

He was heading to Getex, which I believe stopped at a service station to use the loo

was the town directly across the

river from Portugalete. He was
following his landlady’s
recommendation for a nice day trip.
He didn’t know anything about the
bridge with the cargo/car/person
carrier which had been built up in my
mind by various descriptions and
rumours. I thought it was the big
reason to go to Portugalete. He also
had been told to save his money and
not go to the Guggenheim which, as
it was only 16Euros, seemed a bit

85
and found some salty bread based
snack food. Rather delicious crispy
niblets with rosemary and dried tomato
flavouring. Ate the whole packet very
happily. You must keep an eye out for
crisp bread.

There were some run down and broken

large old warehouses showing signs of
the economic crisis. Soon there was a
spate of refreshed buildings and then
we were directed (the arrows said) out
and away from the river, possibly to
shops, and then back to a grotty area bridge. The walkways became neater,
of street art and broken windows and then, clearly money spent to keep the parks
suddenly, we were in a resort area with a nearby in order, the elegant buildings
World Heritage suspension bridge and overlooking the bridge appeared
charming old buildings. prosperous and well-kept.

They told (the guidebook! Gronze!) about
big things and towers and bridges at
Portugalete but I didn’t really know what to
expect until I saw it and then everything
slotted into place.
So it was with the Flysh and the
Guggenheim and now with this suspension
or transporter bridge. It really was
something. It’s called the Vizcaya bridge
and UNESCO have made it a World
Heritage Site. The river glided through
areas of rotting old warehouses and
suddenly, in the distance, there was the
Each side of the river had a mini-Eiffel
slender tower. Between them, high up, so
shipping could proceed under it, was an
iron bridge. The shape of it was a little
reminiscent of the San Fransisco bridge
but higher and more slender. Slung
underneath and sliding across the river,
just above the water, was a carrier. On the
carrier were several cars, an elegant
solution to a difficult problem.
How to get between Getex and
Portugalate without stuffing up tall ships
coming through? It was quiet and ran

86
frequently so, even as an antique, is still
useful in this modern age.
What visionaries got together to dream this
up? The original meetings must have been
wonderful. A little bit Jetsons from a
couple of centuries ago. The architect was
a disciple of Eiffel, a man called Palacio.
Apparently during the civil war part of it
was bombed. And Señor Palacio would
have seen it as he looked out of his
window. Just before he died. That must
have been a dreadful day for him.
It took a bit of sorting to find the albergue,
another privado. I really hoped this was
one of the last urban places I had to deal
with. It was tricky to find and turned out to
be crowded. There was a big group of
cyclists and an assortment of other
walkers. Lots of small rooms and I think
my room of only four bunks was smaller
than most, which was valuable as there
was only a small amount of people who
might snore.
The supermercardo provided individual
packs of pre-cooked rice (integral) which
made a perfect hostel dinner. A mushroom
stirred through with one of those miniature
olive oils, a tiny can of peas and a bit of
chopped pepper and hey presto, a
delicious and healthy meal. The individual
rice was also available mixed with quinoa.
I ate my meal in the crowded social area
where keen sporty folk watched some kind
of soccer game and a genial young
Chinese woman drank a huge
bottle of beer. The bathrooms
had slightly confusing signs:
Chicas, NO, meant, obviously,
men. Clearly, I was to use the
one marked Chicos NO. It’s all
very clean but I must say, I did
feel happiest on the way out.
And for some reason, as I was
trying to work out how to get
here, I received an email
saying I had been placed in a
secondary school near
87
Barcelona! Yay! So all my anxiety of the
morning, which I had to assuage with a
danish (I didn’t ask about butter in the
pastry, sometimes it’s better just to feed
the hunger) and coffee Americano on the
way back from the Post Office, was all
over. I’d been levelled up! The next level
would be contacting the school, getting all
the forms to fill in … on, on, on … I
considered spending a couple of days in
Santander, the next reasonably sized city,
to get it all sorted.
Looking around this social room with beer
and MAMiLS (middle aged men in lycra) I
could tell it was going to be an earplug
night. There was some energetic sporting
encouragement going on with the football
match.
My German friend, Brita, showed up with
another German woman. Three of the
cyclists surrounded Mr Quebec but all
attempts failed. Luckily our host appeared
with cleaning cloth in hand and instructed
us - well, Mr Quebec - very quickly so that
when I went to start it again I couldn’t
make it go. After another high speed
lecture, this time directed at me, all
systems go, and I had my nice dinner. Now
looking forward to breakfast after a sleep
and I’m going to try for 27.5km. Must take
the right road, though!

I’ve found people to be friendly when I ask

directions or assistance. I do tend to ask
women and they’ll always give it a
considered go. But this evening I asked
the man from Quebec, who happened to
be standing next to me, how he thought
the microwave went. And it was pretty
funny because he did all the things I’d tried
already. And then he went nuts with all the
buttons. He tried pushing everything in
quick succession in no particular order
and then got faster and more forceful.
Suddenly we were surrounded by people.

88
Castro-Urdales, 18th Junio - DAY 11 - Albergue
de peregrinos de Castro Urdiales - 35km
Well, it had to happen sooner or later, and
it would happen just as I was
congratulating myself on how fit I was,
how well my body was taking the pressure
… (Not that I was actually under much
pressure, after all, I’m hardly a refugee
from a war-torn land, was I? Just a person
having a walking holiday in beautiful
coastal Spain.) I fell over. A little slip can
go a long way.
As I wrote my notes, I lay, with my legs up
against the wall, next to an open window
framing a prunus tree just into full new
leaves. The sun was glinting between the
maroon leaves with the bright blue sky
behind. We had another full albergue today
and the young hospitalero was trying to
find places for all the latecomers, phoning
around to organise another mattress or a
tent, possibly. When the sun glinted onto
the leaves they turned cherry red. It really
was beautiful with the wind gently shifting
89
the leaves from a flat platinum to the
maroon, to brown and then the brilliant
red. Very calming.
It was a beautiful walk in to this resort
town. There was quite a surreal castle on
the horizon over the marina. The beach
side had a built environment, gazebos and
lovely attractive areas that I guessed
would bustle like San Sebastian in the
summer.
I was worried about my knee. One of the
girls, Julie from Denmark, I first met her in
Markina, was now strapped with green
tape around both her knees. She’s one of
these determined, nothing-will-stop-me
walkers. She went to the hospital in Bilbao
for pain management, I supposed, and the
staff there warned her not to walk for a few
days. Or at least take it quietly. So she
walked 23km. I suppose there was only
one albergue in the vicinity but to
disregard this medical advice when you
asked for it seemed a bit silly to me. She
must keep on, urgently needing to drug
herself and walk. So, she was resting on
the beach - she got here at 11am for fear
she would miss out on a bed in the
albergue. And she met a man who worried
so much for her knees that he took her to
a physio who strapped her up, gave her
creams and ointments and paid for her to
get new shoes - ALL her needs. He was
like an angel. This is the kind of Camino
story we all hang on, amazed. A true
Camino Angel.
I would try to walk as much as possible
the next day but my knee felt like it was
seizing up. You really don’t know how fit
you are until you slide, surprisingly, down a
wet mossy steep gutter as cars swung
close around a busy road in the middle of
tiny town, Ontón. Dang and blast it. And I
was going so well and so carefully!
It was raining when I left Portugalete and
as usual went in the wrong direction. Who
should run out of the parkland to greet me
but a cute little West Highland terrior, the
type of dog I habitually photographed to
send to my friend Penny in Auckland due
to her interest in matters of white Westies.
So we had a chat, him in his tartan coat
with his smoking mother, who put her
hand tenderly on my arm to explain my
way.
And so it went and we were trammelled
into a shared bike/footpath. There was a
slightly longer way through the suburbs
but I was happy to be corralled and fenced
in over the motorways. It really suited me. I
could think. There were variations of this
bike path all the way to the coast. One part
90
had a wall of giant stones and there were
many, many big dogs walking out with
their owners. Not only that, but many
houses were guarded by big, ferociously
barking dogs. Apart from the excellent and
beautiful vegetable gardens, I found it
interesting to ponder what these dogs
were trying to protect.
As I walked along the contained pathway,
lined with enormous rocks on the
righthand side, the left was a series of
private properties with tall fences of metal
and concrete. High, and, if they were
see-through style, they had some kind of
astroturf or netting to cover them and
nearly all had a sign featuring dangerous
dog, Perro por Seguridad, for security.
Some even had a photo of the huge killer
dog in question.
As I walked, I noticed a man with a plastic
bag being chased, danced around, by a
cat. As I drew nearer I saw him drop some
meat to the ground and the cat slipped
around him and in and out of a tall wrought
iron fence. Behind the fence, and I did not
linger to look too closely, were at least
three, possibly four, of the biggest,
loudest, strongest dogs, storming about as
he went to open the gate with a key. As he
did, I hastened away, and he started
crooning to them, ‘Bueno, bueno … ‘ and
his voice grew louder and louder until he
was shouting, ‘BUENO! NO! BUENO!’
Two men, also walking with their dogs and
long canes, caught my eye. I felt they were
encouraging me to depart the area. I did
not look back, presumably the dogs had
spilled out into the carriageway and he
was attempting to get them back behind
the fence.
Further along, another big dog was sitting,
just observing the passers by. He looked
old and calm and did not move as I went
by. Mostly the dogs were chained or well
behind the tall fences.
I passed another trying hard to jump over
a half door but could not quite manage it
while another playfully barked and ran
around while his owner tried to put his
91
neck chain and lead back on after washing
it. The owner was trying to get him to keep
away from me and after shouting at the
dog would smile at me and say, ‘Tranquilla,
tranquilla … ‘ He explained he had to wash
the lead because the dog had covered it in
shit.
I smiled and acknowledged that was the
sensible option and turned my back on the
dog so as not to antagonise him. I thought
perhaps I presented quite a threatening
form, the entirety of my pack and body
being covered with my rain poncho plus
the clonking walking sticks turning me into
a weird four-legged green creature, like a
mad green camel. I didn’t use the sticks
around animals for fear of freaking them
out.
The young hospitalero here told me he had
a friend from Melbourne. She was doing
the Camino and then she went to South
Africa for six months and then she got
married and went to live in the
Netherlands. So, she’s become an
international friend. I take good heart from
that! I’d like to be an international type
myself. When I heard I was getting a
secondary school near Barcelona I
thought, yup, that’s exactly what I wanted!
I hoped the English teacher would be
relaxed but I guessed I would just do what
I was told. And I was excited to be near
the marionette hub, there was a workshop
in Barcelona putting out some great new
work. And I would improve my Spanish!
And my French! And I would need some
Czech! And Catalan. If my brain held out!
Knee was the strangest thing. When I first
did it, I thought it was fine. I got up, a bit
shaken, nay, a lot shaken, but I kept on
marching and calmed down. It was when I
stopped to think about it that I noticed the
knee itself was sore and swollen. Not so
much the knee itself but the muscle at the
top of the calf behind the joint. Before, it
hurt to bend. Now, it hurt to straighten.
Now, I felt like I’d joined all the other
moaning walkers with their endless blisters
and sore bits. Buggar it.
Another bunk without a fence. I built a
fence using one of the pile of extra
blankets in the albergue, a little line along
the edge of the bunk. Nice and secure little
nest with all my bits and bobs around me.
Like a bear in a tree.
It was still daylight at 20:30, people
walking around outside, going for dinner
while there are also people in the bunks,
like me, scribbling in notebooks, and
some, like the guy beneath me, reminding
92
me to look out my earplugs. That was
some snore he’d got going already.
This morning I was awake at 5:15. I sat up
to start getting dressed and then I thought,
no, buggar it, it’s too early and went back
to sleep. When I woke the next time the
host was loudly making everyone
breakfast and people were saying ‘Muchas
gracias’ as they left. He gave me a cup of
quite drinkable coffee to have with my
muesli. I was right as rain and on the road
by 7:30, portrait taken outside the
albergue to litter their website.
It really was a pleasing start to the day.
And apart from the knee-slip, a pretty
good day all round. When I stopped for
lunch, the waitress, in her leopard print
mini-dress and white pants and long
blonde hair was SO solicitous of me.
Really, she was incredibly kind and lovely.
She opened the dining room for me alone
and I sat up in splendid isolation, perhaps,
as my son would have it, I looked like such
a dork she wanted me out of her bar. I had
a simple mixed salad and bread with
brand new oil and sherry vinegar. She
popped in and asked me how I was doing
and blew me kisses when I left and I’d only
spent 10 Euros. I gave her a tip but still, it
was not much for this kind of royal
treatment! Can’t think what made her so
attentive.
As I gathered washing and came back to
the albergue after sitting in the Toros
parking lot where the best wifi was to be
found, I met Anthony, a young jazz
guitarist from Texas. Very gentle funny
young man.
So, tomorrow is Sunday, the dreaded
close-the-town day, and I’ve plenty of food
on board. Another nice rice dinner ahead.
I’m going to try to walk 25km but there’s
other albergues if I don’t make it that far.
There’s no point stuffing up the knee if I
don’t have to. Gronze says this is Stage
10, so we were half way through my time
on the Norte. And I’d just read ahead and
they were suggesting taking the train out
of Santander and I thought that was good
advice as the stage was 40km!
93
Hazas (Liendo), Domingo 19th Junio - DAY 12 -
Albergue de peregrinos Saturnino Candina -
24.5km
Albergue de peregrinos Saturn Candida -
6km short of the suggested stage to
Laredo - is very clean and new, offering
sturdy wooden bunks with plenty of space
between. I really didn’t feel the need to
keep pushing my increasingly swollen
knee so I stopped. Most of the day I had
the cheerful company of young jazz
guitarist, Anthony Plant. We had good
talks about anything and everything.
My day started out relatively quietly.
Feeling super eager to get away from Mr
Snory. He was from Quebec and describes
himself as French. I asked him what
passport he carried and he reluctantly
admitted it said, ‘Canada’. He chose to
educate his children as French and he
wished to live as though he did live in
France. While we talked I wished, strongly,
to avoid judgement but all that stopped at
2:45am when I felt the urgent need to bash
him.
94
He was sleeping directly beneath me and
even though I had the earplugs firmly
hammered into my head his snores
permeated my hearing. His snores vibrated
my bunk frame! The resonant roaring was
one thing but it was the combination of
sleep apnea and groaning that was the
greatest torture of all. The snoring would
stop. I would hold my breath too. Then he
would groan, really, really loudly, like he
was calling to someone across a wide
rushing whitewater river and then he would
fall back into snoring again. I ASK YOU!!
I did eventually get some sleep, between
groans, but the last two nights together
have felt terribly cramped and crowded
with people and snoring bunks.
The albergue in Castro Urdales was beside
the Plaza del Toros, the bullring building
huge and circular, painted white with lovely
mustard trim. There was a red wrought iron
kind of semi circle over the doorways, a
radiating halo of bright twisted streamers
of blood. For added poetry, gate 4 was
entwined with a vibrant climbing rose - of
red. Strangely, I didn’t get a photo as I had
discovered WiFi was strongest there,
outside the bullring and I had chosen to
engage with my social media public
instead.
There was a loud party STILL going on in
the morning as I left Castro, teenagers
happily shouting out lyrics at all rhythms
and tones hardly related to any kind of
music at all. A little while later I passed a
police car making its way up the laneway.
Anthony reported the police had just
parked as he went past. So, I guess it was
only fair they were told to keep it down at
08:00!
My knee felt pretty good this morning. I
warmed up slowly and relatively quickly.
Most people from the Castro albergue
passed me. I was just getting some steam
up - it was raining - when the young man
of the previous evening’s chat passed me,
saying ‘Buen Camino’. And then,
surprisingly, he did a classic double take
and said, so charmingly, ‘Oh, it’s you,’ and
dropped by for a chat. And so it was that
we spent a most companionable day
together. I fear I bored him somewhat - but
he was very kind and we took our time.
We stopped for morning coffee around
10:30 and I was able to introduce him to
the all important tostado con tomate y
aciete! We then strolled along the byways,
though an eucalyptus forest of young
saplings before stopping in Rioseco for his
orange and my apple, sitting on the good
bench by the broken picnic table. The
95

other side had a broken bench and a great
table. Like the caterpillar’s mushroom.
Either choice was poor! As we neared the
end of snack time we noticed there was
another repaired table on the other side of
the park and enjoyed whole seated
comfort for a short time. These are the sort
of small things in life with which the
Camino rewards patient participants.
We then went up, climbing a small
mountain, and I’d been expecting far
worse that day. His pleasant company
took the attention from my knee so it was
we came relatively quickly to my albergue,
found the bar with the pleasant plane trees
and enjoyed a relaxed lunch. But during
our talks we solved the problem of
decriminalising drugs, his hopes for his
bio-medical degree, his worry about his
tintinitus, his love for his dad and brother,
his concern for his mum and how he came
to the Camino.
We kind of skirted around marriage and
stuff. He told me he used to be married
and I told him I still was. I explained how I
was extremely happy to be out exploring
the world and he mentioned a couple of
ex-girlfriends …
He said he’d really enjoyed the movie of
Eat, Love, Pray and I told him I’d not
enjoyed the book at all. Maybe one day I
would watch the movie. We made a deal
to buy each other’s work, so I’m allowed to
use any part of his album for my Footfall
film.
He tried to pick up a bit of rubbish
everyday to make the Camino a little bit
better for the following people. I checked
in a couple of times to make sure he really
did want to be chatting to a middle-aged
lady dragging along with her sore knee
and he said he didn’t feel I was holding
him back so we were very companionable.
He had shocking blisters so he’s got his
own shoe baggage holding him up but he
wanted to press on to the next stop so off
he went after tending to his bandaids.
Now, in Hazas, I sat in the edging out sun,
chasing it with my washing and I tucked
into various snacks and nibbles. We ate a
late lunch at the Bar de la Plaza - where
they had pruned the plane trees to act as
96
umbrellas - it really was very effective and
beautiful. I expected later in the summer
as the leaves grew more it would make a
great shady spot. Much better plan that
the bizarre shaping in Melbourne, making
holes through the middle of the trees for
power lines.
I was pleased I stopped short of the resort
town. I thought Castro-Urdales was big
enough but Laredo is apparently bigger.
Only about 7km from here so I would
potter up there quietly in the morning, then
catch the ferry to Satoño and stay at the
youth hostel. I thought after another day of
babying I’d have my knee back again. I
could feel it was swelling further down in
the calf when we stopped but now I’ve
had it up against the wall and massaged it
with my super Pomada de San Juan it was
feeling much more flexible.
Here in comfortable Hazas I was sitting in
the sun, leaning on the tennis courts,
watching my washing dry. I had a cup of
chamomile tea, some nibbles, fruit cake
and choc and I would be ready for bed as
soon as the sun left the clothes. Apart
from the stinging nettle by the washing line
this was an incredibly peaceful place. And
maybe lunch might have been improved a
little bit without Madonna, U2 and Cher?
The man lying in the sun by my washing
just let out a huge fart. He’s been chatting
on the phone in Italian. Perhaps he
thought I do not understand fart in his
language? Would he be surprised to learn
I’ve written about his bald shiny head, his
bald shiny torso and his skins shorts?
Supposedly he’s only wearing skins whilst
his other trousers dried?
Sunday night in the emerald green valley
of Lienda. Bald farty man just moved the
washing closer to me with the grace of Mr
Bean trying to make the clothes rack stand
up. Be great to have dry socks tomorrow. I
thought if I’d been by myself I would have
stopped at the first dreary Albergue. Where
as now I’m well placed for an interesting
trip through a beachside resort and a stay
at the very place where Columbus’s ship,
Santa Maria was built. I would try to get
more washing done there - hopefully I’d
get there earlier. But I still wanted to rest
my knee. Poco a poco. (Little by little).
Walking through history and culture with
continual worry about washing and food.
Yet these must have been the same
worries facing both Romans and Celts as
they arrived to these coasts to try to make
new lives for themselves and their families.
Before enlightenment; chop wood, carry
water. After enlightenment; chop wood,
carry backpacks.
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Santoña, Lunes 20th Junio - DAY 13 - Albergue
Juvenil de Santoña - 12km
Looking at the map, it was only 5km from
Liendo to Laredo. This should easily have
been accomplished in an hour. Well. We
went all around an antique barrio, El
Quintos, I think, looking at lovely laneways
and wandering cats and chained-up
barking dogs and going through tunnels
and seeing more beautiful rural vistas. I
was busily trying to baby my swollen knee
and keep balanced on both feet, avoiding
favouring, all while trying to get to Laredo
as quickly as possible. It seemed the
Camino always had a different attitude.
When one accepted the way would not be
the simple centimetre it appeared on the
map and, instead, climbed the hill to the
Cafe/Bar/Hostel/Hotel at the gateway to
Laredo, one unwound enough to enjoy the
traditional tostado con tomato con
Americano while looking over a stunning
view of sea and hillside. There was a wide
stretch of beach into the middle of the bay.
98
At either side of the bay were imposing
hills, which appear to have been protected
as there was not the hideous blocks of
flats over them that bulged out over the
central thin strip of beach.
This long stretch of beach was my second
leg today. I was guessing my walk this
morning was closer to 10km and my knee
wasn’t going too badly. I just worried that I
wouldn’t have the suitable fitness to cover
the Primitivo if I was injured. In fact, not
doing high mountain passes might better
suit my capabilities any way. I had to do
more research.
The albergue was at the Santoña sailing
club. In fact, it was part of a huge boat
shed. There were school camps with huge
tents out the back and there were heaps of
dormitories but we’re all in one room now.
I’m in with two other peregrinos so far, as
usual, there’ll probably be more.
Oh, how did I get to this beautiful boat
blissville? I walked! All along the
beachfront! It looks tiny in el map but I
have to tell you it must be AT LEAST 5km,
it took all day. This was supposed to be a
short day!
So eventually, Richardo from Barcelona
overtook me and we chatted about how
long and boring the beachfront was but it
was a beautiful day and if it wasn’t for my
preconceived expectations that this would
be a short day, I’d probably happily have
wandered along. But knee or no, we finally
got to the beach where El Puente was
supposed to be.
And a cheery little boat did turn up and we
paid 2 Euros to walk up a thin gangplank
and stand on board. It was a beautiful little
trip. I wouldn’t have missed it for the
world. We chugged over a magnificent bay
with fishing boats about their business. I
was sorely tempted to go back and forth
again but I thought that would have been
silly. In hindsight, it was silly not to on such
a beautiful day. There you go. One should
follow one’s instincts.
There was a lovely girl in the tourism
office. She assumed I’d stay at the
municipal albergue, right along the
waterfront to the port and, as I was happily
chatting with her, a wrinkled
weather-beaten man arrived and sidelong
gave me a card describing another
albergue, just for pilgrims, in the middle of
the town. So, why did I want to stay in a
boat shed? I just did, that’s why.
I gathered some ingredients for my dinner
and went to find a bocodillo for my lunch.
And I saw a pub featuring a pilgrim menu
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and they offered many types of
hamburgers. It looked as though they
offered a great variety of vegetables. So I
asked for a burger con solo verduros. You
can see what’s coming, can’t you. Solo
plantas, poor favor, si? Si, si, and we listed
all the vegetables I could have, si, si, no
problema, and she gave me the
inordinately long Wee Fee codigo and I
made myself comfortable outside in the
warm summer breeze and the burger
looked amazing with chips and all and
after the waitress, with the big smiley eyes
and cheerful attitude had left, I saw the
meat.
I just picked it all off and hungrily ate the
rest. But there’s another lesson learned.
Poor communication big time, there. I’m
pretty sure I didn’t use the word veggie
burger but I certainly mentioned everything
to do with vegetables. Hopefully some
cats were the winners that afternoon.
This is a lovely place, albeit without a
beachfront. There’s a boat ramp I noticed
a woman wade down so I joined her and
let my knee soak up some salty goodness
from the harbour water. Fisherfolk kept
arriving and throwing hooks into the
general vicinity. I managed to have one
more dip before making my way back
inside the boatshed. I was far more weary
than I ought to have been. I’m also sure I
walked far more than 10km. It made a
difference yesterday with pleasant
conversation. The time goes by much
faster.
I got lost again this morning, very quickly,
and of course, started to doubt my
abilities, back to day one again. I’m not so
sure I’ve calculated this whole trip
correctly. I will have been walking for a
fortnight. There’s a few albergue options to
choose from. I just had to see how the
knee holds up. There was no need to bust
it. I really did need my health!
The little fish came up in the clear clear
water to investigate my legs, perhaps
because I was providing shade? They
bumped into me, I thought at first it was
passing seaweed but it was each in turn
as though their company dared them, go
on, you, see what it is, what does it feel
like? It was a gentle, lovely feeling.
Surprising how often fish, swirling or
glinting or just knocking gently against me
have changed my mood.
That first Camino day, certainly as they
splashed in that reserve made me feel
much less sorry for myself. I’d also seen
masses splashing around in a stream on
my way into one of the coastal towns,
100
watched by a couple. She was
petite with tousled brown hair,
black tracksuit and sparkles
while he was huge, bulging,
short black hair, visible
underpants, low slung trousers
and they stood to watch this
parade of fish, a round nose sort
with pale bellies. Quite large and
there were many. I assumed they
couldn’t be good eating.

In San Sebastian there had been

sharp pointy fish with stripes in
the brackish river water while in Bilbao
those roundhead ones massed, eating
rubbish, I presume.
Here in this idyllic setting, with the roar of
fishing traffic, hum of industrial port and
ting tang of halyards from the boatyard,
there were fish dancing just below the
surface, and over there, by that small
yacht, a very big fish just jumped.
The fisher folk, smoking fat putrid cigars,
raised their heads slowly to look where the
fish had been, calculated where best to
put their fishing rods and left them where
they were, planted, to suck-draw on their
horrid cigars again.
Suffice to say the sky was very definitely
bright blue, the air was fresh and salty, the
beach was too far to walk today and next
up was shower, dinner and bed. Then, I
can tell for sure, breakfast. The rest was
snores, pilgrim boasting and more snores.
A word about Spanish showers that I have
met. Mostly they are the hand-held kind. I
often feel, as I hold the handle, I am about
to burst into song or make an
announcement as I attempt to equalise the
heat/pressure balance. Also, I have to turn
off after the initial wetting in order to soap
up. One must then keep the location of the
soap fixed in one’s mind before rinsing.
That’s if one wants to keep one’s favourite
soap, used for all washing purposes and
wrapped in a hessian or light plastic bag
because that lets it dry out in the sponge
bag. Always remember your soap.

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Guermes, Martes 21st Junio - DAY 14 -
Albergue La Cabaña del abuelo Peuto - 23.6km
Under the shade of a huge oak tree (only
just showing signs of the ubiquitous
fungus) with a table to myself (so far) but it
looked like the men, jubilados) were
closing in on my table to varnish cherry
red. We were at a green and pleasant
hacienda, Abuelo’s place, Ernesto’s
grandfather’s, where all these peregrinos,
who were heavy laden, came together to
contemplate their Caminos.
We were met by young volunteers from all
around the world. The young lady, Kaera,
who happily swung my pack over her
shoulder and escorted me to my shared
room, was from Ireland. The young man
who carefully noted down my Passport
number and stamped my credential, from
Germany. Some have finished their
Caminos and returned to help other
pilgrims or Kaera simply stopped walking,
preferring to stay here, finding the
atmosphere restorative. She intended to
102
get going with her Camino one day, soon,
maybe.
The grounds and buildings seemed large,
comfortable and sprawling. We would get
dinner and breakfast and I would get a
salad. There were many pilgrims here.
Most I had seen in passing, many faces
were totally new. We were all wandering
around these lush gardens, inspecting the
chapel and the library. The bathrooms and
laundry spaces were generous and filled
with assorted smells of toothpaste and
shampoos. There was a slight air of
wonder, what is this lush place doing in the
middle of the Spanish countryside?
An extensive clothesline with more than
enough pegs flapped away on the top
lawn. Deep in the heart of the dairy
country, the air was clean and a rooster
clarioned behind me. Next door, there was
no fence, and a lovely garden curved
around velvet sward and a huge stringy
bark dominated the skyline. I took a photo
of a stand of young eucalyptus, thinking
the caption would be, ‘Why, oh, why, does
Spain insist on turning Australian?’
Ernesto sat down next to me and told me
they’d opened the Albergue 43 years ago
but the first pilgrim arrived a mere 17 years
ago.
Ernesto was a white-haired, white-bearded
old gentleman. He had some gravitas,
wearing an orange high-viz jacket and
clearly running the team of retired
gentlemen busily varnishing the outdoor
tables.
I moved to the cool of the library. The
library was dominated by a large central
table surrounded by chairs. The table,
covered by a blue cloth decorated with
strips of woven ribbon, was piled up with
magazines and stories about the Camino,
many hand written and illustrated,
presumably by Ernesto himself. In front of
me was a hand-drawn and stylised graph
of the different Spanish states represented
in 2008 at the albergue. Next to me was a
pile of magazines entitled, ‘Mundo Negro,
Revista Misonal Africana’. Beside that,
‘Menos Misas y Mas Comunión’. Then
another Christian magazine called ‘Exodo’
and next to that, ‘Movistar + Guia de
instalación’ (that’s the wifi service). And
around the table the magazine array went.
Outside, near the freshly varnished cherry
red tables, there were permanent tents,
built for school visits or scout groups. The
entire place is an educational
establishment about the Camino.
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Ernesto would speak at 7:30. We were straining at their ropes and the seagulls
expected to join together to think about swinging overhead. There were fish again,
our common purpose and then go to which I took to be a good omen, many,
dinner. many of the rounded kind swirling just
below the surface. Two guys with planted
It was strange, when I started out this poles up away round the corner did not
morning, I fully intended to go to San seem to be hooking them out of the water.
Miguel. But it was a great morning. Weird I surmise they did not like the populous
night. One of the American women spoke kind or these round heads were incredibly
in her sleep, a great deal, off and on. wily.
Mostly in Spanish but at one point she
said, loudly and vehemently, ‘You
ungrateful BITCH!’ really, very much
NOT what you needed to hear in the
middle of the night! Then there was the
alarm. Not once, but three times. Okay.
Have an alarm. But DON’T put on
snooze. That was not acceptable
Albergue/Hostel behaviour!

And then when we were packing up in

the morning, one of them said, ‘I say we
just turn the light on.’ One guy was
It really helped having a map. I knew
staying an extra day, still snoring on - and I
where the Camino was and was able, for
immediately said, without thinking, as I’m
once, to head confidently in the correct
inclined to do, ‘You can’t do that!’ but they
direction. That gave me great joy and it
still debated it. ‘Cos, he’d understand, he’s
was only towards the end of the wall I
a hiker … ‘
realised I must have walked right past a
But their early morning system worked for large prison of some kind. Many people
me. I left at 7:00 am and the sun was just were lined up to drive their cars into the
coming up over the heaving harbour. The security gate entrance way, to start work, I
water looked rich, viscus, with the dinghies supposed.

104
Over the hill, the buildings changed nature
to blocks of flats. Many for sale or rent and
further over and up the delicious hill, took
me into the blue sun sky, giving me a great
view of where I’d been, the spread of
Santoña elegant around the wetlands and
then over the top to reveal a sparkling
stretch of water and a wonderful beach
where I headed next.
As I carefully came down the hill I realised I
could take off my shoes and shorts, tuck
them into my pack and walk in the water -
racehorse acting! And it was such a
perfect thing to do.
Mostly the rip was pretty strong, creating
holes that made it uncomfortable to walk
into the water at the beginning but once I’d
got into the smooth part of the beach I
managed to really feel my legs were much
better. Certainly still stiff, but absolutely on
the mend. It was a perfect time.
I was only involved in the water, the sand
and the sky. Much of the beach was
protected from marauding ships or jests by
unpredictable rocks jutting out all through
the turbulent waters coming in to the town
of Neja.
As I drew closer to the buildings I realised
that it was time for morning tea and, as
luck would have it, there was a mighty fine
looking cafe, overlooking the beach
perfectly! It was around this time that I
began to feel I could not only probably get
to Guermes but I really wanted to on this
night. I popped in to the tourismo and she
assured me I could buy food and stuff at
San Miguel. I only had an apple left on
board and half a capsicum. But she
reassured me, with her swirly expert
turismo pen that I could be there by
lunchtime to prevent starvation.
Distance is definitely elastic on this
Camino. Whoever made the signs or took
the measurements could be light on,
perhaps to encourage, or added a few,
maybe to impress? Just today I passed
three different signs to Santiago at 504km,
653 and 629.
It was all so fantastically scenic; adorable
elderly buildings with pots of bright
geraniums, even a couple of amphora
spilling vibrant pansies, fig trees, grape
vines, much greenery. Yet in other places,
cows covered in mud, showing bones and
mastitis, plane trees pruned back to ugly
stumps, dogs screaming, throwing
themselves against their neck chain,
showing their teeth, ever changing,
nothing staying the same …
105
Yet it comes back to the town with similar
streets and plazas and just as I think there
is not much new building going on, the
next pueblo has a development which is
clad in some kind of modern slate chunk
which at least nods to the traditional
buildings adjacent. I met a few peregrinos
who stormed past but then I saw them
again in San Miguel.
A woman lounged in the sun, with her
yogurt, by a gorgeous stone church. She
looked lovely, surrounded by yellow
daisies or dandelions perhaps, wearing
pink with her dark hair in this dell of
shadows and juicy lush green grass.
She indicated a supermercardo nearby
and off I trotted, like a faithful dog
searching for her owner’s stick, never
finding it at all. But the recently opened
San Miguel refugio provided lunch, a
passable pumpkin soup, bread
(yesterday’s) and water for 5Euros. Bit
much? Who cares. It was available, it was
a shadey place to sit and I felt a little bit
guilty for not staying there. It seems the
others did the same as they dropped in for
a drink and then overtook me later on the
way here. It’s very strange that so many
pilgrims have turned up at Guermes. It’s
not even on the official Camino - though it
is described on Gronze. These two
albergues have managed to change the
flow and now the paths, according to the
guidebooks reports and people’s
comments - lead the way to Santander
rather than the old way.
Feels just a tiny bit like a cult or something
on arrival. Beaming young fresh faced
volunteers spruiked the benefits of the
place and of Earnesto the priest, generous
rooms, lovely showers and laundry,
sprawling gardens and the aforementioned
library and chapel.
I arrived feeling very small and apologetic.
My thoughts had turned to the past and
blaming. I had a tendency to feel self
righteous and dutiful and loyal. I felt that I
had been extremely fair. But I do have a
hearty feeling of discomfort.
My room was filled with a jolly group of
Spanish family plus one other single
French woman. As the time drew near I
thought I’d best go and find out what our
common purpose was. I didn’t have to feel
small or apologetic. I could feel relaxed
and take my place. I didn’t have to
perform. I didn’t have to do anything.
Except talk about food. The only vegan in
the village! But those comments passed
mercifully quickly.
106
We all gathered together in the sala, about
forty of us, I believe. Including volunteers.
Ernesto was 78 years old. He spoke
quietly about his family. His grandparents
built the first home where the entrance to
the Albergue is now. This was their farm
where they had fifteen children. Then his
own parents married and had five children
before the civil war scattered the family.
Most moved to Catalunya. Some of them
returned later to make a go of farming the
land. Finally, after Earnesto became a
priest, and travelled the world, he decided
to open an Albergue. He spoke quietly but
with great pride, as well he ought.
It is now owned collectively, he says, so
while it still runs with volunteers wanting to
work and visitors still arriving (and, given
recent stats, they will, more and more) so
be it. Otherwise it will be sold and the
proceeds donated to an organisation that
promotes community and solidarity and
mind force in the third world.
Earnesto said it was important for us to do
difficult things. Discipline was very
important, especially in this consumerist
society. We could consider ourselves lucky
that we had the ability and the opportunity
to climb mountains. He showed us a photo
of a very tall and steep mountain pass that
he walked with his friends every year for
the joy of achievement and the focus of
physical effort. The greatest pleasure came
from being in nature and doing physical
things. But the Camino only regarded as a
physical thing was just that, and not all.
There was much more in the heart and
mind. That was really where the Camino
happened.
He also showed us a graph of the number
of visitors his albergue was receiving each
year, an exponential growth line. One of
our fellow pilgrims, Christina, a woman
from France, was awarded the honour of
being number three thousand already in
2016 - and the peak period had not even
begun.
Earnest spoke Spanish and was translated
into English by John from South Africa.
Two French voices muttered translations
and understanding to their groups on
either side of the room. So today I went
from great confidence to very low at the
other end.
Strange how, when they gave us fruit at
the end of the meal, I quickly cut into mine,
even though I really wanted to save it. I
noticed a young French woman, Cecilie,
saved hers and I felt so GREEDY!
107
Santander, Miércoles 22nd Junio - DAY 15 -
Albergues de peregrinos Santos Mártires -
20km
Third ferry!! And to celebrate, I went from
Somo to Santander, returned and then
went to Santander AGAIN! I wished I’d
done it for all my ferry trips. And, because
they thought I was getting bored, they
changed the boat so the last trip took
twice as long as it normally would.
Everything was just lovely in the morning.
Got a few strange looks by putting the
strawberry conserve in the museli but it
worked with a nice cup of coffee! Leaving
the albergue at the same time as forty odd
other pilgrims was interesting. And the
directions given by South African John
were somewhat perfunctory.
In our conversation by the front door, I
asked him about Ernesto’s words from the
night before. John had used the English
word ‘solidarity’ which I think is more
charged than the meaning Ernesto might
have intended. I think he was talking more
about ‘community’ but John dodged that
108
spear, not actually
enjoying the job of
translating anyway.

I took a tour around

the garden on the
dewy lawn - getting
sticky muck and lawn
clippings on my feet
but doing yoga
seemed essential
with this knee - albeit
greatly improved.
And I had a good
chat to Anthony
about his album. His
feet were sore. I hope have read and talked Camino a lot before
he found some good light sandal advice in making the decision to arrive here.
Santander.
We all trailed out in dribs and drabs into
I wonder if the hospitalero was really the rising sunlit mist and rolling hills of
suggesting to catch the bus all the way rural verdure. And, quite soon met again,
seriously? I have just heard what she said. in groups of 3 - 5, to discuss the next
I really need to put my listening ears on arrow and where it might be. It was my
better. Anyway, the mist hung over the first sighting of People Without Packs
paddocks as we eased our way out . (PWP) also known as ‘I’ve got a tiny
backpack, why can’t you keep up?’
Personally I was pretty glad to get out of
that place. I’m not sure if Catholic faith and Valerie was one, she was from Mexico and
sport mixes that well for me. But if one has as bright and cheery as anyone I’ve ever
not really considered what the Camino met. I met her group a couple of times
might mean I think Guermes Abuelo’s during the day, once at my clifftop morning
would the place to go. But most people tea and then on the beach itself.

109
 I’ve just met Saviour
in the corridor and
she told me in the
beginning she was
afraid she may not
get a bed at the
albergues. It was a
fear of mine, too.
She’s young and
strong, of course, and
decided to carry a
tent. She stayed on
the beach at Laredo
using her tent for the
first time, in a little
valley between the
Mostly I walked, on and off, with Nadja sand dunes, so she felt safe. That must be
from Germany. She worked for an SO invigorating, trying something that
industrial machine company in sales. I seems so DARING! Victoire did not blink at
thought she must have a lot of the idea but I did not even get the tent!
responsibility, she looked quite strained at Sometimes acting one’s age is the better
times. But on the beach, with her shoes part of valour.
and socks off, she looked very smiley!
Again, I spent a happy hour with no
The cliff was spectacular. The blue vibrant trousers wading through the water and a
sky arched over the choppy deep blue great joy it was too. Nadja and I stopped
sea. I adored the nooks and crannies that for coffee and sandwich over looking the
revealed themselves at various times. The beach (I scraped off the mayo - sometimes
day was brilliant, sun and blue and green. I can’t be ticky schmicky) but I won’t do
But in the distance, our future, Santander, that again. The mayo made me definitely
spread a stain of smog across the horizon. queasy.
How can our past look so beautiful and
our future so grim?

110
But then, my highlight - well, maybe chorizo.
splashing in the ocean - equal - catching
the ferry. Even before I got on I knew I’d do I sat alone in these seventies surroundings
it again and I did! So relaxing watching the like the echoes of student flats I had
world go by, LOVED IT! known and really enjoyed the most
FANTASTIC smokey BBQ veggie burger
Santander is a rebuilt city - there were and chips followed by an OUTSTANDING
grand older edifices with sculptures near strawberry tart with mint tea to finish.
the ferry port but much was destroyed in Splendid. I put a review up on Happy Cow
the wars. and headed back to the Albergue where
the lovely hospitalero helped me dry my
I spent some frustrating time trying to find clothes (sort of) and told me all sorts of
rice milk and vegan treats. When one of treats and things to expect along the way
the folk I asked directions told me I had to (like a fortune teller). Turns out she was
walk up a steep hill and I realised how tired also a great fan of the restaurant, being
I was. Way too tired to walk one more not only vegan but also soy intolerant.
step. So I caught a taxi to a vegan cafe.
She was very sweet, encouraging my poor
When I walked in the bar was filled with Spanish. I fear I speak less Spanish now
grizzled men playing a gambling game, than I did in Melbourne!
clustered together, in cosy local
people cluster. There was an
array of snack foods and what
looked a lot like sliced meat on
the bar. The large bearded man
serving was harried and busy
and I felt extremely relieved
when he showed me upstairs to
a hippy den of pot plants and tie
dyed wall hangings. He insisted
his restaurant was entirely vegan
and I believe those slices of
meat were probably vegan

111
Cobreces, Jueves 23rd Junio - DAY 16 - BUS to
Santillana del Mar (44.2km) then walk 11.8km -
Albergue de peregrinos de Cóbreces Abadia
Cut to the chase! I woke up undecided
with the crackle and zip of the many
plastic bags of a Spanish family, and
others, just starting out on their first day. It
felt like a new wave was coming over the
trail from Santander.
The lovely fortune-telling hospitalero
mentioned many options, including a bus
to Santillana del Mar. I am not sorry to
admit that confusion and a high degree of
disinclination to walk through another
graffiti laden industrial area drove me to it.
I’m a little reluctant to admit I skipped
44.2km BUT there would have been a train
involved at some point …
Okay, some pilgrims don’t even take the
train. They squish up against the rail
bridge in a most unsafe manner.
Apparently. For I did not even see the
bridge. I was lounging around in a bus for
15 MINUTES! Yes, one of the longest
stages of solid walking on this Camino
112
took a quarter of an hour on the bus. The Santillana del Mar Cathedral was a
Maybe one day someone will convince me small but lovely church with an
to walk it but I’ve spoken to pilgrims who ENORMOUS pipe organ that flowered out
hurt their ankle whilst walking the hard at the back of the church. There was a
careterras (highways) and gained blisters quiet chapel filled with red velvet and a
during the factory-laden walk and found suffering Christ and the lights snapped on
nothing to recommend it. Apart from the whenever a visitor came near, like a
fact that if you want to be pure and walk museum attraction.
the entire Camino from beginning to end
… First, find your beginning, eh!! But I had to go where I had to go and,
finally in Cobreces, I was in a grubby
I had a decent cup of coffee, a relaxed albergue overlooked by a pink monastary,
start to the day. Santander bus station was with no kitchen and all my stuff ready to
easy to sort and why not head to the cook. I did find a shop and got myself
nearest medieval town with an Open some asparagus of the soft white flabby
Cathedral where I could pump up the stuff in a jar to make a nice salad. I met
power? Aunt Suzanna and Ideas Gal Thai, from
Hawaii. They had also
been on the bus from
Santander but when
you’re not on the trail
you’re not exactly
pilgrims. It’s only
when you’re marching
along or hanging out
your knickers on the
wire clothes rack at
the albergue that
pilgrim comparisons
and chats come alive.
Thai was eighteen and
had so loved the idea
of the Camino from

113
the very first she’d heard of it, she had to
come. But there was no way her parents
would let her go without an adult so that
explained Aunty. Although I must say,
Aunty was a professor of medicine at the
Hawaiian university and absolutely no
slouch. Both women were very
entertaining. They were sampling the
Camino, dropping in and out as a taster.
Although they’d left Santillana del Mar
behind, they’d made a booking to return to
visit the important thousands-of-years-old
caves there, wishing to see the stone-age
art work for themselves. These rock art
pieces were so precious they can only
show them to a very select and limited
group every day so bookings must be
made far in advance. Even this limited
viewing slowly destroys the art. This is in
direct contrast to the way Australia treats
its rare and precious cave paintings;
kicking them over before blowing them up
to extract some kind of mineral short term
wealth for already wealthy mining families.
Maybe it’s better to get rid of them
quicker? Really?
I walked in to the monastery with George
from Finland who was the sort of walker
my son Felix might have been inclined to
tease in some way. He was almost as wide
across as he was tall. This was his third
Camino and he was very keen to chat in
English and befriend everybody, certainly
every cat, and enjoy every step of the
walk. George from Finland, recently retired,
had certainly had some great adventures
and he’s looking forward to walking for the
next two months. I kind of hoped to avoid
him as I felt tragedy in the way he tended
to wander across the road in a floaty kind
of spiritual way and turned me into a
Nervous Nelly as cars approached. He
also wore short sleeve tee-shirts revealing
arms fragile with sores and sunburn. His
solution was to splash them with cold
water. Even though I suggested a visit to a
farmacia, he held no truck with this
modern chemical notion of sunscreen or
skin cancer prevention.
Santillana del Mar was an ancient place
with cobblestone roads defined by antique
stone and mud walls. I trotted around the
streets wondering if I should stay there -
apparently the albergue is in an old prison
and that’s what it’s like. An old prison with
no frills. I didn’t want to leave the
backpack hanging around outside so I was
glad to give in to the urge to keep moving.
I found a pan integral (wholemeal bread
roll) that fitted into my pocket and off I
went, ready for my footfall on the road
again. The uplift of my heart and mood as I
found the shell embedded into the road
114
and walked up and out of the town was
clear and invigorating.
Again, the countryside was misty and
verdant and it felt like the weather was
closing in. I was betting it would rain the
next day.
I found a relaxing wall to sit and watch the
mist and enjoy my bread with olive oil and
vinegar from the miniatures I’ve found in
the supermercado. Delicious! And a crisp
fresh apple to boot. About a hundred
metres after I’d finished my feast there was
a pilgrim’s park, with tables and
everything! So, following my rule, there is
always a better spot, just around the
corner.
I ate very well today, despite not having a
kitchen. I had a banana before vespers,
which was great, and enjoyed a tomato,
green pepper, asparagus and walnut salad
with my left-over bread and some chips.
Olé!
The monjas have an enormous crumbling
church, a great big building and another
VERY big building in good condition
apparently just for themselves. We
attended vespers in a small chapel inside
this large edifice. It was held in a lovely
room featuring romanesque archways and
very ornate stained glass windows. My
son had a small friend when he was at
kinder whose dad had trained as a painter
of stained glass windows and I particularly
noticed that these windows were painted
with very intricate insignias and coats of
arms. The monks had similar evening
dress to the monks at Zenarruza but with
black overcloaks here. One of the younger
fellows was wearing ugg boots and it
wasn’t even that cold. There were twenty
one monks in total.
We had in our midst, our long, thin
albergue midst, a priest from Brazil. When I
remarked the lack of youth in the
monasteries and churches I had
experienced whilst in Spain, he raised his
face to the sky. He also raised his hands,
looking pleadingly above, making a
dramatic picture against the pale cloudy
sky. He said we should pray for more
vocation. I asked him what he thought of
the Pope’s encyclical. Did the Brazilian
priest think that young people worried
about protecting nature might be called to
save God’s creation? He had nothing to
say about it. He looked at me as if he did
not understand. This, clearly, may have
been the case. However, he spoke
Spanish with the monks. Perhaps my
Spanish was not Spanish enough. Or
earthly communication was difficult.
115
San Vincente de la Barquera, Viernes 24th
Junio - DAY 17 - Albergue El Galeon - 23.8
In Cóbreces, the monastery was a very
well-maintained and imposing building,
looming over the squat white garaging of
the albergue, which could have been
stables originally, or garden sheds? The
lady in charge of the private garden next
door had collected some mighty fine, very
stinky compost to make our lives spicy.
Luckily it rained enough overnight to calm
the atmosphere somewhat.
First thing, the Padre got up next door,
waking Snory George from Finland, and
giving all of us in the slumber section a
lights ON and well done! I suspect it was
the snoring that woke the priest and he
was getting his own back but perhaps
that’s uncharitable?
I shuffled over and shut the door for some
more time but when they left, around 6am,
George confirmed it later for me, I thought
I may as well get cracking too.
116

Suzanne and Thai were seen reaching for
their breakfast bars while I thought Rene
and Martine liked their sleep as I took my
damp socks and safety pinned them to the
outside of my pack and set off into the
misty morning.
Comillas was another beautiful theme park
of a town, with medieval cobblestone
plazas and twisty turning streets. A
market, filled with stalls of interesting
handbags and nick nacks of the same ilk
as those I’d seen laying out on white fabric
squares in both Madrid and Barcelona also
featured baked goods, fresh fruit and veg.
It was often uncanny how the feeling of
‘this is the right place to be right now’
overwhelmed me. I walked straight
through this bustling heart
of commerce into a cafe,
downed a cup of coffee and
a tostado con tomato and,
there, charging her phone in
the bar, caught up with
Green Tape from Denmark
with her busted knees. Julie
had no compunction in
describing how she had to
be dragged the last few
kilometres from Santander.
Her knees were now
seriously bandaged and her
feet were turning yellow.
However, she told me, with such happy
gleam in her eye, that she had spent the
most fantastic San Juan’s night on the
beach with the two guys she had been
walking with. There were fireworks,
dancing and a bonfire. As they were
drawing near to the fire to rest in the night
they were encircled by a troupe of hippy
gypsy musicians, at least that’s what she
described, played strange instruments. So
she spent a magical night in the arms of
song and then, they all meditated together.
She thought it was really strange but
during this time the drive to strive and
continue walking left her. Her face was so
happy as she described it all. She said she
felt free for the first time on the Camino.
She intended to catch a bus to catch up
117
with the young men and just take each day
as it came. After sneering at one poor girl
who had taken the bus because of one
little blister, and feeling that she’d worked
so hard she had given in and felt a lot
better for it. She was only twenty. I was
thrilled for her and went to get a second
coffee so we could celebrate.
As I stood in the bar the news was
announced that Britain had voted for
Brexit. I wasn’t sure if I’d understood the
Spanish news so I turned to the bartender
and did a little dance of ‘Is this really
happening?’ and like many of us over the
next couple of days, he responded with a
graphic shrug. ‘Who knows?’
Julie worried about her university options.
She was expecting to enrol in a Scottish
university. I worried about my once useful
in Europe British passport. I had two more
years of free travel, I presumed, before
Brexit came into force.
After swallowing fruit, dried fruit and
chocolate from the market, I kept on
walking to Vincente, another imposing
town built over two bridges. The albergue
suffered from some bad comments on
Gronze but actually the elderly couple who
used to run the establishment were now so
elderly they slept all day while their
daughter tended to Camino matters. She
seemed lovely and at night I was able to
cook up my little feast very happily while
the old man quietly lay in his daybed by
the window like a Ron Mueck sculpture.
For all the negative comments, the
albergue was full of wet walkers and very
content they seemed too.
Tomorrow I would aim for the famous
albergue that cooked for vegans and other
fussy types so I was feeling good about
food now. Earlier, not so much. When I
came into Vincente I was busting to use
the loo and felt honour bound to buy
something so I ordered a vegetable
sandwich. I was horrified to find not only
cheese but also tuna for my trouble. So,
embarrassed, I had to get another plate
and do some swift dissection, enjoying a
piece of toast, some lettuce and tomato
with a cuppa. I don’t know how I can be
more clear in my ordering.
118
As I walked I mused about Brexit, Mr
Trump’s now more likely (in my mind)
chances. History dramatically unfolded,
here and now, on the Camino del Norte as
the British financial market plummeted.
Luckily an enormous bank of honeysuckle
rose up beside me and overtook my
senses. I was delighted and overpowered
and brought back to my footfall and then
the cobblestones and then the rough and
ready rock walls.
The tiny thin streets with intricate patterns
of stones inlaid into some kind of mortar,
all so ordered and careful, things that
arranged thus have existed for centuries.
Sometimes a church might show a crack
or two, might be about to fall down, but it
appeared Comillias had looked after her
buildings, as had Santillana del Mar and
now Vincente de la Barquera.
those instructions clear in my mind for ...
about five minutes.
So, I find my tomato shop and clarify for
sure and he’s a tiny bit clearer, without the
flourish. I find the steps and I’m dreading
this albergue, it really doesn’t sound nice
at all and of course I go in the wrong
direction and a very nice person comes
along with all her rubbish and spills
Spanish words all over my head and my
comprehension skills just dropped a
million percent and I’d realised I’d gone
the wrong way AGAIN! But she put me
right.
When I walked up to the front of the town,
where stood a gothic church overlooking
the river as part of a large fort. Back

I eventually made my way to the tourist

information office. She did that thing with
the map and the biro and the airy spin of
here we are and then the clear and
obvious arrows to where we want to go
and then the rrrrrriiiiiip of the map off the
pile of printed maps and the flourish and
the full hand point direction. Ah, yeah,
that’s what you say now, isn’t it. I had

119
towards the shops and I found, under a
sign in the shape of a large sailing ship of
metal, El Galeón, the albergue of doom.
But it wasn’t really. Just quiet. Pilgrims in
various states of damp sat around the
large table with their credentials at the
ready while the daughter conducted
individuals around the kitchen, laundry and
bunk room facilities.

The bunk may or may not have been a

little bit damp and flimsy but we all were. I
walked up to the gothic church. It was
exquisite. Some recorded music played.
Something really famous and evocative.
With a big choir. You’ve seen it in the
movies. I don’t know. BUT you probably
would and it was completely beautiful. The
ancient floors and the stone walls rose up
overhead in a cave of wonder.
I sat down to tuck into my favourite rice
dish just as Anthony walked in. While he
waited for the pizzeria to open we played
my new favourite game, naming his next
songs: ‘Aquila Girando’ (Eagle turning) was
pretty good as was ‘Black Slugs Oozing in
the Break of Day’, while ‘Flexible
Kilometres’ evoked some more or less
milage!
I felt better about life today or rather, I’d
recovered from the immediate pain of
Brexit. I found it very sad that people could
be so forgetful about John Lennon and so
short sighted about the world. I suppose
because I’m so stretched across the
colonies born in England, raised in
Australia, New Zealand and Hong Kong, all
English speaking outposts, I had a wish
that people see the similarities rather than
focus on differences. That we see the
planet as a whole rather than divided by
invisible fences. I can’t see how else we
will be able to ameliorate against climate
change. The atmosphere doesn’t obey
customs laws.
I also feared the nibbles of small creatures
of the world and dabbed on my favourite
sandfly mix, that I had brought with me all
the way from the south island of New
Zealand. I think the nibbling was done
aprés walking but life is FULL of surprises.
Couldn’t wait for breakfast.

120
Buelna, Sabado 25th Junio - DAY 18 - Albergue
de peregrinos Santa Marina - 23.5km
Not sure what happened but pretty sure I
took the longest way. I was minding my
own business, having a late lunch, there
were three or four kilometres left to go…
and then, time passed, and I got to the
albergue around five. Very puffed. After
climbing around a rocky cliff. Very, very
beautiful but very, very long. It was a little
bit disappointing after the great beauty of
the walk to realise the albergue was a
truck stop on a major road. As I walked in I
could see three young men gathered
around a computer by the bar. Sure
enough, Anthony, Lucas and Peter, trying
to make a decision as to go on or not.
I found myself a private office where I
could write with a cup of peppermint tea.
A family inspected the rooms. They arrived
in a mini van so there could have been an
indundation. I just kept my nose in my
infusion and wrote on.
The albergue here was very large and most
of us were squashed in one room. I
121
suppose, helpfully, to
save on cleaning for
the hospitalera. When I
arrived, I met
Giancarlos, who
introduced me to a
German family and I
shook hands with Gert,
a friendly professor of
mathematics.

My bunkroom was next

to the bathroom which
featured a sign
reminding pilgrims not
to take clothes or
When Snorey George from Finland walked
pillow in with you. I could understand the
in I mentally cemented my Sunday night in
pillow. I had no idea why you would want
a hotel plan. I had to get away from the
to take a pillow into a shower with you. But
albergues, if only for one snoreless night
clothes? Little bit much to wander around
…
with no clothes given we were sharing with
people we did not know or even had a
The previous night at San Vincente de la
common language with which to make
Barquera, I had woken early. I went to
amusing comments.
sleep late. I felt as if I were sleeping on a
cliff. The slats keeping the mattress up
Managed the shower, avoiding the tall
were patently obvious across my body as
lanky German professor with no gear on
was the lack of fence around my top bunk.
and next took on the hand washing of
The lovely Spanish family who had retired
clothes. The only place to hang is in the
after me had piled up their stuff on a chair
beer garden. By the motorway. My very
and then moved the chair over the steps
unattractive knickers waved in the late
up to my bunk so it was a bit of a spider
afternoon grey sky.
climb to get down to the ground again.

122
But I did sleep after listening to Outlander
by Diana Gabaldron, read by Davina
Porter. She was a very precise and perky
reader who rarely faltered in her various
accents. It was relaxing, and entertaining,
though the plotting is, at times, incredible!
So even when the air was filled with
snoring (starring Snorey George from
Finland) I could still relax my body.
I got up at 6:30, which was wonderful.
No-one else was in the kitchen, people
were sleeping everywhere, mattresses in
the hallway featured Suzanna and Thai,
latecomers but comfortably warm. It was
free and easy in the bathroom and I took
my time organising my breakfast.
I tied on gaiters as I had read we would be
walking in areas that were not mowed or
kept tidy. After the event I didn’t really
need them but there were some seedy
parts that didn’t get stuck in my socks! I
realised I could fork out for some ordinary
shoelaces instead of using my emergency
boot laces which are now stowed in the
‘just in case’ section.
Today’s track varied from roads to mud to
beside the trainline to a gravel path. This
last became interesting as we found
ourselves sharing the track with a long
distance time trail with horses. As I took a
little video, I wished I’d got footage of the
cyclists racing back in Markina way back
in Day 6. It seemed like ages ago. Time
definitely shrank and stretched on the
Camino.
Lanky Gert was a mathmatics professor
and, over our pilgrim’s dinner, he brought
up Einstein, discussing the elasticity of
time! He was walking with daughter
Anaholm and son-in-law Marco. We were
all squashed together in one small bunk
room with Giancarlos from Italy. I’d first
met Jan (newly adopted Spanish version
of his name) in Guermes at the shared
dinner there where he made himself
obvious by raising a glass and crying out
at all opportunities, ‘No vino, no Camino!’
He recently retired from the military and
was walking his fifth camino. He
completed his hospitalero training in the
previous year and next year would be a full
time volunteer hospitalero in Santiago. So
if you meet him, remember to say, ‘No
agua, no Camino!’ from me!
Due to a big soccer game, the younger
men were sitting in the bar, and because
they came in later, under their own
guidance, they managed to have the huge
bunk room to themselves. How could this
be fair and reasonable when I’m right next
to Snorey George from Finland? AGAIN.
123
Our delightful hospitalera served up a
share dinner of pasta and salad. Normal
people got pasta with tomato sauce and
cheese baked in the oven. I just got the
pasta! Don’t know why I couldn’t eat
tomato sauce but it was the apple that I
got instead of the custard that was the real
kicker. The worst apple in the entire world.
Mouldy. Rotten in parts. I think she must
have taken it from the compost heap. I
really needed to cut out of this life for a
moment.
On the way up the Roman road after
Pesués, I met Elizabeth and Mary. They
were both stick thin and maybe in their
mid-to-late sixties. Both were wearing
black leggings to the shin, little fleecy
jackets and both from Ireland. Together, of
course, we made a kind of royal family;
Victoria, Elizabeth and Mary. I made some
crack about everyone wanting to be Irish
these days and off we went on a
discussion about Brexit.
It became apparent that Mary, sister-in-law
and first time Camino walker, would agree
with every and all opinions. She simply
repeated the last thing either Elizabeth or I
had said, indicating complete accord with
whatever competing slogan lay on the
table (sorry, Roman Road). Elizabeth
demanded to know what could possibly
be wrong with Britain leaving the EU? She
wondered what facts the airy-fairy
predictions of financial gloom could
possibly be based on? She thought it was
only the people with money who had made
these bad prognostications.
My opinion was, as always, that people
needed to stick together to try and work
out how to solve the enormous problems
that face the planet. I had little patience
with folk who wanted to go back to the
past, to a past that had a fraction of the
population we now do.
Elizabeth became quite heated. She
exclaimed the world was now run by arms
dealers (and drugs, said Mary) dealers,
said Elizabeth, ‘We can never know the
people in charge!’ Apart from their close
124
personal friends, the media
owners, I put in.

And why should Elizabeth

have to alter her life, her
religion, her habits,
because of them? She
thought that each country
should look after its own
assets in its own way and
be responsible for itself and
that was that. She didn’t
want much to do with
people, humanity or climate
change. But she did make behind, as they prepared to meet up with
me feel small and weak and powerless. their backpack-carrying husbands.

I wondered about her forceful, thin little
legs steaming up the path and her forceful
ideas about shutting the gate and
stopping all the big bad people coming in
and stealing her life and particularly, her
religion. The three old queen namesakes,
marching up a Roman road, powerful
reminder of those wild Roman colonial
days. And the final fall of that civilisation.
For that may be our next fate. The Fall.
On this Camino, where religion, war and
land protection were closely bound in
history, there was much to contemplate. I
was happy to walk on, leaving them
The Camino excuses: I just have to retie
my bootlaces. I should just stop and fill my
water bottle. Oh, look at that nice picnic
table. I will just stop and eat my orange. I
think I’ll pop in here and use the servicios.
I’ll just take a photo of this …
Not so many big dogs on the way but
certainly many big houses. Colombres
appeared very well to do - lots of big
money cars on the roads. Big mansions,
mansiónes indianas (built with Latin
American money). Must have kept more
than a few gardeners in pan.

125
Poo, Domingo 26th Junio - DAY 19 - The Hotel
Rocomar - 18km
I had rarely felt so content. I stayed in a
family run hotel in the Most Tranquil and
Beautiful Bay in the World. The modest
building faced a beach, carved from a
rocky inlet, so that the beach was
completely protected from the excesses of
the ocean’s forces. It was very flat for a
hundred metres.
When I arrived in the early afternoon, the
tide was out and the water, where many
folk swam and splashed, was far from the
hotel. Kindly, supervising adults had
organised an excited group of school-aged
children into games on the wet sand.
Toddlers hauled grandparents around and
generously-built dads played racket ball
with plastic bats. All around was a blur of
colourful swimming costumes, plastic toys
and nets and resounded with a burble of
cheerful merriment.
Today was a lovely day. Such a beautiful
and dramatic coastline between Buelna
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and Llanes. Llanes turned out to be a
particularly pretty fishing village. As I
packed up I realised that Gian Carlos had
left his rain gear. I thought I’d probably
bump into him again so I said I would take
it. But then Snorey George was keen to
catch him up so I gave Snorey George the
bag and off he dashed.
I farewelled Victoria (the hospitalera from
Zaragosa at Buelna albergue) closely
followed by the family of three Germans.
Shortly after I stopped to take a photo,
they overtook me. And when they stopped
to fill their water bottles I overtook them.
Polite nods and cheery waves. Then they
over took me on the way. Then I overtook
them. And then they started coming back
up behind me. This was beginning to
annoy me. Why were they stuck to me? I
thought, the next scenic spot, I would sit
down for a snack and let them play
through for a decent amount of time.
We’d been walking through the heart of
the dairy country with those hand-built
stone walls that have witnessed many a
thing over the centuries, and beside the
sea, but fenced off so cattle didn’t sail
over the edge. The area featured some
geology with blow holes and structures
very similar in nature to the caves and
Apostles of Victoria’s Great Ocean Road
on the southern coast of Australia. The
area was completely open to the
wandering masses and, in a few years, I
anticipated the same sort of fencing that
now corrals the blow holes and crumbling
cliffs around the Twelve Apostles.
The coast was incredibly beautiful. There
was a double blowhole that sounded
terrifying as the sea breathed under the
ground with a powerful battery of
pounding. The crushed rocks were visible
where the water presumably fell in a spout
on the blowing days and there was no
fencing at all. Perhaps that served as its
own protection? Anyway, I sat very close
to the edge of the cliff, enjoying the sun,
the deep blue of the choppy ocean and
the distant, distant shipping. I prepared my
morning tea with the intention of letting the
Germans play through and get a good way
ahead of me.
As I turned my head slightly, I could see
three little heads parked up above me, well
within sight. The German family had
plonked down for their second breakfast
about two hundred metres behind and well
up the hill. So they were looking at me the
whole time!
I was fascinated by these cliffs, though,
and taking no chances, ventured out
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further down, without hindrance of pack. It
was not sandstone, like the Australian
coast area I’ve described, instead, it was
very hard rock beaten into shape by the
Arctic seas (or more correctly the Bay of
Biscay).
When I saw that the family was packing
up, I relaxed, took many photos and
sauntered about. I found the blowholes
and figured the Germans must be well
away by then, so off I went, as happy as
could be, enjoying the great glimpses of
the hills to come on my left. (On the
Camino Norte, by the sea, one cannot go
wrong if in doubt, by taking the right hand
path. That always brought you back to the
coast. Go RIGHT!) The misty rain veiled
those huge hills but every now and then
the sun would strike and their rocky peaks
would be revealed.
As I reached the viewing area where there
was a picnic table, carpark and vista as far
as the eye can see, not only did the sun
blare out but also, from up
behind me, arrived the
Germans from Turbigen. On
the face of it, I was friendly,
but really, I was shocked!
What was going on? Were
they waiting for me? I waved
and smiled and said, ‘Hola’
and so forth and the young
woman merely nodded and
said, ‘You again!’ in a grim
voice. Wasn’t that nice? They
had started to think the same
of me! How dare they! We
had dark clouds, hills, cliffs
and such drama as befitted a duel
between one lone Australasian and three
Germans.
So I cleared out and left them to the picnic
table and headed up the hill, next to a golf
course. When I turned around a few
moments later, the car park was full and
snap-happy people stood around the
vista. Perhaps the German family liked that
sort of thing. I hoped so, for I seriously did
not wish them to think I was stalking them!
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As I walked, I contemplated the great
peaks ahead, the cliffs and the track rose
higher and higher and the golf course got
closer and closer and I could hear the
plock of the balls being struck and one
landed quite close. What a piece of luck!
Not on my head. Not so near and I never
actually saw a ball on the path but it would
be an invidious way to go on a pilgrimage,
wouldn’t it? Lone golfball to the temple …
The path was so pretty on the way into
Llanes, with a surprise church to visit. I
also noticed a signboard, of which there
were many, noting that this area had been
used as a location for a film. The sign
detailed some twenty-two films that had
been shot in the area, some quite recently.
Apparently they were all listed on the
Llanes tourist website and I thought that
would be a fun project; to watch all the
films over the course of the next year and
then visit the different locales.
Finally pottered into the old town, found a
bank and chatted to a man in a yachting
shop about fixing my backpack and then
wandered back to the main street. And
there they were, sitting in a row on a sunny
bench, eating ice creams.
While dodging golf balls on the way into
town, I’d been wracking my brain. Is there
a reason why I should be so haunted by
this particular family of German people?
And I thought of our family friend, Patsy,
who had recently died. She had spent
many years in Germany and was a
professor of the German language at a
New Zealand University. Could she have
some connection with this skinny German
mathematics professor and his daughter?
That lead to fond memories of Patsy and
how much she would have enjoyed this
walk, and my grandfather too, but I
suspect he would have become irritated
by how unproductive it was. He would,
and Patsy too, have been greatly
interested by all the people he met along
the way.
Acting entirely on impulse, with no
evidence or good reason, I approached
the happy family, slurping their ice creams
and asked them point blank if they knew
Dr Patsy Lopdell. The mathematics
professor barely looked up from his
delicious chilly treat. The daughter said,
‘What? What is a Patsy?’ I said, ‘It is a
person. Patsy Lopdell? A professor of
German? I wondered if you knew her,
because, you know (embarrassed laughter)
what are the chances?’
Clearly, they did not know her so there was
no reason to be nice to them. There was
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no reason that my way had become so
closely entangled with theirs. This was not
a Camino Moment. I backed away in
haste.
It was so strange though, that just the day
before Gert had greeted me with open,
friendly encouragement. He eagerly shook
my hand, very firmly, with direct gaze and
spoke clearly, in fluent English, while
smiling and joking about space/time
fluidity. Not today. Not a smile, not a look,
not sure if I blotted my copybook
somehow. Probably. Never mentioned any
wars, not even Brexit!
So I walked out of that tedious encounter
with the ice-cream munchers in the
sunshine, very happy and relieved, through
a Sunday family party of gigantic
proportions. All of Llanes suddenly turned
into plazas and laneways full of open air
cafes and restaurants; people sat in the
sunshine with glasses full of colourful
liquid, the air redolent of delicious aromas
and the hum of merry folk following their
children everywhere.
I loved the buzz of a Spanish plaza on a
Sunday lunchtime! So many kids bouncing
about and so many waiters weaving their
way through tables. So many abuelos
gossiping and so many mums trying to
placate their crying children. No smacks,
though. Never any hitting. I did see some
parents, over my entire time in Spain,
firmly holding squirming hysterical
children, trying to enclose their pain or
anger or sadness or whatever had caused
them to explode, but never hitting.
I was getting very hungry myself and
searched now for a pizzeria where I could
sit and people-watch. I turned in under a
canopy and who should already be sitting
at a table, eating a fine looking specimen
of the pizza species, but Anthony. So I
stopped to bother him for a while. Anthony
continued sucking down several cokes
and chomping pizza while I ordered a
vegan version - which arrived dotted with
spots of mozarella.
So I said, ‘Oh well, I’ll just scrape that off.’
And Anthony said, ‘No, you should get
what you ordered!’ And he did that
American thing and made the waiter take it
away and get a new one without any
cheese at all. I was actually very grateful to
see that this sort of fuss could be made
without too much rancour. However, I
don’t know that I would have done it if he
hadn’t been there. Not sure if I made my
gratitude plain. We did have a jolly time of
it, comparing peeps and paths we’d
travelled over the last few days. (Peeps
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and paths! Great title, playing our title course, I got lost, tried to go into a very
game again.) He too, had not enjoyed his expensive looking hotel that was, luckily,
encounter with the German family. They closed, and instead went down a secret
had bustled in front of him at the magic path leading back to the coast. It
ice-cream shop, making him step back was a very beautiful Arthur
and give way, in an UnAmerican way. Rackham-esque path with a mysterious
Shocking. tunnel made of greenery leading to a creek
which gathered strength, widened and
I’d been thrilled to find an open shop on a turned into the beautiful bay of colourful
Sunday on my way into town so I’d cheerful beach games, the Poo Playa.
grabbed some fruit
and stuff just in case.
But not to worry,
there had been
another one open on
the way out of town
too! The Sunday fear
of starvation was just
a myth, I’d
discovered. I’d also
popped in to the
Turismo on the way
in, just before they
closed for lunch,
asking advice about a
small hotel, asking for
tranquility near the There, on this tiny little beach are two
sea … hotels. The Rockomar and the Feraval. I
took the steps wearily up to the first one,
The tourism expert had given me a few
through the crowds of families in their
options on the way out of Llanes and as
rainbow array, all sorts of shapes and sizes
Poo was the next town, I thought sleeping
and all very comfortable and happy. The
in Poo would be the correct thing to do! Of
staff seemed a nice group of people and

131
they, fortuitously, did have just the one
more room available. They assured me
that all these cheerful folk cavorting on the
sand would be gone by 20:00 and
everything would be quiet. I took a look at
the room. It was above the back door, and
therefore, the bins, but it was white and
blue and clean and had a private
bathroom. I got myself organised, there
has to stay three nights in a beautiful place
on the beach, poor thing! We continued
our chatter up to the bar for an early
dinner, enjoying roast veggies and salad. It
was true, the children and grandparents
had gradually packed up and gone home.
It was just gorgeous.
In the morning, I pottered down to the

was nowhere to wash clothes, and thought sand again, this time cut short by a great

I would go out to test the waters. wash of tide, and stretched enjoyably
before heading up for juice, coffee and
I stepped onto the sand and took three tostada. It was incredibly quiet. I really
more steps into the sunshine before I hoped I would be going back to Poo
noticed a familiar form lying on the sand. It again.
was Nadja, my beach buddy from
Germany
whom I’d first
met at
Guermes. So I
plonked down
next to her
and we spent
the afternoon
nattering
about this and
that. She had
walked the
fateful 14km
out of
Santander and
hurt her legs
so now she

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Pineres de Pria, Lunes 27th Junio - DAY 20 -
Rosa’s Albergue - or The Small Cute Shed in
the Garden - 16km
Apparently, hydrangeas are hortensia in
Spanish, isn’t that a great name? Rosa’s
Albergue was another privado, surrounded
by a lovely garden with feverfew, lilies and
other rustic pretty things. I thought this
albergue might once have been a garage,
but it had been renovated so nicely, it just
suited me and Snorey George from Finland
down to a Tee. BUT Snorey George had
managed to catch up with Giancarlos and
give him back his raingear so that was a
bit of luck.
Apparently there was another, larger,
albergue down the road. When we arrived,
Dolphine told Lucas and Peter they would
probably like it better. Bigger, with a nice
kitchen and a friendly hospitalero and all
the things that make me wonder what the
heck I’m doing here especially as I listen to
George slurp his coffee and try to start up
conversations about bushfires and
kangaroos. Looked like I was in for a
scintillating, snorey night.
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When Dolphine collected our cash and
stamped our credentials George brought
out his 3D cameras and showed us some
of his past images from his other Caminos
saved to his iPad. With two different
cameras on a rig that puts them the
correct distance apart he takes two
matching images. When he gets home, he
collated the photos and put them through
some difficult and time consuming process
on the computer to make them 3D. He
didn’t, as yet, have a website or show
them at talks as slide shows but they were
really quite evocative. For people who
couldn’t walk around these monuments
George’s 3D shots might provide a good
approximation of the experience. And he’d
be awake so they’d miss the snoring.
This morning began farewelling Nadja in
Poo and ended with some advice from
Alfonso (with a wife in a van and 6 kids of
varying degrees of fitness in tow) to find
some friends to make the long difficult
sections of the Primitive more bearable.
That’s how he did it. He was a very fit man,
addicted to walking long distances with or
without his family. He believes that as one
friend exits, another enters.
I really enjoyed the morning’s canter by the
coast, enlivened by the meeting, passing
and new meetings with young chaps,
Peter and Lucas. Lucas could speak five
languages. He was born in Poland but now
lived in Norway. He reminded me of
Australian comic expert, Bernard Caleo;
tall, funny and inclined to discourse. Peter
was from Stuttgart and I thought he may
have been a petrol head. But we had some
fun teasing each other. It seemed they
were carrying a ridiculous amount in their
packs. I couldn’t even lift one off the
ground.
The area we were walking through had that
semi-rural quality that existed in coastal
New Zealand forty or fifty years ago. Many
of the gardens here would have been
perfectly at home sitting in Waikanae, the
town where my grandparents retired just
North of Wellington. Now nicknamed The
Stairway to Heaven, Waikanae has been
‘improved’ by more developers than I care
to enumerate. Let us pray those same
developers do not get wind of the Asturias.
This verdant, uncluttered and
unfashionable Northern Spain felt like a
sitting duck.
Back, back to Poo. I didn’t find the bed
comfortable at all but I was terribly glad to
be there. Unfortunately, given my room
was over the kitchen back door there was
coming and going and there happened to
be a street light beaming hard in the
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window for good measure. As I tossed and
turned in my dressing of sensory overload;
light, sound and hard mattress, I stirred in
a soupçon of worry about the length of
time I was leaving for each stage. A 30km
walk was something I would prefer to
avoid, especially up and down hills.
Mind you, the coastal walks I’d just
clocked up felt a lot longer than their
stated measurement in the guides, which I
had come to believe is the road distance
rather than the curly bits around the edges
where we’d been trotting. So, I argued with
myself as a glass bin crashed into the
collecting area, I was reasonably fit. It was
just silly anxiety about my wobbly knee. I
had travelled happily for two hours before I
even thought about it. I would remember
to take a photo of the San Juan Pomada
(herbal olive oil paste) before it ran out. I
dropped it that morning and it was nearly a
Great Tragedy. I was so addicted to that
stuff. Pilgrims commonly smeared their
feet with vaseline. That seemed intensely
unlikely to me. Now, olive oil, that I can get
behind!
In Rosa’s garden I had tomato and
avocado on corn cakes for dinner - with a
dab of olive oil and a shake of oregano for
good measure. Perfect avo considering its
been shaken up for 16km in my pack -
more because I bought it in Llanes at the
shop where the elderly lady dropped her
money. I retrieved most of it but she was
missing a euro. Using my handy torch app
on the phone I managed to locate it,
leaning on the wall, far away from my
reach. The mud guard on my hiking pole
prevented me getting to it. I eyed her
walking stick and thought to offer her the
hiking stick while I used hers to retrieve the
coin but, by now the jovial shopkeeper and
the elderly lady were waving me on, it
didn’t matter and so forth because, of
course, it was closing time and the woman
wanted her lunch!
George made himself a coffee and I asked
if he had food. He said he did so I’ve eaten
an entire avo and a tomato. Quite missed
avos - lovely to find them again. Managed
to eat my muesli this morning, wash it up
and then pack the avo and the tom in the
same container. I’ve only 13km before the
next big town, Ribadesella, where
hopefully there would be a healthfood
shop. I managed to get through most of
my Santander supplies. It was hard to
balance walking through the big towns at
the same time as the shops choose to
open! Then, I couldn’t help but notice
George was eating slimey ham and the
heel end of sliced white bread out of
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plastic bags. The cat was happily sharing
shreds of soft pink pig flesh.
Sleep proved elusive at Poo. I woke with a
start at 7:30, realising sleep not so elusive
after all, rolled over, and rolled over again
at 8:44, managing to kick the elusive right
out of there! I scrambled into clothes, had
some muesli and fruit and went down to
the beach for a stroll and a stretch. Then
some toast, juice and coffee. So stuffed in
the morning! But beautiful, stunning day
this morning, walking out into the blue,
bright, lush green and deep in the heart of
dairy country.
Suddenly, as I blissed out on rural glory, I
saw it. A large, once-white tanker driving
up, turning round and driving down the
verdant pasture, cliff side by the sea. I saw
it before I smelled it. And then I did smell
it. The tanker was spraying out ominous,
viscous dark muck in a wide fan in the
rear. After staying in Poo, I would be
sprayed by pooh. There was no avoiding
it, that gas, that excremental putrid smell,
tiny vapour droplets hanging around for
metres in the air. Clearly, there were some
pigs in a dungeon nearby. The floating
waste was incredible. I walked much faster
and made up a song called, ‘Smelling Me’
about the dreadful choking stench that
filled the air. I put on considerable speed
… ‘Killing Me Softly as he spraaaaayed …
Oh, oh, oooooooh, aaaaaargh, yuuuuck,
aaaaaargh … FULL ON!
Into the bright sunlit pastures and the joy
of the coastline with the great, wonderful
hills behind. We were getting closer to the
Primitivo divide. Having done very little
research I didn’t really know what I was in
for. I decided if I got to town with enough
time to spare I would stock up and go on.
Otherwise, I would stay and have an
organising day in town in a relaxed
manner.
Still, that does not speak of what occurred
during the day. Past the stench and my
morning tea apple, onwards towards an
orange and a sesame seed bar with some
chocolate and frutos secos (fruit and nuts
or scroggin if you know what I mean) for
lunch. Perfecto. Fresh spring water in the
front pocket bottles and off we go again.
To Villahormes where there was supposed
to be a nice albergue. It took a great effort
to find.
As I drew near I stood and examined the
building carefully. It was part of a row of
rather pleasant looking holiday
apartments. The albergue was down the
end of the row, tucked away. Looked
merely okay from the outside but … it
136
smelled. Horrid. It was not clean. The
washing machine was stuffed full. There
was a big sign warning not to hang
anything anywhere so hand washing was
clearly out of order.
There was an Italiano with vaseline shiny
on his feet resting outside in the sun. He
told me the chica would return in an hour. I
took another tour of the unpalatable
dungeon. I decided I could do better just
as a cheerful Spanish couple arrived with a
bounding dog who leapt and frolicked in
the garden where we could not hang our
clothes. He announced, with great glee, as
he eyed off the Italian man, there was to
be a soccer match between Spain and
Italy that night. Final straw for me. Packed
up and left without another squeak. Got
lost.
Wandered in to a busy cafe where a
waitress who might have been cousin to
the one in Markina, incredibly focussed on
her work supplying goods and service to
her people. She had dark hair pulled back
severely from her intense, round, young
face. Black clothes over soft round body
but working fast, moving purposefully, no
wasted dashing about. Getting things
done at a steady pace. Anyway, she
invisibly lead me to her boss who got
another bloke to point me down the road. I
didn’t want to go back to Villahormes, so I
went the road down to Nueva where I met
two Germans. They were very impressed
to meet an Australian and then were so
delighted when a chap from Miami turned
up they took a photo. If they’d come round
the next corner they would have got three
other Germans and a Pole for good
measure! All very jolly, especially when the
internationally experienced waitress turned
on her best sales technique to get us all to
stay at the albergue in Nueva, there were
more bars, more people, more fun, more,
more of everything …
But I needed none of that and kept right
on going and carried myself to the land of
reminiscent Waikanae with roses, hedges
and hydrangeas and Snorey George. Four
women of about my age marched in, past
this renovated garage and into the good
room by the house! They must have
booked. They were the first Spanish group
I met who were doing the Camino over
several years. Apparently this was a
common way for people to holiday, taking
just a fortnight or a week to walk together.
They were on their third year, expecting it
to take them another two to finish. The
four had left their husbands behind but
their children were all capable of looking
after themselves. The Golden Age, indeed.
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San Estaban de Luces, Martes 28th Junio -
DAY 21 - Albergue de San Estaban de Leces -
Halfway - 17.8
Theme of the day: LOST
Started out well. Left Pineres in good
cheer. George made a picture, snuggled
up with a cat that was not in the room
when I went to bed. He spent most of the
morning singing and canoodling and
feeding the cat milk. He crooned to it
about not having any meat to give it and
he went on and on until I never wanted to
hear his voice again.
Hooray! Guess who was sleeping under
my bunk yet AGAIN!!!
Ribadesella could not let me go. I tried to
leave. But I could not. The walk there was
quietly rural and very solitary. I did not see
an single other pilgrim the entire morning. I
was starting to be highly selective of my
photos. It was going to have to be a pretty
good caption or instagram before I’d get
the phone out. The knee was strange.
Nagged at odd times - definitely better on
138
the rural paths rather than the nasty,, hard,
traffic-ridden roads.
I stopped to pick a large bunch of juicy
grass stalks for an old grey mare, covered
in flies, that looked really miserable by the
roadside. There was some nasty rusty
barbed wire right in front of her pretty nose
so I stepped up close to the fence to get
the grass over the danger area. The horse
took the grass gingerly. As I stepped away
I realised there had been a nice patch of
stinging nettles rubbing my skin. So I just
put my trouser legs back on.
I was looking forward to the last of our
beach walks tomorrow to help take the
sting out of my leg. That’s if I went the
Primitivo way. Today I expected I would. If
I walked 12km in the morning and 5km in
the afternoon, then I certainly walked 5km
getting lost today. So I reckoned I was
back up in the 20s again. I imagined I was
going to have to be capable of many more
kilometres if I chose the steeper way. My
knee felt normal when I did a salute to the
sun and I could go right back to bending it
again and it hardly gave a twinge when its
straight. I thought I had got a bigger pain
in the neck but that could be from Finland.
Am I such a bitch? Possibly. He used to be
an economy lecturer. And the 3D photos
were amazing. If you liked that sort of
thing. Still worried about the lesions on his
arms, though. There was no telling him.
Once I got to Ribadesella a few questions
from likely individuals told me there was no
health shop so I had to go have coffee.
Then the turismo confirmed there was
indeed no health shop but pointed to the
supermercado on the way to San Esteban
as a likely source of goodies. I found out
later that this is where I went wrong.
Instead of going the beach way (the
correct scenic way) where Izzie and
Shyenne went (my new pals from USA
near Philly) I went in search of Pomada
San Juan.
In the chemist I found all sorts of good
things, not least of which was a packet of
BROCCOLI chips! I found some hemp oil
for massaging knees to tide me over til the
next San Juan pomada can be located.
There would have to be another healthfood
shop in the near future, surely? I also got
some diet (vegan) choc/protein bars in lieu
of decent choice. These are the things of
beauty one thrills to on El Camino del
Norte. Or me. The One I’m talking about.
I left town over the medieval bridge,
following the signs obediently. Okay, they
may not have been the exact same yellow
139

arrows, but they were definitely yellow
arrow-ish. They showed a little backpacker
with an arrow in black on a yellow
background. Anyway, I got sucked in,
because I marched up that steep hill, past
the cute barky dog with grey moustache
and the cats and the geraniums and little
house raised off the ground with corners of
boulders and removable steps. I’d seen
them for the last couple of days now, an
almost Japanese flavour in the line of the
roof. Possibly storage of fruit and veg with
the rocks preventing insect infestation?
Snakes would have a hard time getting in
there. Anyway, I kept following the signs
and ended up at a beautiful mirador, a
lookout, overlooking the extensive bay and
river and that medieval bridge …
And the sign pointed down. And
there was no path. So I interrupted
the arguing couple who ran the bar
at the mirador - there were bars at
every conceivable point a traveller
might have needed a beer on this
part of the Camino - and she kindly
explained that I had to go back
down to the delightful medieval
bridge and go on from there.
WHEREAT? I did not go backwards
in this game! But, I did. And then, I
looked at the best option for signs and,
obediently, I started back up that blessed
hill again. I’d come down a different road
and just to be on the safe side, I thought
I’d better check again and those different
bar people said, go that way, along the
carreterra, which I did. So all good, until I
see the signs, a yellow arrow for sure,
pointing UP.
So, I think, well, I clearly made a mistake, I
should be more careful. So up! Go again!
Same hill. Same geraniums. Same dog
with bristly bigote and, this time, his once
patient, fluffy, cute pal tried to fling himself
over the fence to kill me, stretching his
chain with abject force so I hurried on past
the hortensias and there was the little
house on the stones and I was not wrong,
those signs only pointed to the left and I
140

needed to go right so l went back down to
the last right and off I headed, following
my nose (because it was clearly so
trustworthy) past a fancy hotel where I
noted people my age were gathering for a
nice, friendly lunch. The sort of familiar
women who might be in a Spanish Frag.
I kept on going to find some orange arrows
and I thought, well, I’ll go up there. It could
have been just a wide driveway or it could
have been a narrow road with ridged
concrete surface, gouged for drainage due
to steepness. Private road? I continued,
wary, very wary, and found a concha. Now,
these shell symbols of the Camino are
finely nuanced into a line design. There’s a
central point and all lines lead to it. That
point, presumably, indicates Santiago. The
lines are all the caminos heading across
Europe. (That’s one story.)
Anyway, here in Asturias, the conchas all
point one way, the pointy end towards
Santiago. The radiating fingers are the
tail of the comet. Normally. This concha
was facing the other way. And I turned
back because I’ve been programmed
like a robot to follow the signs.
I was frustrated. Weeping. Moaning and
whinging. And it was a quarter to three
and I went towards the nice restaurant
with the friendly people and thought to
myself, tranquilla. When all else fails, eat
something. So I did.
At first I sat up at the waiter’s station and
watched him rushing about between the
large group and the dumb waiter coming
up from the kitchen. He smiled at me and
showed me where to stow my pack and
patiently told me the WEEFEE code.
There was a lovely view of the ocean and
relaxing vibe coming from the jolly group
of professional people enjoying their very
nice looking lunch. I ate my extremely
generous fresh salad and bread with some
fruit to follow. I had an encouraging FB
chat with my husband, looked on Google
maps, chatted to the waiter, saw I could
easily get to San Esteban and went on my
way with far more than my normal one cup
of coffee on board. I was in no way jittery. I
141
was simply determined. I was sad
to give up on my isla idea but all
was well. And I marched on, happy
I was now, finally, about to say
farewell to Ribadesella. Why, even
the sun was shining.

And then I became aware of a

man’s voice, ‘Santiago!’ It increased
in volume, ‘SantiAGO!’ and became
closer, ‘SANTIAGO!’ so I turned to
wave, wondering does this have
anything to do with me? Surely not?

There was a little man in his garden,
moving towards me, so I waved at him and
said, in a little voice, ‘San Esteban?’ which
he echoed and we went back and forth
like that for a while like a location tennis
match as he got closer and I realised he
must have seen me from inside his house,
got out and jogged across his garden and
was now chasing me up the road.
Eventually he made it clear I was indeed
going the wrong way up the road. How
SURPRISED was I?
He directed me to a WHITE arrow which
surprisingly lead me back to the
corregated concrete driveway road and he
assured me that was absolutely the right
way to go so off I went again, past the
wrong way round concha and down a
lovely road, with beautiful glimpses of sea
and hills and round a corner where I waved
happily at the farmers and asked them if I
was on the right road to San Esteban and
the lady with the scarf over her head
nodded and said, sure, no problema, on
you go, and then I walked straight into the
town, looked over at the albergue, which
looked just like the old school building it
must have been and Dolores waved me in
and showed me my bunk and there was
Snorey George regaling everyone with cat
stories and it was delightful with a
charming walled garden and a pretty full
house, from the looks of the washing line.
The fridge hummed keeping the cokes
cool while baby veg grew in the garden. I
had no fence on the side of the bunk again
but I clung like a limpet.

142
Villaviciosa, Miércoles 29th Junio - DAY 22 -
Albergue Villaviciosa - 33.2km
Last day on the Camino del Norte. Theme:
three dead birds and a snake. Woke at
4:33 due to the sound and vibrations of a
large train rumbling underneath me.
Snorey George. Platform mine. That got
me out of bed. Well-arrived in the kitchen
with bathroom gear and breakfast bag
without really thinking about it. Stood for a
moment and tried thinking. Even though it
was too early and I needed the sleep, I
decided to keep going because it was not
only Snorey George. There were two
others roaring in the bog that night. So,
decision made, I got about my business,
wide-eyed and bushy-tailed. Cold wash,
solitary breakfast and stretch. By the time I
was ready to fight the wild sleeping bag
into its little pouch a couple of other
pilgrims were creeping about too. And so,
just at first light, at 6am, I stood at the
143
door of the old school
house and reached for
the door handle. I was
the first one out. Today
was a day of firsts.

It was beautiful and

fresh, just light enough
to see, though not
enough to take photos.
I was out and about in
the crisp early air and it
was nerve-wracking
creeping through the
dawn streets before
even the dogs were up
He was furious there was no-one surfing.
to start barking at me. The trees hung over
He'd been at a surf festival in France and
the fences to create dark leafy tunnels. On
then walked all the way to Ribadesella
I walked through the rural lushness and up
before sending his wetsuit home. That was
to the beach. The sun glinted over
six weeks walking, partying and surfing
smoothly rolling surf lines and the beach
and now here he was, by the beach,
was deserted as far as the eye could see.
watching amazing waves and he could see
I was joined by Adrian from Frankfurt and all these combi vans parked with empty
we chatted as we stood on the hill surfing gear hanging outside them and
overlooking the perfect beach. He was a no-one was doing anything about it.
tall, lanky young fellow with a scarf worn Eventually he sped off and I stayed to
rakishly around his neck. He told me that if watch the light beams in the clouds over
I ever went to Frankfurt I must walk by the the waves. Crepuscular rays.
river and see the old part of town. Sound
I moseyed along, watching the
advice for most cities in Europe, I should
ever-changing views, and finally turned
hazard!
into a path which quickly became a tunnel
of green. I rounded a corner to find this

144
skinny, sophisticated young man standing,
stock-still and silent, in the middle of the
muddy track. He was facing off a small
herd of cattle with pointy horns. There
were about a dozen or so young mums
with babies.

He could only say, out of the

corner of his mouth, that
they were dangerous, these And the girls thought
cattle, in Spain, with their ... perhaps we weren't
and he indicated their horns paying them any
with a wide sweep of his attention and we were
elegant arms. It was true, harmless after all and
they had long, dramatic they trotted, very
horns. But carefully, very
these watchfully, on. I don't
beautiful, know what he'd said to them before I'd
pale, tan got there. It might have been threatening.
creatures We said no more about it and by the time I
were far more saw him again for coffee, well-met with a
worried about couple of other young pilgrims, he was
us than we once more the pure sophisticate.
were of them.
Then it was just walking. Strangely quiet,
After all, I
there were no shops open on the
pointed out,
beachfront. I had my morning tea orange
he was likely
sitting up on the tall lifesaving watch chair.
to eat them!
That felt pretty cool. It was a lovely view of
I lead him to the far side of the track and I the water - no sharks, no people, and no
urged him to turn aside and look at that cows in sight, just clear horizon and surf.
very interesting distant red thing, possibly
And on I walked. I became a bit uncertain
some new kind of tractor, did he see it?
about the under-utilised path. Clear

145
decision was made for me when I came to
an abrupt stop. I could see the tail end of a
snake weaving across the road. Now, this
was either most of a small snake or a tiny
tail of a big snake. I didn't like to
investigate further and took it as a sign I
must turn back. A couple of Germans had
noted my backtracking and were
examining their excellent book for
clarification. Thankfully, those kind
Germans were able to set us on the right
path, as they so often did with their
superior guide.
Later, I walked along a road for a while
with a chap called Paul from Norway who
had done a BA in marketing in Brisbane.
He had many interesting ideas about
global politics. He was very encouraging
about distance and time. My son often
said, 'You can walk anywhere, if you have
the time'. And that was one clear benefit of
getting up early, you could walk further
and still arrive in plenty time for important
business, like dinner and washing clothes!
I did spend the day worrying about food
and, again, that nagging worry about my
knee. Uphill and down rural dale we went
and the joint gave a couple of worrying
twinges but all was well. I was
helicopter-parenting the blasted thing. I
had to let it go. Not in a careless way, you
understand. I would need the knee!
A dead bird on the road flung me down
into my past. Every dead bird had meaning
if I chose to find it. Every dead bird had a
life in flight. The pigeon struck, bleeding on
the pedestrian crossing, the wing across
the body in flattened, hopeless way
brought back the blackbird from my
memory, beaten, beaten into a tattoo,
sprayed blood in a dreadful arc
surrounding its lifeless drooping corpse, its
foot caught in the fence, its life brought to
a splattered, agonised, repetitive silence.
The man who would cut his arm off with a
penknife in order to set himself free was
blessed in comparison with that shocked
and shocking victim hanging by his ankle
thread when he should have been flying
free.
It was this resonance of history, this
feathery echo that made that half-buried
crow of Unbearable Lightness of Being
beam for me with strong force, shine out in
a way that I presumed another reader
might not receive with their own dead
birds not quite so vivid. They probably had
other images, other pictures painted in
their memories. But that one-colour,
rainbow-arc blackbird, that half circle of
146
wild-blood splashes, has to be one of the
worst images in my mind and it resurfaced
sometimes, like today, when I saw a dead
bird on the road.
Because that target blackbird hung on our
back fence in Melbourne was a suicide of
a kind. Because it was one of the loneliest
deaths imaginable. Because the bird did
not want to die. Or did it? Did it die
escaping? Or did it die to escape?
What was I escaping?
These were the troubled thoughts I nursed
as I turned into Sebrayo. I was very
surprised to see the couple from Germany
sitting in the sun waiting for the albergue
to open. I thought I had miles to go and
when they said Villaviciosa was only 6km
away, I thought that was NOTHING! And
off I sprang, immediately, into the
sunshine, and at a sprightly pace.
On arrival at the town, I went straight to
the healthfood shop to stock up on vegan
goodies and then to the fruit and veg shop
and from there to the ice-cream parlour
where the sorbet was sworn vegan and
the world was a better place.
The word on the track was that one of the
albergues in Villaviciosa was one of those
caring, sharing hostels, with
thought-provoking family orientation, but
from Gronze I couldn't tell which one was
which so I just went to Turismo and asked
them for the closest. It turned out to be
privado, a clean youth hostel, and very
friendly. The hospitalero, Roberto, took my
washing out of my hands for a small fee.
(Later he returned it, washed, dried and
folded in a small washing basin.)
I was given a bunk in a separate nook but,
as usual, I chose to go with another, a top
bunk in the main room so I had legroom -
much to the surprise of the hospitalero.
This preference did disconcert people.
Apparently the lower order was more
popular. Anyway, a young Spanish lady
was resting on the bottom bunk and, while
she took a snooze, I snuck into the
separate nook, took a stretch and had a
little rest with legs up air against the wall.
Who should walk in and take the
previously offered bunk but young Anthony
from Texas. 'Well, of course. Who else
would it be?' We had a good chat and off
he wandered to find sustenance.
I had lots of food on board that day. I ate:
a banana, an apple, an orange and an
apricot together with dried figs, almonds,
walnuts and surprisingly delicious coconut
chips, a multiseed bun with oil and vinegar,
coffee, juice and toast, a chia seed bar, a
147
raspberry sorbet,
rice/tomato/peas/pimento/mushroom
stir-up, rice pudding, lemon slice and mint
tea. Reasonably extensive but it had to be
to get me through 33km. Mind you, it had
been a very painless day compared to
what my mind expected 33km to be.
filled them up. This encounter cut him
deeply, his own memories exploded into
bitter reflection. I could see his pain and
knew this was an example of one of the
fierce Camino moments, when life,
reflected in the pool of experience,
reached up to drown you.

I was not the only one who experienced Villaviciosa. Vicious.

resonating emotions that day. Later, when
Anthony returned to base, he told me Lights out and everyone was very quiet

about his encounter with an intoxicated indeed. I was surprised I still had puff after

woman. She had been falling-over drunk in my early start. Maybe I just didn't need so

the street and he tried to get her to go much sleep after all? And if you were

home. She only wanted to go back to the looking for magic Camino moments you

bar. She insisted she needed a beer so he might just compare the time I woke up,

bought her one. But he kept it up at the 4:33, with the kms walked today: 33, that's

bar with the barman. Feeling helpless, he right! Olé!

had left her sitting there, slumped and

incoherent, at a table in the front of
the café. He was confused, hoping
the woman would be okay and
knowing that he could do nothing
more to assist her. He didn't have
enough Spanish to find her address
and she didn't have enough sobriety
to tell him anything sensible.

At least he'd removed her from the

street and the danger of being hit by
a car. He was angry the bar didn't
show more responsibility, looking
after their customers after they'd

148
149
5
The first
Camino Primitivo Camino to Santiago
Pola de Siero, Jueves 30th Junio - DAY 23 -
27km - Albergue de peregrinos Casona de San
Miguel
I was not the only Aussie on the Camino
no more!
Last night was a quiet night with the grim
Germans behind locked doors. My own
evening security system, placing all my
preciousness: wallet and phone, earbuds
and head torch in the pocket of my
sleeveless vest and hanging it up on the
edge of my bunk, normally foolproof, was
fooled. These particular modern bunks had
a lovely curving slope design in the bunk
fence. In the middle of the night the vest
slid off the slope and landed with a
crashing thump, on the ground, next to
Carmen, biology major and sensible young
woman from Valencia. She said in the
morning that she had not heard a thing but
I’m pretty sure she was being polite.
Like many privado albergues, Roberto
offered a Spanish breakfast. Normally
packet cakes, muffins or possibly toast
and fruit, with orange juice and coffee, I
151
tended to eat my own muesli and fruit but I
liked to buy a coffee when there was one
on offer. Here I enjoyed adding a spot of
soy milk for a change and took my time.
Then I mucked around with packing until
8am. It seemed both Anthony and I were in
no hurry and we bantered along quite
happily chatting about musos and gender
politics and travel plans and all the stuff of
life and dreams as we trucked along
toward Pola de Siero. The guia was none
too clear about the enlace hasta Oviedo -
but there were arrows aplenty.
The track already seemed different as we
went inland and rose up to greet the hills
we’d been paralleling beside the coast. We
were seeing more of the small food
storage sheds and rural havens. It was H.
E. Bates territory. We met a jovial farmer, a
gardener really, who showed us his
wooden clogs and who laughed as he
gestured widely to his extensive vegetable
garden, ‘This is my business and these’
presumably, wife and grandchild, were his
employees! He loved the Asturias to the
extent he found it difficult to visit anywhere
else, like when he had to stay with his
daughter in Ibiza, finding it far too hot to
sleep. He preferred staying put. She
should come and visit him.
The dogs here
seemed smaller
and friendlier
although there
were a couple,
more in line with
our past canine
experiences, who
threatened to fly
over the fence,
tormenting the
very idea of our
passing with their
gnashing teeth
and roaring
152
kerfuffle.
At our break we met Adrian, cool man from
Frankfurt, who was walking through from
Oviedo and then three young ladies
arrived. Micky hailed from Melbourne,
while Mary Joan and Steph were from
Illinois University, Chicago. They were
great pals at the same ripe old age of 21
years old. MJ and Steph had been
studying in Barcelona while Mickey had
been working as an auxiliar in a small
southern town. She’d been able to make
ends meet by taking on some private
tutoring above and beyond her twelve
hours promised to the school. It only took
a short discussion to find out she had
been to the same school as my nieces in
Melbourne. Small world? MJ and Steph
had been living in Gracia, had been caught
up in the recent riots that I had
encountered, but generally had been living
the high life. Their only trouble had been
how to balance eating, drinking and
socialising with all that pesky study!
Leaving Anthony to their merry
youthfulness, I voted with my feet for some
solitary time and very lovely it was too.
We all seemed to arrive at much the same
time at the albergue, a large building on
the way in to town. The girls looked
hungrily at the local swimming pool as we
passed by. It was just warm enough to be
tempting but we pressed on and, as we
entered the albergue, found a pile up of
people at the entrance. The reason soon
became clear as it appeared there’d been
a bedbug (los chinches) infestation
recently and we had to hand over entire
pack, boots and bastions to be put into a
fumigation cupboard before taking our
packs upstairs to the spacious
bunkrooms. Fumigation cupboard is
putting it a big strong. What happened
was that as a group of about five folk
arrived, the hospitalero took a can of
strong insect spray, went into the room
with the gear and sprayed widely. Then he
dashed out, shutting the door firmly
behind him. He wore no breathing mask.
Every albergue I’d stayed in previously had
requested that we leave the packs on the
floor - putting them on the bunks was too
risky if you brought bugs with you and far
too risky for you if the bunk already had
them waiting to jump on. So, it was
common sense to comply. This albergue
read us the riot act. There would be no
deviation. Each bunk had a chair specially
for packs and we were handed a
protective elasticated sheet and
pillowcase to protect us and/or the
bedding. The kind hospitaleros were also
very serious about our credentials, taking
153
their time and making sure all the sellos
were lined up neatly.
The Albergue seemed to have just enough
beds for some of the nicest people I’d met
on the Camino so far. The youth were
making a strong showing and, perhaps
because the German guidebooks don’t
include the Primitivo, there was a distinct
lack of German accents. There was a
healthy proportion of French, amongst
them René and Martine, so many English
speakers around the table this evening.
as she was a single young lady she should
be called Señorita. Thank you very much.
This all happened in Spanish and caused
great hilarity in the shop.
Had no idea that Pola de Siero was such a
large town but then, given I had no idea
about anything much, that was no
surprise! It did, however, make me realise
there would probably be a fair bit of
pavement the next day.
Sadly, this very place of suspected

Also, the most salad I’ve seen in one place infestation is where I lost my beloved

for a long time, too. Everyone seemed to sandfly protection from New Zealand.

be tucking hungrily into fresh fruit and When you find an emollient that will not

vegetables. bring you out in a rash, protects and

soothes at the same time, you have to take
I’d hunted-gathered my own ingredients, care of it. Gosh, I wish I had it still …
including avocado and
fresh peas, at the Fruiteria.
I had a cheerful encounter
with the shopkeeper,
looking about forty, with
blonde hair and a jolly
demeanour. When I asked
for an apple, por favor,
calling her, ‘Señora’, she
turned! She gave me such
a talking to, though with a
discernible twinkle in her
eye, that Señora was only
for old married ladies and

154
Oviedo, Viernes 1st Julio - DAY 24 - El Hotel &
Spa Princesa Munia - 18km
I was still grieving over the loss of my
favourite sandfly stuff, even though I had a
great early start and a good pack. Going to
be tricky to get that good oil replaced in
the North of Spain! Went from feeling
chipper as I marched along by myself to
feeling melancholy with the passing of the
youth brigade just before Oviedo.
As Anthony skipped back up to Gijón to
catch up with Lucas and finish el Norte, I
hadn’t been able to assemble that
prescribed group of friends that would
make my Primitivo easier as
recommended by Alfonso. I didn’t
suppose it mattered in the long run. For
even though we all walked as individuals,
there was always someone in front and
someone else behind. The Camino felt like
a tube, or an artery, and we all mere blood
cells moving forward through it.
It was so solitary this morning, it wasn’t
until I got to Colloto that I even spoke to
155
someone. I sought out a bar for my
morning coffee and all I could find was
a very nice cake shop. I couldn’t help
it. I had to wait while the staff prepared
previous coffees and cakes and I had
time for my hungry eyes to roll around
the sweet laden shelves. So when the
baker came to me, I ordered a baked
good. Now, I know I was getting into
butter territory but sometimes a lax,
sugar-craving vegan slid into more of a
vegetarian, okay? It had been like this
since Bilbao. Hunger for sweeties and
cheer was a great melter of rules. It
didn’t do me any good, however. The
eye of the greedy does not take into
account the richness of butter and the
effect thereof on the unready gut.

The charming baker gave me not only

my café Americano and the baked
feelings I’d experienced at the bakery.
good, but also a sausage roll, gratis. He
Steph, from America, kindly explained that
was so generous and kind, looking after la
next time I could say, ‘Soy vegetariana’
peregrina, that I didn’t like to shun his gift.
and that would solve all my problems,
Instead, I quietly wrapped it up in a
which I received with just a hint of
serviette, tucked in into my backpack and
condescension. I’m sure she was being
gave it to Adrian as he happened to be the
kind. I explained I didn’t want to slap his
next pilgrim I saw. Well, he was from
smiling generous face with my wet moral
Frankfurt. What self-respecting German
but I don’t think she cared, preferring the
youth would refuse a sausage?
youthful energy of her pals.
A bit further on, when the youth brigade
I think I was annoyed because she hadn’t
nearly ran me down, I told them the mixed
listened to the fact I’d been learning

156
Spanish for two years and that ‘Soy
vegetariana’ was one of the first things I
learned to say way back when and she
had absolutely no interest in listening to
me or talking to me or finding out anything
about me and why should she? I
absolutely agreed with her. It was just that
I’d had quite a lot of that sort of effect in
my life and somehow I took it badly.
Maybe I recognised her disregard as
something I no longer liked.
I really shouldn’t have cared but the Youth
seem to ward me off if I came near them.
Fair enough, I am happy not to hang out
with kids my own son’s age, but when I
trailed into Oviedo (after a delightful
exchange or two along the way; a banana
shop lady had engaged me in laughing
banter with some of her regulars, and a
mother-daughter duo waiting at the lights
who congratulated me on being so
valiente, I ran into a clump of them reading
their maps and looking very tired. I asked,
given their map waving, if they’d found the
turismo and Steph merely glanced over
her shoulder and said, ‘Not looking for it,’
in a really dismissive manner.
Thereby dismissed and, in that resonating
Camino way, feeling unreasonably hurt, I
wandered in to the Cathedral in search of
peace, a tour and some relics. There’s a
pile of them there!
Alfonso II the Chaste brought the Holy Ark
from Jerusalem and stored the contents in
Cathedral de San Salvador de Oviedo. You
could see old marks on a piece of cloth
that were made by Jesus’s face, the Holy
Shroud. You could see beautiful old
containers that hold original drops of
Mary’s breast milk. And you could see the
wooden box that purported to hold original
fragments of saints’ bones. They didn’t
show photos of the contents but the vault
that held all the containers was under an
equally impressive museo. I felt I was in a
theme park of wonders, things that had
attracted visitors and their wallets for
hundreds of years.
After a struggle I chose to carry my back
pack around the Cathedral instead of
leaving it just inside the door, not trusting
my precious goods to the modern tourist
gaze. As I wandered around the hallowed
halls, looking at the glory and listening to
the guia, I could see various familiar
pilgrims also seeking wonder. We nodded
to each other but quietly pursued our own
paths.
After centuries of development in the
Cathedral all that was left of the Unknown
157
Pilgrim’s Cemetery was a solitary twisted
olive tree seeking the light and some fallen
stones. I suspect many unknown souls left
the earth here on their way to or from
forgiveness, adventure or escape. I rested
there for a time, imagining how it might
have been for them, with little signage,
plenty of thieves and scoundrels balanced
by a burning desire for adventure.
It’s strange how the big Cathedrals across
Spain were similar but all different. One
presumed that architects and builders may
well have been called in after the success
of one to assist with the next. Oviedo was
certainly one of the grandest I’d visited,
and one of the dustiest. I suppose
wheeling in a scissor-lift to get a vacuum
cleaner into those fragile golden altar
pieces would be problematic. Oviedo does
have some very grand objects and
artefacts, the most impressive being a
huge urn tucked into a corner. This was
one of the original water containers (take it
or leave it) that Jesus worked his miracle
upon during the famous wedding. Once a
year it was filled with wine to share
amongst the congregation. I hoped they
got a bigger throng that day because the
small group of people I saw for mass the
next morning would never have got
through it all without serious injury to their
health.
After that magic tour, I managed to find the
turismo by myself. A very snarky lady, one
supposed she was about to head off for
lunch, but still, dutifully swirled her pen
around her map to point the way out. I
walked and walked around the old city but
I couldn’t find her recommended
office/print shop anywhere. I wandered
around the market and the shops but
everything was closing. I was getting
overtired and overworried about printing
the documents necessary for my auxiliar
position.
I went for lunch, choosing a high
restaurant that, I reasoned, would look out
over the central park I had just walked
around. When I explained I was vegan the
woman in charge hustled me downstairs to
the common people’s meat eating area at
once and we began the usual dance of
misunderstanding. In the end I had my
normal salad and chips and very fresh,
tasty and expensive it was too!
While sulking about not getting Wifi, I
thought to myself, if I stayed in a hotel, I
could get the printing done and sleep
without snorefests!
Very quickly, I found a helpful couple at the
front desk of a reasonably priced and very
comfortable hotel. Not only did she print
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the documents immediately but her
assistant turned out to be Catalan and was
able to assure me that both Catalan and
Spanish documents were the same and I
could rely on my shakey Spanish
guesswork to work out what necessary
steps were required.
While lingering at the desk I saw there was
also a spa at the hotel. Throwing caution
to the financial gods I booked a massage
as well. After that delightful, if slightly on
the light and fluffy side experience, I
ordered gazpacho and fruit salad from
room service and spent far too long
watching Spanish ads and a brilliant reality
show called ‘First Dates’ on telly. Why not
Principe Fechas? Bit like watching people
walk a tightrope over a bath full of
piranhas, First Dates consists of some
personable restaurant staff spying on
people having their first dates and
performing a running commentary secretly.
This mild period of relaxation, away from
the clump I’d been caught up with, made
me realise, yet again, that I needed to
follow my own pace and only my own.
Those other people have to do their own
thang …
After perusing the documents I could see
that I wouldn’t have to be anywhere until
October 2nd, in Madrid, but of course I
would need to organise housing and
paperwork in Palafolls before that. I would
wait until I got to Prague to organise the
final dates for Madrid, Vallalodid and
Palafolls. There was no point in getting
worried at this point. I could do no more. It
would just have to be what it would be.
Let’s just forget all about the IQ test that
was trying to open the hotel door, shall
we? The brain, completely befuddled by
relaxing massage, (body dressed only in
white terrytowling robe and huge white
terry towelling slippers) could not work out
how to open the door with the hotel key.
Was I at the right door? Repeated trick of
sliding in card, green light, twist handle
and pull. Bastard.
Trooped back downstairs to complain. She
tested the key. Yes, all was correct. I
trooped back up and tried several more
times to pull that damned door towards
me before I finally woke up to myself and
pushed. Gently. The door opened easily.
Inwards.
Sometimes change is a necessary thing.
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Escamplero, Sabado 2nd Julio - DAY 25 -
Albergue de Escamplero - 12.7km
Mucked around last night, watched too
much tv, ate too much chocolate and too
late to sleep. Woke at 7:20 am and chatted
to husband and son via FB before getting
up and ready for mass. The Cathedral was
quiet and I slipped in the side door with a
florist who was delivering white bouquets,
for a wedding perhaps.
My first impression, as the men of religion
entered the side chapel, was of the
Sketzies from Dark Crystal. Hunched old
men dressed in fine embroidered capes
covering them like crusty carapaces. A
couple of younger servers but the big boys
were all over seventy.
I was reminded again of that Brazilian’s
priest’s upflung arms as he invoked his
heartfelt prayer that there should be more
vocation in the youth. I felt, watching the
elderly priests and their attendants, that
they really had to jazz this joint up. The
small congregation was, in the main,
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elderly, with just one younger man and his
small son looking about in awe, much as I
was. The floors grew into trees and the
domed ceiling featured gorgeous lighting
from rectangular boldly coloured glass
patchwork. The Cathedral took a hit in the
civil war and was refurbished, initially in
the forties and again, more recently. I
suspect that has brought electric light, and
probably heating, to this side chapel.
The woman next to me shared her book,
pointing out the finer features of the
Spanish response system. Very like the
Vespers services I had previously attended
at the monasteries, this was morning mass
of course, differing only in the culmination
of communion, of which I did not partake. I
watched the older folk lining up for their
taste of flesh and blood and wondered
about the place of the Catholic Church in
contemporary Spain.
Before that, though, theatrically speaking,
the lights, voices and observant eyes alive
alive oh in the cold stone room brought the
place to life, used the space, as it was
meant to be used, rather than just cold
empty corridors photographed by facile
tourists collecting images in their fancy
cameras.
Once the folk had shuffled back to their
seats there was a brief moment of prayer
and then the smiling lady next to me shook
my hand and all around me there was a
flurry of meaningless handshaking as
though we were electrons knocking
against each other for warmth.
The elders came again to the fore and we
processed out of the chapel, through the
main nave and into the Capilla del Rey
Casto, where I had been told off the day
before, just about to snap a photo of the
Holy Mother giving her breast to baby
Jesus. I had thought to send it to a
lactation consultant I know. Mind you, this
central sculpture was surrounded by stone
bishops, saints and images in arc after
concentric arc of cold grey arches.
Yesterday the place was cold, silent and
empty. Today, there were fresh flowers, the
lights were on and the alter piece shone
gold and gorgeous. The Holy Mother wore
a large and beautiful cone shaped dress
and her little baby did too.
There was gold and glory in abundance.
Everywhere one looked was large and
beautiful; heaven made manifest. And the
organ was full throated and dynamic,
leading the organist, dressed in heavily
embroidered black, to attempt some
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groovy licks that gave nasty suggestions
of digit slip and tangle.
It was all over very quickly. The elderly folk
in sparkly dresses and the young men in
white frocks filed into the barred altar
section, while a man in a smart sports
jacket and blue tie held the gate open for
them. A priest, who had lately joined the
congregation, chatted with one of the flock
as people drifted away in twos and threes.
I walked around the entire building, mainly
seeking shell/arrow for later use, and saw
those priests exiting, cheery, looking
forward to their morning tea, I expect!
I too, found coffee and pastry and even fell
into the greedy trap of buying some
unknown ingredients in the form of
delicious sweet almond biscuits. Their
effects sadly reinforced my previous
suspicions that, after studiously avoiding
cows’ products, my gut preferred a lighter
diet.
My mind and heart did too, reminded of
recent images of struggling cows in the
heart of the dairy country. A particular
milking session I passed had stayed with
me. In a muddy cow shed, the cows were
chained together at their feeding trough,
grubby machines pulling at their teats. One
cow lunged up and twisted her head,
rolling her eyes, rising above the shoulders
of her peers in obvious need to escape. It
was just a moment for me as I passed her,
arched in clear pain, apparently wishing to
twist out of the milking machine. I clearly
saw the whites of her eyes as she
stretched against the rusty chain around
her neck. I walked by, my mind twisted by
discomfort. There were so many cows. So
much mastitis. The heart of the dairy
county.
After a couple of coffees I was awake and
ready to go. I went to the statue of Alfonso
II el Casto (The Chaste), the beginning of
the Primitivo proper, the start of my
renewed quest. He held his hand over his
heart. He wore a really nice little skirt and
had terrific thighs, the quads divided into
double strength. I felt empowered by the
huge Cathedral beside him and slightly
mystical because of the magic energy of
those relics. I strode out, finding the shells
embedded in the pavement as
recommended by Gronze and away I went.
Gliding smoothing over the new first way,
the way designed to push through
contested lands, making sure Christians
came to control this land.
Soon I met a pilgrim from Alaska, bearing
a new pack and a fresh attitude and we fell
into conversation. These were her first
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steps on the Camino and she told me her
daughters, ten and twelve years old, were
a bit worried about their mum on her own
and really thought they should have come
too. But mum was happy, grabbing a brief
respite from family responsibilities while
they enjoyed summer camp. She would
stride out and finish in ten days.
I spent some time warning her of the
dangerous dog signs - explaining that
although they were chained up they could
still give you a fright as they lunged. And,
as a message about being a know-it-all,
after she’d walked on I only saw the
cutest, smallest, fluffiest, friendliest dogs.
They certainly seem to have a different
attitude to our canine friends in the
Asturias! Cantabria, cantankerous.
Asturias, cute as. You simply couldn’t
predict what would be around the next
corner.
Even so, planning ahead, I expected to do
27km the next day which would put me at
only 20km to get to Bodenaya, reputed to
be another of the caring-sharing type
albergues with a shared, vegetarian dinner.
That large container that Jesus used to
change the water into wine floated in my
mind as I walked. I thought about it, huge
as it was, and only one of nine. Jesus
really didn’t do things in half measure.
You’d think he would have stuck to a few
bottles? I assumed when the guia talked
about filling the old container every year
that they spoke of wine but it could well
have been water. I wondered if that
brought the crowds? Certainly, when the
Catholic Youth Festival descended upon
Melbourne in 2013 they did so in
enthusiastic numbers but I’d seen no sign
of youthful energy in these grand old
monuments.
I wondered if the Pope’s message of
warning to protect the environment would
grab the attention of young activists. But I
was aware there was sickness in the
Church, too. I don’t know about the state
of Spain but certainly other nations have
uncovered grim histories. When the old
priest reached to pat that cute little boy on
the head in a kind of blessing, the father
eagerly pushed the kid forward, a strong
hand in the middle of the tiny slim back.
Yet, I’d hesitate, nay, refuse point blank, to
involve my young son in any kind of
church activity. Perhaps Spain’s priests are
clear of any wrong doing?
Even now, those houses of glory do offer a
way out of poverty. If sport and rock & roll
can work for a young person, then why not
the church? Might pick up some valuable
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chunks as the edifices crumble. Perhaps if
the celibacy rules were changed and the
focus and attention of the monks and nuns
works became more community
orientated, more environmental, then those
old houses, those tremendous buildings,
could see more people with purpose
working for people, housing refugees
perhaps, rather than mere useless
glittering museums only, it seemed, for
tourism. And, yet, most of the money
presumably still goes to Rome?
The albergue was a little step out of town
and had to get the keys from a
restaurateur on the way in. It seemed a
very attractive bar as I sat to get my
credential stamped but I was eager to get
some washing done and proceeded down
the road further, and round the bend, to
the albergue. It was another building that
looked as though it might have been a
school at one stage. It was my first
experience with the triple bunk towers. I
chose my normal top bunk but only on a
double layer.
I was pleased to see a happy Julie from
Denmark there, enjoying the company of
her young friends. She was still bandaged
and still keen to walk but not quite as
determined to damage herself as
previously. The young were crowded into
the end room and had some energetic
confusion about shopping for food - it
being Sunday and their wallets being light.
But all was resolved happily.
There was a strange arrangement of
seating for us to enjoy beside the clothes
line and something that might have been
the vestiges of a barbecue or some kind of
evil rusty torture machine all tarmacked
into the car park below. After school hours
a young mother brought her small son to
drive his electric car noisily around the car
park. I watched my washing pale in the
weak sun while I made these notes. When
it got too cold, I brought it inside and
strung it up between the two empty bunks
beside me.
I had it strung between the bunks when
the new Spanish family of five people
moved in later in the day. I pulled my
empire in, not wishing to appear greedy
and tucked my travelling clothes line in
around the base of my bunk. It was an
excellent twisted line that needed no pegs
and was very easy to use. When I left in
the morning, I neglected to see it. Actually,
it was once my son’s. I had ‘borrowed’ it.
Sorry, Felix. Lost in the mists of
Escamplero ...
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Cornellana, Domingo 3rd Julio - DAY 26 -
Albergue de Cornellana, Monasterio de San
Salvador de Cornellana - 25.7km
It was a misty, cool morning. I was keen to
leave before 8am. The best sleep I’d had
for ages. Really comfortable mattress, not
so much snoring, in fact, because I heard
nothing, perhaps it was me! In the morning
Helen gave me an instant coffee that tasted
as good as any I had paid money for in
Spain. I suspected the relaxing massage
may have affected me more than I gave it
credit at the time because I was definitely
slower than usual.
Today, I felt ready to walk! I spent some
time with the family from Madrid. Helen and
Nacho, Carmen and Alba. Nacho explained
the food storage huts. They were called
horios and were primarily for storing
maiz/corn out of the reach of rats. So, as
165
suspected, the missing step was
supposed to keep out vermin. Some of
these cute buildings now appeared to be
used as accommodation or storage. We
saw some, now featuring handrails, that
would provide easy access to a rat.
Apparently this style is particularly
Asturian. We would see rectangular ones
in Galicia.
Slim, fit Carmen, possibly in her early
seventies, was on her fifth Camino. She
had another son who was born in
Australia, now living in Newcastle. She had
an MA in agronomy from Armadale
University. Nacho and Helen spent their
honeymoon in Australia and they had
returned with the family two years ago. I
had spotted the Australian towels hanging
on their bunks the night before and young
Alba had an Australian flag on her
backpack.
As the day progressed, Raoul from
Valencia caught me up and then Richardo
from Venice. We came to a bar overlooked
by a fantastic cliff. Raoul went in for a large
jug of beer and I went on to Grado, which
unlike most Spanish towns on a Sunday,
was absolutely hopping! There was an
extended market through the main streets,
restaurants and cafés full to bursting with
colourful families and visitors. I sat in a bar
next to the park and watched this lively
parade while munching on excellent salad
and patatas bravas (sin mayo!) I walked
through the farmers market, but realising I
still had far to go, was disinclined to carry
much more. I purchased the odd piece of
fruit as I went. The attractive plazas were
surrounded by beautifully kept mansiónes
indianas, painted in bright colours. These
buildings were built on the proceeds of
adventurers going to Latin America and
returning home with their golden plunder.
Although many towns had long since run
out of gold, Grado of 2016 gave the
impression of a bustling, lively and
prosperous place.
It was a warm, intense day. The sky turned
to a vibrant blue as I headed up the hill.
After a while I was joined by Danile, from
Milano, a young man with a tremendous
dark beard that had cost him more than
one customs search in his travels. We
came into the monastery by a large and
beautiful river, his feet hurting him on his
first day out of Oviedo. Must say, I was
glad for that 12km headstart from the day
before.
In Cornellana the albergue was hidden at
the back of a thousand year old
monasterio. There were new faces as the
pilgrims kept arriving. Reasonably quickly
166
the plaza square was lined by hanging
washing and resting people.
When the hospitalero arrived and unlocked
his office he was particularly strict about
checking id and stamping credentials.
Normally I was able to hand over my
drivers’ licence out of my wallet but he
insisted on checking my passport so I had
to unpack the mochilla. Duties complete,
he offered to take us on a tour of the old
church. All had fallen into disrepair but due
to Asturias and the European Union’s
support of Spanish monuments, this
particular edifice had received an injection
of funds. And, encouraged by the
renovations, local people had started to
use the church once again. We could see
different fabrics in the cushions - I liked the
leopard print one.
Some of the original paintings had been
discovered under layers of damp and rot,
while the rest of the monastery will
eventually become an information centre
for the Camino. Some parts of the walls
were beyond repair but the graceful arches
and the altar pieces still seemed to be
standing. The hospitalero pointed out
some of the pews were labelled. One side
for gentlemen, the other for women. But
now the modern community was back,
holding services, mixing it up, using the
church and it looked as if the San Salvador
Monastery would survive for another
hundred years. The local council had kept
the albergue going and recently
refurbished it to an excellent level of
comfort with a clean separate kitchen,
laundry and spacious bunkrooms.
As I chased the sun around the courtyard
with my washing, I ate my broccoli chips,
now my favourite food. All they contained
was broccoli, brain oil and salt. I also
chomped through corn cakes, bread
sticks, instant veggie soup, tea and two
protein bars. Plenty more space in the
food bag for tomorrow. Those protein bars
were actually a range of diet food from the
chemist. But they were vegan and tasty.
While we’d toured the church, the youth
brigade had taken a walk to the river to
find a swimming hole which apparently
was fantastic. The hospitalero showed us
the knack of opening and unlocking the
gate and also pointed out the
thousand-year-old archway into the
courtyard. This was the oldest surviving
part of the building. In the middle at the
top was a design that depicted a young
girl nestled up next to a bear. Apparently,
similar to the Romulus and Remus
founding stories of Rome, Cornellana had
been founded by a child reared by this
generous and maternal bear. The first
recorded bear hugs.
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Bodenaya, Lunes 4th Julio - DAY 27 - Casa
Bodenaya - 20.1km
Lovely morning leaving the
thousand-year-old monastery, except for
my alarm magically going off at 6:30 - or
maybe it was the phone. But who would
call me? It was deeply embarrassing to
have to scrabble around to find the blasted
thing and shut it down. It was uncool to
wake everyone in the albergue and even
though it was only an eight bed room, I felt
guilty for most of the morning.
I was one of the first arrivals at David’s
privately run albergue in Bodenaya. The
clouds hung over the road in a grey drizzle.
I entered the mud room and stood in some
confusion. Which door to choose?
Eventually I knocked and a young looking
man with his hair parted in the middle and
a large smile insisted this was my home for
the night and I must enter at once. Still in
welcoming mode, hippy, blissy music
played while folk stuck their heads around
the door to receive further generous smiles
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and encouraging greetings from the small
man busy at the kitchen bench. Micky and
he chopped carrots for the lentil stew. I’m
pretty sure she was taller than he was.
Soon a cluster of recently-showered and
relaxed folk checked their emails or wrote
up their journals sitting around the table,
eating fruit and drinking tea. I looked
forward to my first vegan share meal and
chatted to people as they arrived. This
albergue had a history and so far, David
was living up to the monk-like aura of his
predecessor.
We went through some utterly beautiful
forests today. Some tracks were
reminiscent of walking through one of New
Zealand’s Great Walks, even to the ferns
by the path.
There was much road building going on
which was interesting given there was
simply not that much traffic. Don’t know
who they were expecting to drive here -
especially given the excellent train system.
Stopped for morning tea in Salas, which
has a beautiful (OLD!) dark church, Santa
Maria. Very lovely, with a tower/castle in
the middle of town as well.
Mind you, I spent more time in the
supermercados, searching for rice. I got
vegies but three shops - walking round in
circles - did not stock the individual
servings of pre-cooked rice I had come to
depend upon. Luckily, they would not be
necessary tonight.
Like Ernesto, David had a clear method of
looking after his charges. This included
doing everyone’s washing, which I found
somewhat daunting, but he insisted that
as we were all family we must all live
together and share.
Side note about people flapping things out
of windows. Either my first or second day I
noticed a woman flapping a yellow
tablecloth out of her flat window three
floors up. It was after lunch. And now, it
was with relief I ticked a mental box when I
saw my daily flap. At different times, and in
different colours, I saw dusters, sheets, tea
towels, sometimes from many floors up,
sometimes from a back door in a rural
area. I started to look forward to seeing my
flapping flag of the day. One day I saw
someone shaking their black shiny sheets
out of a first floor window which gave rise
to some strange thoughts about slippery
sleeping.
There had been discussion about the lack
of thought on the track at various stopping
points. Many people I compared notes
with agreed this was nothing to worry
169
about. It was good to think of nothing, the
empty mind, the walking meditation
hopefully left room for new thoughts. I had
some idea that the placing of feet was
filling my mind, particularly on some of the
steep sections. Concentration was
required when negotiating rocks, mud and
tree roots woven into a tricky maze. What
then of the roadsides? What was our
excuse into thoughtlessness there? It
wasn’t blissful. It wasn’t sad. It just wasn’t
anything at all. Empty heads.
I felt some regret as I handed over the
rinsed little glass jar as a perfect container
for spice to the Bodenaya kitchen. The end
of the Great Pomada de Sant Juan, my
good oily friend and saviour of the bruised
knee. Just the barest flash of discomfort
today but it must have been two weeks
ago since the great slip-up of Otoño. I was
well-healed and felt ready for the Primitivo.
I could cope with any steep climbs it
would throw at me! I was cured! Apart
from cravings for sugar which lead me into
cake shops! I had to stop because just one
small cake made me queasy. They were
just too rich. Another day, another cake,
another reinforcement that eggs and butter
no longer suited my digestive system. My
vegan choice was being made for me. If I
got bready things, like those caracoles
(snails) with glaze and sultanas, I was
okay. The custardy things, which looked
so delicious, made me spew.
This was the nicest albergue to be in,
listening to the gentle rain outside. It felt
like one of those old beach houses that
someone’s friend’s parents own, cluttered
with comfy interesting junk of generations.
Decorated with bizarre juxtapositions of
football memorablia, flags and camino
symbolism. David presided over a relaxing
atmosphere: rainy-day cheerful chatting,
quiet recording of piano weaving
throughout, people reading, showering,
lying down, preparing for dinner. Those of
us sitting at the table worked together to
fold the paper table napkins and pin them
with a painted yellow arrow. This would be
our pin to carry with us, a little badge, to
keep our family feeling together. I felt calm
as I went upstairs to lie on my bunk and
stare at the steamy window with raindrops
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pattering down. I looked forward to the
convivial shared meal. Normally I became
overwhelmed by language barriers, jealous
of those whose ready understanding gave
them passport to many a quip and banter I
simply missed.
The call to table arrived and I went
downstairs to find the place transformed.
The little tables had all been joined to the
big one to stretch diagonally across the
entire room. On one side of the table stood
the Spanish people, different smaller
groups now bonded simply by standing
together. On the other side was a motley
group of Italian, French, British, German, a
Swede and two Aussies. Once that split
had been recognised, David admitted such
a regional divide had never happened
before. It didn’t matter, everyone was
charming. David spoke about the nature of
family and the nature of the Camino. How
everyone was on the same path for
different reasons. Everyone needed to find
respect and understanding for peace into
the future. Just like a family. We were now
part of the Camino Family and we had to
look out for each other.
Bread with salad and pasta, then
dahl/soup. So nice to have a full belly. It
rained outside while Martina and Rebecca
spoke of Brexit downstairs. ‘It’s very bad’
was the general consensus. Given our new
family ties, the notion of bonding together
seemed to make more sense than division.
At the table, German Martina and I
discussed an analogy covering both her
camino and her career. She spoke about
her boots, and her growing dislike of them.
They were too hard on ashfelt but just right
on the mountain tracks. Extrapolating this,
the tool, being her boots, was correct in
some environments but not in others. She
was a scientist who had been working with
the same tool (fruit flies) for over a decade.
She saw her career coming to a dead end
and dreaded it. She said she didn’t have
the drive to lead other people, the obvious
next step for someone in her academic
channel, and she recognised she must
transform. She could see now that she
could either change the boots or the
environment. This was nothing new to me,
who planned to change into an English
teacher and change environments -
coming to live in Spain for a year. She felt
she no longer had a career. When I told her
my friend Jeff’s line, ‘You only have a
career in hindsight,’ she was given pause.
Where had she been was clear. The way
forward was not.
Walking along the track, the way forward
may not be clear at a cross roads. But
looking back is easier. It’s obvious where
you’ve been.
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Campiello, Martes 5th Julio - DAY 28 - Casa
Ricardo - 26.3km
At Casa Bodenaya, David woke us all at
6:30 with Ave Maria. Contrary to my
peaceful expectations I found it eery and
quite loud too. For the second time my
phone went off and there was no alarm
set. After fretfully (so embarrassed) going
through the settings I worked out that
someone had tried to call me from Sydney,
presumably the phone card company? Not
helpful. So I would turn it off at night from
now on.
We all trooped downstairs to discover our
clothes, washed, dried and neatly folded,
arrayed in colour coordinated patterns
around the edges of the benches and
tables. A piece of art! Such a lovely,
relaxed start to the day. Chatting over
breakfast and finishing long discussions
about the state of the world and the nature
of kindness. David and the volunteer that
was staying with him for a month or so
were a bit taken aback by pilgrims that felt
they could empty their entire packs into
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the washing basket. David’s deal extended
only for the day’s essential wash. I
admitted I’d put in an extra tee-shirt. They
forgave me.
Everyone hugged farewell and proudly
wore their paper maché yellow arrows on
their jackets as they made their way out
onto the chilly roadway. I found my cold
wet boots and started lacing. But I
became aware of the Brit couple, Rebecca
and Barry. They were pacing around in the
mud room, unable to go. Turned out
another bloke had taken his shoes. Same
brand but in different colours and a
different size. You think he’d have noticed
the different feel on the foot?
Super Rescue David jumped in his car and
chased the shoe thief. I got to chatting. It
turned out Rebecca and Barry were
conservationists and bird experts. As soon
as I heard that I launched some of the
mystery birds I’d seen recently at them.
They thought the raptors I’d been seeing
were probably red or black kites or
possibly peregrines. Eagles would be the
very big ones. Apparently they’d seen
vultures all over the rest of Spain but not in
the North. I’d never seen a vulture in the
wild and really hoped I would! David
returned triumphantly holding the shoes
and Rebecca and Barry disappeared out
into the damp.
And so, too, I went out of the door, into not
rain exactly, into mist. David pointed down
the road and said, ‘See the yellow house?’
And then looked at me and shrugged. No
yellow house. Only mist. We laughed. As
family do.
Off I went, into the main road, and into the
silent, quiet, no traffic, main road. Bunting;
little blue background triangles centred
with white cross decorated with dangling
alpha and omega, flapping as I went by, or
hanging limp, or lying wet and mangled in
the road. And so the road went on. And
on. And the yellow arrows petered out and
the road went on. And I went to the petrol
station for relief and the guy said, ‘Keep
going until El Cruzar and there’s a path to
the left.’ (He was speaking Spanish, just so
you know).
And so I went left. Too early. But I found a
bar and did coffee and wifi and moaned
about my leaky boot. And then I got back
on the road and walked about fruitlessly
looking for yellow arrows. I found the path
and was reassured by a cyclist, a woman
and then a man. Then I came to a choice
between the low road and the high road.
173
I made the wrong choice. Eventually a kind
woman told me so. She was dressed very
smartly and explained that I was not her
first customer. She often had to tell lost
pilgrims, it wasn’t my fault, the signs were
poor just there, and look, I had to go up.
She had to go shopping and went on her
way, having done her duty to the lost
pilgrim.
Up I went and eventually there were the
conchas on the road again and arrows and
along the top of a dingy town we went,
which could have been nicer in the centre
but I walked along the edge. After talking
with Dorthe and Sue, my new friends from
Denmark, it turned out I’d gone the
carreterra way; the lesser-used, main road
method, which is why there were no
arrows. Darn and heck. But what was it
that lead me off the official way and onto
the road for local people? Should I analyse
my inner character for a Camino analogy?
Nah, just get on with it!
Tieno was stuffy and uninspiring. Fences
and power poles were decorated by circus
posters, featuring a vicious looking clown
and some poor animals, all at hurried
angles, corners peeling off. It felt creepy.
So I did not find a bar for lunch. I did not
find a supermarket. I marched up the hill
and found lovely oak forests with little, tiny,
brown birds and warblers and pretty things
and mist and mulch and rain and a speedy
Australian from Parramatta who had been
at the World Championship Frisbee
Ultimate Tournament strode up behind me.
Much faster than me. I panted beside her
for a while as I quizzed her. After she
finished the Camino she would head to
Frankfurt to compete again. She had her
frisbee with her at all times, just in case.
She did zip past and crack on and I
watched her racing ahead and noticed the
shape of the frisbee stretched hard against
the fabric of her backpack.
And did I mention my right boot was
leaking? Both boots were soaking by this
time. I took the boots off, sitting to one
side of the muddy track and wrung out my
socks. At least I stopped squelching as I
walked. I hoped I would avoid gangrene. I
didn’t make the detour to the interesting
monastery a mere five km away. I might
have done enough hard yards today. The
track was not difficult but it did seem to
consistently rise and I suspected there
would be more on the next day. I was
dragging myself to the finish line when I
noticed a small white car slowing along
beside me on the road. A suspicious man
leaned out the window and asked where I
was going? Where would I sleep that
night? Oooooh. Creepy.
174
Now, I hadn’t been accosted, or even
imagined that I would be, but I was a
single woman and I my
auto-inner-alarm-circuitry switched on with
a rusty whir. It’s a different matter for
young women. I really saw the sense in
walking in a group or with a friend. But as
a mature lady, not so vulnerable.
Luckily, I didn’t understand him, really I
didn’t. I believe he was touting for
business. I think it was probably the same
guy who met me, on foot, as I walked in to
town. (In the car he looked shorter.)
Turned out there was a big war going on
between the two private albergues in the
pueblo. I think Ricardo’s was winning. It
had been in Ricardo’s family since 1822
and it had been developed from a very
large Horio - here called a Panillia -
because it was originally to store a
particular kind of strong ancient wheat to
make bread (pan). I was coming here
anyway but this man showed me around
the albergue and I didn’t like to disabuse
him. Turned out his name was Rui and he
was from Portugal, working for Ricardo. As
well as the albergue, they ran a bar and a
supermarket as does their enemy,
Hermiona’s Albergue just across the road.
Big turf war. Like a big trap-door spider,
Rui made sure he caught every pilgrim as
they walked in to town. When I popped in
to check out the merch at Hermiona’s, I
saw one pilgrim but Rui had definitely got
the bulk.
Rui sat down with the sello and the
credential, and Dorthe and Sue were there
too, and he gave us a history lecture about
the Knights Templar and the need for a
Camino to form a border and land claim to
keep the Moors down South. He was the
first to explain the system in terms of
business and as we all know, religion is but
a gold plate for the politics of the day. Or it
was back then.
Apparently, and in direct contrast to David,
Rui’s advice was if the weather was fine, it
was better and quicker to do hospitaleros
- the higher mountain crossing with less
shops rather than go round the boring
way. I don’t mind being without shops so
long as I got my medicinal coffee in the
morning. Especially with three Mr Snoreys
lined up. The Snorey Guys. Oh yeah.
I got the last available bunk. Right above
the Snorey Guys. And the Snorey Guys
were practising their work after a drunken
lunch. They were ripe. As I prepared to go
to bed they got up to go out for dinner and
imbibe more stuff. I made sure I had my
earplugs ready. Later, I was to wish heartily
I had such a thing as a nose plug as well.
175
Berducedo, Miercoles 6th Julio - DAY 29 -
Albergue de peregrinos de Berducedo -
29.5km
Well, that was an interesting day. From the
dark sordid night spent with the overly
generous and sharing Mr Farty, and his
sidekicks, the Snoreys, to the torrential
rain at close of day, ridiculous to the
sublime.
During the night, Mr Farty even started
banging on the bed, kicking it firmly as he
turned over in his sleep. I was so furious
after one such interruption I punched my
own mattress as hard as I could in the
general direction of down. It was a release
for me and the resulting silence was a
surprise to all. It did not last long.
Even when it was quiet it was difficult to
sleep due to the dreadful anticipation of
the next sensory barrage. He'd been
eating some kind of eggy tortilla - and
drinking plenty of cider - and the smell of
sulphur and the sound of flaccid farts soon
became low notes of that evening's
176
concert. Lucky the beds were strongly
made. Unlike my humour.
And, for the morning's recital, Dorthe and
Sue ran the bathroom hand dryers long
and loud as Dorthe dried her boots and all
her clothes and everything else that
remotely damp. They also enjoyed bacon
and eggs for breakfast. In fact, they
seemed to enjoy everything. They were a
fun couple of gals. I could see them fitting
in with my friendly crowd of mums at
home very well.
Today's walk started off slowly, misty and
damp. There was a selfie with the Danish
gals and lots of chat. But even though
we'd been told if it was raining to take the
more roadside and shopside version, the
general consensus, everyone at our
albergue had agreed, it was OVER THE
TOP to Hospitales!
The track started out with a gradual incline
rising into the mist. The promised views
looked as if we would never see them,
covered entirely by a blanket of cloud. As
it came up to noon and the climbing
seemed to slow, there were tops of azure
hills visible. I came upon René and Martine
packing up their morning tea. I managed
to take a mystical photo of them walking
off into the distance, stooped by the
weight of their packs. It was always a treat
to see them and always slightly surprising
because they often stayed at different
hostels or albergues.
René remarked they had thought I was far
ahead but instead it was them, ahead of
me! I let them go and sat to enjoy my
morning orange watching the layer of
cloud shift slightly as it burned away,
sometimes covering the promised hills and
sometimes flattening out smoothly to
become a pond between the far-off rises.
Taking my rubbish with me, I returned to
the track and after a while my attention
was taken by a golden stallion slightly
above and forward on the hillside.
Gradually he came down to just below my
level and seemed to be walking along with
me. He looked back, and I thought,
fancifully, that he seemed to indicate I
should follow him, that he thought I
needed guiding. (Sensible creature). Really
though, I snapped photos quickly as I had
never seen such a glorious looking horse.
The sun glinted from his mane and the
green pastures rose up beside my right to
the blue, blue sky and dipped down into
the cloud lake valley on my left.
Then we rounded a corner and the sun
was out and warm and the grassy valley
177
spread out into a flat clearing with a tarn move unnecessarily. Brownie again
off to the left and ahead. Around the bucked and kicked into the air and then
shining dark water a group of horses calmly came around and they walked
clustered together with some cattle. The together on Goldie's way.
cows were more leisurely, lying down in
picturesque poses. The sky was vibrant.
The lake of cloud below spread out to the
edges of the far-off mountains.

Any complaints or worries about time

melted into complete absorption of place
and environment. So incredibly stunning,
tears welled up from my chest and stung
my eyes. It was as though, as I had risen in
altitude, my mood had also risen and I felt
light, happy and invincible. I felt lucky that
I hadn't liked to get too close to these
I could be here, alive and well. Somehow I
horses with nothing between them and
was part of this landscape. I belonged
me. I advanced cautiously. After a while
there at that time. I was elated.
the two horses stopped again but I kept on

I noticed a dark chestnut horse detach coming, without using the hiking sticks,

himself from the other livestock around the quietly, trying to be insignificant as

distant water below and he cantered, possible.

forcefully and speedily, directly to the gold

one. The goldie continued straight along
his path, not towards Brownie, but on his
clear trajectory parallel to me and
thankfully well ahead. Brownie came up to
him and they stood with their heads
together, breathing. Then suddenly,
Brownie bucked, and danced, excited,
proud, agitated, as though he'd just
received serious news. Goldie did not
Brownie looked over to me, feisty, his
mane unkempt, long and shaggy, the
tough kid, and Goldie, calm, the parent
perhaps, leading him away in the other
direction, or so it seemed.
I found it such a lovely encounter with
these creatures, on these high pastures
with such an ever-distant view of hills
gleaming like aquamarines, that it was as

178

though I walked on air as I watched the
cloud formations below me dissolving.
After a time, I sat beside the track and ate
my lunch. It was a long walk and I hadn't
prepared well for food but I did have some
pimento in a can, tremendous sandwiched
between two crunchy corncakes, together
with a crisp apple.
In the distance I saw the French Quartet
(René, Martine and another couple)
preparing their own picnic amongst the
ruins of the ancient hospital. As I passed
by I heard them cry out, 'Victoria! Victoria!'
and, for a moment, I thought perhaps I had
done something wrong ... But no, they
were just filled with the same exuberance
as me, 'Buen Camino!' And it was a good
walk. Really, really good.
Then I turned downhill and it was very far
and there was a wind farm on the first hill
in the distance and on the way down I
could see a truck and a red umbrella and I
thought perhaps it was a farmer tending to
these cows and horses wandering free but
no, wait, that red umbrella had tables and
chairs sheltering in the shade and hang on
a minute, I thought, 'That's no farmer,
that's a bar!' In the middle of the
mountains!
Some enterprising fellow had strung out a
spider's web across the track at the
bottom of a hill where there was no access
to shops for 22km and brought
refrigeration and a coffee maker. I handed
over cash for cold water and a packet of
crisps and lounged under the umbrella to
chat. He had several large rubbish bags
already full of empty soft drink cans. He
reckoned he had seen over sixty people
come along, not counting just Hospitales
where I had come from but also the
alternative road route, Palo, where there
were shops. He agreed this might have
been the start of the July rush coming
down the line. And this is when I started to
sense I might just have trouble getting a
bed for the night.
My pals had booked at a privado, an
increasingly popular option, but I had held
the opinion that one should go with the
flow and take what comes. My sense of
resignation grew with the darkening clouds
I suddenly noticed looming in the sky. Oh
179
well. So be it. There was nothing to be could, in theory and, if necessary, open the
done now. church or the school to provide shelter.
(But that didn't explain the young Spanish
I marched on, fortified by my chilled water couple of girls who I met drenched in the
and chips. I walked through a farm made busstop who had no choice but to go to
of stone with chickens that did not look the next town whenever the bus decided
well, scrawny and bare skinned with to show up. This became unpredictable as
pinfeathers missing over their backs. One it had not arrived when expected. They
walked right in front of me and opened her had been waiting some time.) I counted
wings and displayed, her skin raw and myself extremely lucky!
sore and beastly. But there was a large
dog and instead of standing by it After I'd walked around and into Lago, a
reassuringly, the farmer looked at me small steep village, I came upon a cute bar
under his hand, checking, and then left me and a couple of Danish ladies relaxing with
to negotiate the dog by myself. I decided their boots off. I enjoyed a chilled orange
to sidle past, not saying a word to that juice with them, used the bathroom and
dog. Not a time for good doggie, no, not at then trotted along beside Sue and Dorthe
all. as they made their way. And the thunder
rumbled. Thor waved his hammer about
The Danes went ahead to their pre-booked
salubrious establishment on the
other side of the town while I turned
in to the small, damp and close
Municipal building. The young
hospitalero was glad to hear there
was just the one of me because
there were no beds left in the inn,
bar one mattress folded up in a
locked cupboard and the space
upstairs, a foyer area at the top of
the stairs. He explained that as the
hospitalero he was duty bound to
find a space for pilgrims to sleep. He

180
and then the rain came down in rods just
as I arrived at the municipal albergue.
I laid the squashy mattress on the floor of
the alcove above the actual rooms of the
albergue. It was rather nice when the rain
stopped. I had a rural vista and fresh clean
air all to myself. I was pretty weary after
this day, but how extraordinary, how
divine, to have seen those vistas. I was
safe and I was there and it was fresh and
comfortable and there was to be no one
snoring right beside me. The power had
gone out in the town after the deluge but I
was able to get a shower in before I went
out foraging.
The tiny shop was in darkness due to the
power outage. The irritable woman played
her role to the hilt in our 'This is a local
shop for local people' skit. I still thought it
strange how slow the community was to
cash in on what had to be a growing
pilgrim/tourist industry. There must be a
reasonable amount of peeps through the
door, given the hillside café's busy till. And
it was only the beginning of the high
season. There was very little from which
pilgrims could choose, to cook in the
minuscule albergue kitchen. There was a
hot plate and a frying pan. When I picked
up a plum there was a strangled cry - one
does not touch the vegetables - and the
attendant came to personally weigh my
fruit and veg and place them reverently in
a bag. I found a tiny tin of peas to add to
my delicious feast.
And then, close to 6am, I heard creeping
steps come up to my castle turret.
Reluctant to open my eyes I was glad to
hear them retreat. I turned over and went
back to sleep. When I did wake, not much
later, I found a little card propped up in my
havianas (thong/jandal/flipflop) which I'd
set up as a trip hazard should anyone be
inclined to climb the steps. It had the
name of an albergue printed upon it. Oh,
how I puzzled on that. Surely the owners
of an albergue would not be creeping
about advertising so early in the morning?
When I saw no other cards littering the
kitchen or bunks of other pilgrims slowly
realisation dawned. The Danes had sent
me a message. This was to be our address
for the next day! I was assured of a bed
inside for the next night.
I looked around my private retreat as I
swept, folded the blanket and tidied up the
mattress. The cows mooed in the distance
and the leaves on the trees opposite blew
glistening young green in a gentle morning
breeze. A comfortable, peaceful,
snore-free, penthouse albergue.
181
Castro, Jueves 7th Julio - DAY 30 - Albergue
Residencia Juvenil de Castro - 26.9km
We were impressed as we neared the
albergue. This looked promising. A lovely
old farmhouse environment, the smell of
cows, deep green verdant grass and a
homey bar. Dorthe, Sue and I were in a
small room together with one other. Mr
Farty and the Snoreys were also playing
here tonight. It would be interesting to see
if we could hear the Orchestra through the
walls.
This morning was pretty strange being in
the thick of zippity zip I still managed to
leave pretty late - or later than most - 7:15.
Even though I got out the door in good
time I forgot the bastónes and had to trek
back. Wandered into the Dane’s albergue
but they were long gone so I went to a
café for coffee, went on my way again, got
lost, met René and Martine who told me
the Danes had left early and then we were
on the track again.
182
This was a steep ascent up a narrow path, small shrub of yellow flowers and then
then a steep ascent up a road, then a very forget-me-nots of the deepest blue and
steep ascent up another road and I made then it was as if some very clever gardener
like the swimming machine, moving up had planted their slatey rockery with
and down the lanes solidly, with force and gorgeous colours and feathery textures
determination and that was how I marched and the walking was delightful.
up that very steep incline,
with deep breathing and
concentration and it was
like a strong step class but
no music and there were
plenty of people climbing
the hill and then we came
up close to the windmills
and we could see the lake
of cloud beside us and it
was exciting because no
one could tell what would
be under the clouds
though it was going to be
a large lake, because that
was the job of the day. We
had to walk around a large Soon the descent came, down below the
reservoir. But early on we could only see misty clouds, and there was sun breaking
that lake, flat and puffy, of soft, white, through and suddenly, below us, there was
clouds. a body of green water. I say we, it was just
me, but I did feel part of the troupe of
After the ascent, of course, came the
pilgrims, the artery of bloodcells marching
descent and away we went through pine
onwards. I met recognisable faces,
forest with thick-carpet pine needles and
greetings and people who knew other
quiet curving paths, stoney and slatey.
people I’d chatted to. Eventually we got
After a while there was a glow of purple
down enough to see that this structure
heather in the walls around us and then a

183
was still a working dam, generating
electricity although around the hills were a
series of strange buildings. Some
appeared to be deserted, perhaps lodging
for workers on the dam in the days of
building. Others appeared to be structures
of concrete, honeycombs in the hills
above, perhaps overseeing the
construction process. The face of the dam
itself, a great swooping pleated skirt. There
that before - unless one was wading
through surf or splashing in a mountain
stream. I always understood once you put
your boots on, you left them on until it was
time to finish for the day. Then you
gratefully massaged your feet and gave
them treats and presents and let them lie
up a wall to drain.
We pooled our lunch resources, enjoying

were the Danes, resting in the sun on the orange and avocado, dates, olives and

road over the dam. They were very fond of corn crackers. The sun heated the

taking off their boots to air their feet. I surrounding concrete and we gladly

never took my boots off during the day but packed up to find some shade. We only

on this occasion, in the sun, with bare feet had 10km further that day but it still

company, I did. needed to be walked. As we crossed the

road and looked back at the dam face we
They have taught me to take my shoes could see a shrine built into the slope
and socks off at every opportunity. Well. facing us. Our Holy Mother oversaw all
For the first time in
thirty days on this
walk and, given the
training my boots
have put in for over a
year, many
kilometres, I have got
a blister. Only small,
but there it is. How is
that possible? Could
it be due to the
removal of shoes half
way through the day?
I have never done

184
that went on in the technical and
mechanical ways of water control.
I used the bathroom in a rather nice
looking hotel overlooking the lake while
they continued on. And we went on and up
and on and up, sometimes in forest but
mainly on the road and finally we made it
to a bar and drank water and confused the
waiter and kitchen staff and there were
many pilgrims wandering around looking
for food and drink and entertainment.
It got hotter and hotter and we found a
pathetic supermarket and a weak
pharmacy. The pharmacy provided a
packet of magic blister bandaids that are
left on to dissolve the skin and protect for
two to three days. While I applied the
lovely blue squishy bandaid I saw there
was a set of scales. So I weighed my
pack. Remember, I’d been to the
supermarket and picked up supplies, fruit
and veg amongst them, and the pack
weighed 12.4. Which was far too heavy.
There was much debate about it. One of
the women was only carrying 6km. This
would be ideal. I suppose because I don’t
go out to cafés to eat I have to carry a
certain base load of carbs and chocolate,
for instance, one cannot be without
chocolate. So with a great deal of huffing
and puffing blister protected, bag hoisted
on back and we and proceeded onwards.
Hotter and hotter, the sun was beating
down, heating up the road. Still 5km to go
and it was heading towards 18:30 when
we chatted to the British Birders who were
busy pulling money out of pounds and
changing to euros before they lost too
much value given the slumping financial
consequences of the Brexit vote. At this
stage they felt they should move to Ireland
as Barry had an Irish passport. Thank
goodness for Irish grannies!
Eventually we arrived at our rather idyllic
rural spot, showered, washed clothes,
enjoyed a pleasant meal. Lots of eating
today. The gals are determined to get on
the road early.
This albergue had a bar so a chef came in
rather than the pilgrims doing their own
care and feeding. After some debate about
what on earth vegans ate, I was provided
with a very fine vegetable rice collation
and thankfully, I was not the most dramatic
of customers. The Danes have even more
complicated requirements being inclined
to the paleo/coeliac/whatever club and
their most interesting request was to
pre-cook six eggs! The chef agreed that
after she’d sorted dinner for the mob she
185
would boil their eggs. Dorthe was relieved.
She really didn’t want to have to carry half
a dozen raw eggs any further. So my
requirements start to look quite reasonable
next to them!
The clothes line, raised up on the roof of
the laundry outside was already fully laden
in the weak sun. The two American gals
who had been auxiliares de conversacion
for a couple of years were doing their yoga
stretches under the drying clothes,
hilariously joined by Mr Farty, his belt tight
over his paunch wrapped in walking
trousers. They were advanced level and I
was actually impressed Mr Farty, with his
wild white hair and his bushy eyebrows,
managed even half of the balances and
twists their slender forms achieved. Their
long straight hair glinted as they saluted
both sun and earth. The circle of beer
drinkers parked companionably on the
other side of the lawn chattered in Spanish
with the Orchestra interjecting with voluble
life somewhat forcefully.
I had to get the mop to clean up the
bathroom. After pilgrims arrive and shower
in the afternoon, shower rooms and
bathrooms can end up awash. Normally
there’s a mop somewhere near but in this
albergue they kept it downstairs in a
cupboard.
The laundry was fraught that day. There
were slate steps down to the washhouse,
and as the evening grew darker, the grass
gathered some dew and the steps became
slippery.
I was splashing away with Sue trying to
control her work and keep dry (I wasn’t
helping!) when we agreed it would
probably be okay to pop our few items into
the spin cycle of the washing machine.
Normally you had to pay for the use of the
machines but we figured it would be okay
just to use one small section of the wash
cycle. We got away with it, hanging out our
clothes to catch the last of the fading sun.
However, it was during the complicated
food discussions that Dorthe was
discovered, her clothes spinning away in
the machine regarded as a gross
infringement. She was told in no uncertain
terms to remove them at once. It took
quite a while to negotiate a peaceful deal,
whereby the three of us shared the dryer,
and paid for the privilege, once the sun
had gone down.
The clothes spun in the dryer, people
quietly snoring already and I felt like
sleeping, rather than listening to my
melodramatic audio book. Still popped in
the earplugs, though!
186
A Fonsagrada, Viernes 8th Julio - DAY 31 -
Albergue Cantábrico - 20.8km
Beautiful misty rural morning. I slept
extremely well. Sue kicked off our snorey
evening in a gentle kind of way but no
earplugs were required as sleep came
quickly. There were the odd rustlings at
5:30am but I got up, well rested, at 6:30,
enjoyed a large breakfast and was ready to
go at 7:30, which I thought perfect.
Much discussion about different styles of
walking. The chef, Sandra, told me the
previous day, she’d just finished mopping
the bedrooms when a young Spaniard
turned up at 11:00. He’d walked from
Grandes Salimes having got up at 5:30
and would be going no further. She
pointed out to him that he still had most of
the day to fill and but he would have none
of it. He sat in the sun, rested and drank
beer. It was the Sporty Attitude. Few hours
workout in the morning and a nice relax on
a cheap holiday for the rest of the time.
Another attraction may well have been the
younger female pilgrims? This didn’t wash
187
with the more serious peregrinos who liked
to have picnics, discussions and admire
the scenery, the habitats and the history
through which we meandered. But, as we
gained more of July holiday makers and
the pressure for a bed came down the line,
there was bound to be more of a race to
the next bunk in the population.
We had a lovely misty departure in
amongst the arrival of the Spanish
Bodenaya family who arrived for desayuno
coffee just as I was preparing to leave.
Micky, the Melbourne girl, had joined
forces with these attractive folk. Mar was a
lovely woman with two young children at
home and I think it was her generous and
interested nature that cemented this
group, mainly young men, after our meal at
Bodenaya. It’s not just the same language,
there’s a sense of modern young people
finding friendship and camaraderie. They
have suitable hiking clothes, look fit and
healthy and like a game of cards and a
good joke.
There was a sense that we were all
walking together, even though there was
space between the groups. Rebecca and
Barry described it as walking in a bubble
with the same familiar faces popping up
around us.
I started the day feeling overwhelmed by
the great weight on my back but spent a
decent time walking with Barry and
Rebecca. They were carrying far more,
tent and cooking equipment included.
They inclined to the rush at the distance
and then enjoy a big long rest. Fast march
and then a good sit down. Rebecca was
starting to feel pain in her hips. They’d
been walking for months. The time passed
very chattily. They worked for conservation
organisations in Britian until the funding
ran out and were feeling grim about the
state of the world generally. So we spoke
freely about pretty well everything.
There was great moment when we’d been
going steadily uphill and the wind farm
suddenly loomed out of the mist directly in
front of me. Very impressive. There’s no
way these things are as noisy as people
make out. Have they not visited a coal
power station? What on earth are people
doing to themselves, much less the
planet? Had they no imagination?
We spent some time chatting with various
ones on the side of the road. We came
upon a group, lounging on the ground,
near a line drawn across the wide path. It
was actually a mounded up heap of rocks
with no written sign and, apparently, was
the border between Galicia and Asturias.
188
One of the young fellows pointed out there
would now be a switch in how the
conchas/shells were displayed. Previously
we pointed to the single convergence and
now, the spreading lines of the scallop
would be our leaders. There was some
hopping and skipping over the arbitrary
line, so important to so many but in the
end, just a line of stones across a path.
I looked for a scenic spot to enjoy my
orange. Finally we met up with the jolly
Spanish (and Micky) Bodenaya family
again, sitting neatly all in a row outside a
crumbling chapel. After some
multi-language banter, Barry, Rebecca and
I settled in to a nearby picnic table for
morning tea. Very companionable.
An hour later found me in the albergue.
And very clean and comfortable it was. It
was a large and modern place with dark
blue plastic covers on the bunks. Just a
couple of streets across, there was a new
albergue being built into of the shell of an
antique edifice. I was able to exchange
banter with what looked like
owner/architect/builder meeting outside.
No, it wasn’t ready for me this afternoon. I
felt quite chuffed I was able to get a laugh
with my pathetic Spanish. It was like the
old times when everyone spoke English
and I was a local in a local place. Oh,
those were the days.
One amusing aspect of the albergue where
I stayed was the clothes line was a couple
of blocks away. One had to be shown
where the paddock of clothes flapped in
the sun as the description was
simply too confusing. And, great
thrills, there was a bonus puppet
show in town!
The crew had set up on the
veranda frontage of a city building
in a central plaza. They were clearly
not expecting a huge crowd,
though some chairs were left along
the wall if needed. It was a beautiful
set in the shape of an antique radio
- the sort that would have needed
valves. I would have thought that most
modern children would never have seen
189
such a thing but this is Spain and one
never knows.
The puppets and sets were utterly
gorgeous. Very clear characters, carved
beautifully with superbly detailed
costumes but they never got out of
Galicia. I found out later it had been
funded by the Galician government and I
suspected that they funded by amount of
Galego vocab. It was one of the wordiest
shows I have ever seen. When they did the
physical humour the kids screamed with
laughter, and there was plenty of that,
slamming people in doors and farty pigs
BUT after so many words they completely
lost the audience, a large percentage of
whom started dancing and jumping and
doing their own performance in front of the
stage. Such a shame.
Back at the albergue there was ample
washing and drying machines. Hilariously
we were back with the Orchestra and
ominously they went out for dinner. They
had enjoyed a riotous lunch so no-one
was looking forward to their return.
I discovered that my tiny blister was
nothing compared to some. One poor
young girl from Mexico, Maria, whom I’d
first met cheerfully part of the party youth
brigade at Salas, was debating finishing
her Camino after her feet had disintegrated
badly. She had visited a doctor that
afternoon who had performed the
threading operation. This is something I’d
read and heard about but this was my first
sighting. I’m still not sure if you walk with
the threads still woven around your feet?
The very sore looking blisters had been
literally sewn through so that the thread
would wick the fluid out into the air without
breaking the skin on the top. She looked
like an unfinished puppet, with threads
hanging out of her feet. Poor thing. She
didn’t walk the next day.
Found myself an assortment of food and
listened to the party atmosphere. Some
pilgrims returned to base very worse for
wear and had to be shushed. I found one
girl in tears, she had reached the end of
her tether for a variety of reasons and her
bunk room was full of bouncy chatty
happy people not giving her any heed.
After some signalling we were able to
encourage the merry discussions to go to
the common room. Perhaps there was a
festival on that night for there were
revellers in the street until very late. These
are the mysteries of life that remain veiled
to the non-drinker. Small price to pay, I
should say.
190
O Cádavo Baleira, Sabado 9th Julio - DAY 32 -
Albergue de Cádavo Baleira - 23km
Going to be a big day the next day
because I didn’t quite make the grade
today. I got where I was going and I’m
really glad I stopped when I did but sadly I
have no option for tomorrow and the
blister is no better. I guess, the thing is, it
was no worse either. The choice I faced:
either nothing, a bandaid, a sticky
specialist bandaid or borrow some scotch
tape from Sergi, one of the many blister
experts at this albergue. Frankly, I worried
about the scotch tape. A reasonable
expectation of a reaction from a day
walking with that glue stuff. Nothing was a
very tempting option. Pretend it’s nothing
and it will go away? 30km. Hmmm.
I was very tired after conducting the
Orchestra all night. The bog was alive with
snores and farts of doom. I fought the
rising panic and tried to relax. I didn’t
sleep and I didn’t sleep and eventually I
had to pee and when I got back I was
completely awake so I listened to Ms
Perky Scots read some more Outlander,
which kept me interested if not absorbed.
191
Meanwhile, the dragon beneath (is there a
monster under my bed, Mummy? YES
THERE REALLY IS!) kept hitting the base
of the bunk when he turned over. I do not
know how he managed it! What WAS he
doing down there? Nuts! So many awful
farts, some loud, some deadly silents. So
rude. At one stage he hit the base of my
spine so I punched the mattress three
times. Maybe the place was a little more
quiet after that?
Everyone seemed to spring into action at
the same time in the morning. The bulk of
the Bodenaya family were off probably
about 6:30 or so while I chatted with the
Danes. They have a slight tendency
towards the morose. I found myself
straining for the positive at every turn.
Just managed to see the sun rise over the
mountains and off I went. The young
Americans who have been conversacion
assistants were also pretty tired but
marched on, determined to get to the next
albergue in time to get a bed. Not realising
the early birds were pushing to get to
Castroverde, the next stop, so that the
following day would be shorter.
It was a stunning day. We entered a forest
path very soon. There was a picnic area
with dramatic stone Aslan type tables and
stools. I sat and sorted boots and pack
issues before proceeding. Many people
passed me. The days of solitary walking
seem to be disappearing. Reasonably
soon I met another mini picnic area and
enjoyed my orange with some muesli
biscuits; second breakfast.
Wind farms, paved cobblestones, single
file whippersnipper trail carved into the
long grass and all around, idyllic rural
fecundity. Flowers blooming delightfully in
a meadow, mountains framed by greenery,
cows and a rather menacing big dog that
sat in the shadows of the farm buildings to
the left of the trail. As I appeared it walked
towards me in a businesslike manner with
no tail movement, and, like a tug nosing a
big ship along, gave me clear directions. I
was to stay on the right side of the path,
on the sunny side of the strip. I was only
too glad to move right along and obey. He
would move up and over so there was no
192
way to step gracefully in a straight line. As
I took the final steps out of his territory he
made a sort of heeling lunge at me, very
close to the back of my legs. Keep going,
move along, nothing to see here. I kept
going as fast as I could.
He frightened quite a few of the customers
arriving at the extremely well situated café
just moments along the track. Here I had
my third breakfast, tostada y tomate y
aciete y café Americano with Gary from
Oklahoma. He’s a flamenco guitarist with
no fingernails to speak of. I think he’s more
a barman these days. He had spent the
night at the opening of a new bar. He’d
heard other revellers as well but felt like
supporting a new local venture. He walked
the Frances five years ago, had lived in
Spain and France and was a bit concerned
about the meeting of the Ways. He
predicted an influx of people. He and
Maria had been turned away from the
municipal albergue in Salas when it was
full. They’d found a good privado but
many folk were phoning ahead to book
privado albergues and even hotels. I think
I’ll go with the blessed ignorance version
and be grateful whatever happens. I have
generally fallen on my feet. (Apart from the
one close shave which turned out to be a
blessing, didn’t it - my quiet penthouse
apartment?)
Speaking of which, as the day grew hotter,
my feet grew sorer and the approaching
Albergue looked clean. I went on to the
pub for lunch, enjoyed salad and chips in
the front bar all by myself. The mother and
daughter (I guessed) who ran the
establishment chatted to me as far as my
Spanish would last and I’m still not sure
why I didn’t get invited to go to the dining
room. But I was relaxed and happy sitting
up in the front window. After finishing up
my Wifi work and my last chip I decided to
see if there were any beds left at the inn.
SO LUCKY I decided to stay at O Cádavo
and not march the extra 9km. Which I note
will be perfect timing for morning tea the
next day because the albergue there
would have been FULL. The hospitalera
told me as I signed in. Apparently they
were in a panic down the line with too
many pilgrims. So I did fall on my feet!
And, when the lovely hospitalera showed
me around, I told her I was a bit worried
about sleeping in a room with senior
gentlemen because of the snoring. She
smiled conspiratorially and showed me the
room favoured by ladies and younger folk.
She was very funny. The Orchestra was
playing somewhere else that night and all
was well.
193
Many people had taken to their bunks for a
siesta. The bunk room was the most quiet
from the moment I arrived to the early
crackling leaving noises.
I was very pleased to sit on a lawn -
extremely unusual beast so far on the trail,
and rub the ancient Spanish cream onto
my legs and feet while watching my
washing dry. Then trotted off to the
supermercado, bought chips and fizzy
drink to share with the Brits before they
moved off in the cool of the evening and
came back here to finally eat the naughty
cous cous. First thing this morning, I saw
something with sesame seeds had shaken
loose or sprung a leak through the pack. It
wasn’t until I was up and walking and
thinking about it I realised it was cous
cous. When I stopped later I washed out
the food bag and shook out the entire
pack.
Finally, cooked the cous cous on the stove
top, my first experiment with food
supposed to be microwaved. It was just
fine with some chopped fresh veg. Went
outside to listen to book and soak feet in
cool water.
Sergio wandered by with the afore
mentioned scotch tape. As I tried to
wrench earplugs from the ears, the cous
cous went flying! The bulk of it was still on
the plate but it was a darn good thing I
was sitting on the grass! Sergio and his
partner lent me a couple of their miniature
clothes pegs. They were the sort you use
to hang up Christmas cards. Extremely
cute. Some of the albergues were a bit
light on for clothes pegs. My socks looked
adorable with the tiny shiny pegs.
Felt a good deal hotter than the official 27
degrees. I suspect it’s something to do
with walking on hot roads with no shade.
The roads radiate extra heat. There’s
reasonable humidity and I’m still carrying
too much but I ate a lot of it!
There were some great views, some quiet
times; all solitary this afternoon. Spent at
least half an hour trying to remember the
march from Barry Lyndon. Eventually it
came back and I warbled out some fine
variations on that energising theme.
The afternoon hum was more of a
blues-based vibe about how I didn’t want
to be there anymore, I’d rather be beside
the sea shore, wading in the ocean and I
rather did miss the sea for the first time. I
know I’ll see it again, of course, but being
hot and foot sore when I came to land,
those far-off blue horizons called
hauntingly to me.
194
Lugo, Domingo 10th Julio - DAY 33 - Albergue
de Peregrinos de Lugo - 30km
This morning dawned clear with no hint of
rainclouds. I woke at 5:25, and mistaking it
for 6:30 dashed into action. But, when I
looked again, I thought, ‘Someone’s got to
be first,’ and quietly started moving to bath
and kitchen. Gradually a handful of people
turned up. We wrapped and zipped and
sipped stealthily, having gained enough
skills over the last few days to wake early
and remove ourselves from bunk room to
pack in hallways, balancing on benches
and chairs to stuff packs and roll sleeping
bags. We nodded and couples and friends
murmered quietly together. Like ghosts or
wraithes, we all silently moved out into the
rising daylight around 6:30. The rest were
all still fast asleep!
I met Thalia from Russia and Jaques from
France. He seemed to have adopted her
although she was still pretending to be
independent. Later in the day, walking and
jesting with Javier and Cynthia from
195

Madrid and Sergio and Roberta from
Northern Italy.
I adjusted my pack as best I could and set
off quite slowly. I saw a STOAT! It looked
like a little black and white kitten at first
and it was long and thin and my brain took
a while to recognise its stoatness as it
crossed the road in front of me and
dashed into the shrubs. And then I saw a
overfly, like a golden snitch, just hanging in
the air in front of me. Another thing I’ve
read about but never seen before.
I ploughed on. It was a bit tough getting
started today. The sunrise was lovely over
the paddocks fringed with trees. The sky
glowing with pinks and orange tones
flecking the tiny growing specks of clouds.
The clear sky
foretelling another
warm day. At least
my feet would stay
dry! Steep uphill,
especially knowing
that I had to do
31km. And it was
sunny. There were
places where the
track seemed to
digress into a patch
of pines, possibly
forestry, implying
they won’t be there
in a few years time. Hard to see any
remnant natives. After centuries of farming
and forestry there would not be much land
untouched by now. Some lovely distant
hills rolling away into the future.
I had plenty of food and water on board
and some coffee pretty soon at Santa
Maria church. Enterprising food truck
parked right outside what used to be a
nunnery, I think. I ordered my coffee before
I went in to the ancient church, guarded by
a very enthusiastic woman who had
postcards and things for sale. I sucked
whatever power I could from the dramatic
altar piece and left. Saint James wore a
beard and an implacable face. He sat
astride a giant white horse, throwing what
196
could have been a rippling python, but I
suspected was a lightning bolt, at some
miscreant Moors. His henchmen waved
scimitars beside him. Beside them, a
couple of fat white babies looked to be
offering more arms.
I found it difficult to balance the warrior
nature of Saint James with the peaceful
self reflective modern Camino. It’s
fascinating that we walk the old way of
border control while Brexit and Syria show
us that, even still, many people would like
to protect their invisible borders by force.
The oddest thing about this altar piece is
the Australian ABC symbol right at the top.
I avoided the tostada - thinking I’d really
had enough tostada con tomato - possibly
that’s why I’d been driven into the cake
department. I just had the coffee and it
was fine by itself. I knew I had fruit and
nuts and nibbles if I needed to protect the
coating of my stomach! Very smart vendor,
even early on a Sunday, to help the
pilgrims along, together with tables and
chairs.
Got up to speed after the coffee boost and
off we went, continuing our tour through
rural Spain. It seemed like a farming
museum. It was difficult to believe this
type of farming could survive much longer.
But people look comfortable in their rural
setting, more than comfortable, with new
smart cars and enfolding hills and curving
roads and fecund fields. The buildings are
variously aged but roofed in slate here.
The older ones have a higgledy piggedly
style while the more modern roofs are
meticulously scalloped. One had a
dragon’s spine of pointed slates along the
spine. An enterprising farmer had opened
a shed to the passing peregrino. They’d
created a kind of rumpus room with food
vending machines, tables and chairs and
one of those soccer table games. It would
be ideal for a rain cover but it seemed dark
and pokey on such a brilliantly beautiful
day.
There was another pilgrim trap with
pergola, sink and tap. You could sit at a
table, relax and enjoy whatever things
were on offer. With a drinks machine and
donation box.
197
I went past a very excellent and beautiful
park with shady trees and drinking
fountains. It looked like a camping spot
with spaces for tents and a hedge around
it for some kind of privacy. Too early for my
journey. Timing is everything on the
camino.
The last few kms were tough. It said it was
only 27km but when you’re walking in full
sun and the road radiates that heat back at
you from below you are in a toaster oven
and it gets very hot indeed. Getting past
lunch time I started looking for a perfect
picnic spot. A lot of road and sweaty
walking later we entered a green and quiet
stretch. Trees reached up above and I did
indeed find couple of rocks that performed
table and chair function extremely well. I
had prepared a collation of avocado,
tomato and corn crackers, by now stocked
with those mini oils and vinegars sold in
supermarkets. It’s terrible packaging
problem but I would carry all my crackling
plastic rubbish out PLUS always picking
up any plastic litter I came across. Trying
to leave the Camino a bit better than I
found it.
I lay back under a large and gentle oak,
one that had been there for over a hundred
years. It was missing limbs and yet still
covered the path with a roof of green. This
was the life.
Lugo was one of these ancient walled
cities, the only one apparently where the
wall is completely intact. As I walked in I
could see an ancient viaduct - not as big
or dramatic as the one in Segovia but still
amazing to an Australasian - and a lot of
boring blocks of flats. There were no
grocery shops I could see, of course it was
Sunday, bloody Sunday, so that may have
explained matters.
But the wall! The wall is absurdly
wonderful, medieval, just what a walled
city ought to look like. The stones are at
once the same and yet each one is
different. The blocks lie on each other,
sometimes evenly spaced and sometimes
two will take the place of one. It is a
patchwork of stone. The science of
building a circular wall when there were no
lasers and fancy measuring machines
must have been extraordinary. And it’s still
standing. While, now, the height of great
architecture is to make some block like a
big brick and call it minimalist and watch it
fall down in twenty years. The Lugo wall is
surrounded by a soft, velvet emerald lawn
so it looks like a large grey cake on a green
fabric.
198
The albergue was easily found, just inside
the wall, with many a sign pointing at it.
The hospitalero had a glass walled booth
to himself and as stated before, timing,
timing, timing. I got the last bed. One
Especially now as we neared the meeting
of the Ways.
The sandwich included mayo. Given my
new-found ordering bravery, following the

whole floor had been shut down - probably American way, I should have asked that

being fumigated. I took my insect the mayo be removed. I didn’t. I did ask for

protective mattress cover and pillowslip an extra plate and scraped it all off.

with gratitude.

The hospitalero did not know where I

might find an open shop on Sunday. There
were, however, plenty of bars open so I
asked for a vegetal sandwich without all
the dairy/meat/fish things and the chips
were handmade and deep-fried and utterly
delicious. The man was watching his
computer when I went in and I nearly left
but he was playing through the Beatles
and I managed to arrive with Magical
Mystery Tour, which, on consideration,
suited just fine. We chatted as I ordered
and he was a large man, bouncing off the
walls between the bar and the shelves at
the back holding all the bottles. He was
concerned when he heard I was walking
the Camino by myself. He said, ‘Do you
have a gun?’ pointing his fingers at me The Cathedral was enormous. As I strolled
playfully. (Aargh). I laughed and said I did through the glittering corridors, noting
not need a gun. There were always huge confessional tomb-like boxes along
pilgrims ahead of me and more coming the wall, I bumped into the Bodenaya
from behind. People in the future, people family and greeted them like the old
in the past. I was never alone for long. friends they were. The main altar piece is

199
ablaze with spikes of gold, a complete
rendering of heaven. There’s a side chapel
devoted to the patron of Lugo, the Virgen
de los Ojos Grandes (of the big eyes). She
doesn’t appear to have extra large eyes,
she’s very formal and regal with a large
suppose. That’s why it’s worth walking
with a partner. When they look one way,
you can look the other and then compare
notes!
I didn’t find strength to go to mass. I

crown. She is surrounded by a crowd of weighed up the idea of going in the

fat babies. morning but I

The altar still had my

piece itself restless urge

is lit by two to keep going.

grand There were no

chandeliers vego

and the restaurants

walls of the open or health

chapel are food shops to

glowing speak of so

with natural there was no

light. The point hanging

building’s around from a

details are hunting

hidden but gathering

I’m sure students of architecture would POV. 19km was easy, if I went. I thought I

love it. I can’t tell you more than it was would. Go.

ornate and impressive.

Aruza, a town on the way ahead had a

We wandered around the streets of Lugo vego café two stops away. The Great

and I missed the artists working away in Danes were in Lugo. Sue was busy

the middle of the town. Apparently this massaging one of the young Spanish men

was a highlight for everyone who saw from the Bodenaya family. She was

them. You just can’t see everything. I don’t causing him great immediate pain and he

have eyes in the back of my head! moaned in the bunkum. But he said it was

Everyone looks in different directions, I better in the morning. All in all, a good day.

200
San Roman de Retorta, Lunes 11th Julio - DAY
34 - Albergue O Cándido - 19km

Woke very fruit salad

stiff and
sore. Tried to
decide to
stay in Lugo
but just
didn’t get the vibe. Slow start with the
Great Danes and breakfast. I don’t know
how they cope with no Spanish at all and
gluten intolerance and paleo restrictions.
But they have. They’re so funny. We ate a
huge amount - at least I did! Orange juice,
and tostada
con tomate
with two
cups of
coffee and a
great deal of talking. We talked about
children, and in Dorthe and Sue’s cases,
grandchildren. We talked about families
and jobs and gardening and meditation.
We talked about everything and their
plans. With Sue’s ankle and their time

201
running out they’ve decided to catch a
bus. They intend to race onwards, looking
forward to seeing the sun rise over
Santiago in two days time. That’s their
bag! Good on ‘em! Hope to see them in
Copenhagen. What an adventure that
would be. Why not? I left them to find their
bus and went off around the walled city to
get lost as soon as I went through the
gate. The wrong way, of course. Walked
halfway around the walls before I realised.
Fascinating though they are, having
withstood the tests of time and arrows, the
walls represent barriers to freedom and it get to a forest path but sadly today they
didn’t take me that long to realise that yup, didn’t last long and soon enough we were
I was lost again. Arguably, I knew where back on the road again. No services. When
the wall was. But I really didn’t want to I saw the sign saying we were on road for
walk the entire boundary. Good morning! 5.4km I knew I had to find a convenient
shrub and dig a little hole. Bit sad so many
By now my little legs had warmed up again
pilgrims are unaware of the Bury Your
though I have to say the old war wound
Waste Rule. There’s a fair bit of
had decided to tighten up overnight. Never
tissue/toilet paper littering the undergrowth
mind. Kept plodding on. Met the two
beside the tracks.
Young Americans, Julie and Jenna, and
they were going slow too - still fueling up A few more kms and an enterprising family
on caffeine and lemon drinks to ward off have provided a bar with fruit and toast
their horrid colds. Marched on to greet and all things good like bathrooms. A
Roman warrior (aluminium?) over bridge strange pack of mangy flea-bitten dogs
and took a rare selfie. My arm is too short. were more interested in each other than
My third ever selfie. One with Texan, one the visiting pilgrims, which could only have
with Danes and one with metal Roman. been a good thing. The Young Americans
Found it pretty slow, up hills, on roads. It’s rocked up, as did René and Martine. The
always bad going out of towns until you French Couple were fascinated with

202
tostada con tomato - more converts to the
great Spanish tradition! I was pleased to
meet Innes, who has joined forces with
Kevin, young Frenchman I met at Pola de
Siero (where everyone opted for salad).
She is from Portugal and speaks six
languages well enough to be understood.
She was self-effacing and kind. All this
pleasantry right next to an ancient gothic
church (closed, of course) Burgo St
Vincente. Very beautiful and foreboding
this morning in the cloudy vista.
immediately impressed by a mural of a
peregrino. An elderly bearded man,
wearing flowing garments the grey/brown
colours of a wren marked with the red
symbol of Saint James, leans on a green
bench. His hat, decorated with a small
scallop shell, and a bulging wineskin hang
from the wall beside him. He carries a
staff, a gourd for water and a scallop shell
to eat donated food by. A poem says,
‘O Cándido,

Onwards, ever onwards in the carreterra Cuando no se encuentra

and just when it all got too much, a short

Descanso en uno mismo,
stretch of scenic wonder, all green moss,
fairytale stone walls and blue-bell Es inutil buscarlo
prettiness. No shops, no bars, until the one
bar, where the Orchestra lounged, En otra parte.’
terrifying me, until I realised they were
(When you can’t find it, rest in yourself. It’s
pushing on for the next 8km. I don’t know
useless to look anywhere else.)
how. I don’t remember seeing them on the
road at all yesterday. Maybe they’re
catching transport like the Great Danes?
Whatever, their presence prevented me
noticing the bar also sold fruit and stuff.

Never mind, for this albergue, which was

very quiet until the forestry trucks started
unloading, is not for them! It’s a lovely little
place, like a private hotel. The outside
features a mural of an albergue in a forest.
When I entered the bar downstairs I was

203
 walking this track, in their own ways and
own times.

We were surrounded by trees with a

shadey area of long, cool, grass. The
clothes washing sink was out the back by
a fuente with deliciously cold, fresh water
constantly tumbling out of the tap. There’s
another albergue just within sight where
Rebecca and Barry are staying. They came
to the bar to buy beer and have a chat.
They are close to their goal of a thousand
miles. They seem very tired but still keen
And, there was the hospitalero from Lugo,
and interested in everything natural.
lounging in the bar! It was very
disconcerting to see the same man, once They tend to become miserable when they
encased in a glass booth in an urban think of returning to Britain - a Brexit
environment, tense and bothered by Britain - that no longer wanted to spend
running out of beds in a busy large money on conservation and therefore their
albergue, and now, relaxed and easy in a job prospects were cloudy.
leafy forest environment, chatting to the
hospitalero that runs this place. Turns out Can’t believe how aware of my skeleton I
he’s the overseer for a group of albergues was. My feet really felt like a bag of bones.
and has to travel between them, keeping
the machinery of the Camino running
smoothly. I was in a small four-bunk
room, girls only, with Carmen, who I’ve
met before from Palma and Linda from
Capetown. Turned out Linda had started
her camino much the same time as I and
had done much the same sorts of things.
Yet we had never met before. A handy
reminder how many folk are actually

204
Quick look at tomorrow shows another big
one, 28 or 29km perhaps, but on to
Melide, where the ways meet. More
pilgrims, more albergues are reported.
Interesting times.
I’m glad I did keep moving rather than
hang out with the tourists in Lugo - that’s
one more day in Paris! I don’t mind
splitting days from now on, with more
albergues, I recognise I feel better on the
move. Albeit slowly. It is a heavy pack. I
shall know for next time. Certain objects
are not necessary. Lighter clothes - quick
drying materials - those sort of
considerations. Bit more science. Despite
the heavy pack it was with a light heart
that my feet hit the ground in the
mornings!
Another dinner together, though not a
share dinner. The hospitalero ran up and
down the stairs to the kitchen upstairs
while we all lounged around the table
downstairs. He made me a bowl of
steamed vegies. I sprinkled them with olive
oil and salt. Delicious. Fruit to follow.
Lovely people. Carmen from Spain plus
Julia and Cynthia from Italy. René and
Martine were joined by some French
Canadians, Liz and Richard, and their
merriment is contagious. Liz is an art
teacher. I took the opportunity to ask these
educated folk what I should see in Paris.
René wa delightful. He and Martine took
up the challenge and give me an extensive
list of places to visit. Not only that, but
they invite me to sleep in their albergue in
Paris. They have a small apartment where
René can live when he works in the city.
Normally they live closer to the German
border. My list grew longer and longer as
the Canadians joined forces with the
Parisiennes. There is no way I could see
Paris in less than five days. It would be
better not to go. I hesitate to stay with
René and Martine. I don’t want to be a
burden to them. I hope they didn’t think I
had designs on them. I worried. But as
usual, feeling the fear and doing it anyway,
I agreed and it appeared René enjoyed
thinking of how best to showcase his
favourite city. In fact, he set himself a little
walking challenge - and promised he
would compile a personalised Paris tour
written in best guide book style! I was
overwhelmed by their kindness. I suppose
when people love their country, as René
and Martine clearly do, they are proud to
share it with strangers. Not only have they
travelled but their children also travel the
world so I believe there is an
understanding of the fellowship inherent in
helping others. Like a family.
I feel very lucky.
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Melide, Martes 12th Julio - DAY 35 - Albergue
Alfonso II El Casto - 27km
Not that I was focussed on counting all the
time but there were only two more days to
Santiago and three after that to Finisterre
and then the yellow arrows come off and
who knows where I shall choose to turn?
Anything would be possible! I just hoped I
wasn’t paralysed by too many choices.
But there would be something and I
sought decent Wifi to research my options.
I enjoyed my favourite microwaved
rice/quinoa with tomato, mushroom and
pimiento. There are some sweet little green
peppers that are often eaten stir fried in oil
and salt as whole dish by themselves.
When I bought them the attendant
(dependiente) often remarked to be careful
as those little fellows can be spicy hot but
I never found them so. I added a cup of
tea, a large handful of fresh cherries and a
206
protein bar to the menu. Felt better for a
good old feed. Mind you, yesterdays bowl
of steamed cauliflower, broccoli and
carrots was satisfying as well.
Feeling weary thinking about the past.
Getting very excited thinking about the
future. I drew up a chart of the month to
come and asked everyone I met where
they thought I should spent my Eurail
pass. Everyone had some great ideas. I
couldn’t do half of them!
I was slightly annoyed to wake in the
middle of the night needing a wee but
when I went to the loo I looked out of the
window and could see the stars. The
Camino is also known as the way of the
stars, or field of stars, Compostella. One
theory is that the early Celts would follow
the stars in the Milky Way to the coast. It
was only the second time I’d seen the
stars because normally we were all tucked
up in bed, snoring! Then someone
knocked, needing the bathroom, and I
returned to the quiet bunkroom and
snuggled in back to sleep.
Today some cad had set their alarm for
5:30 with no apologies. After that rude
awakening, I snoozed for half an hour, then
packed and went on a rampage in the
kitchen. Linda, from South Africa, started
up in shock. ‘You can’t have that fruit!
That’s not part of breakfast!’ I stared at her
before I replied that I could indeed help
myself to the fruit. I had discussed the
entire breakfast thing with Nito, our
hospitalero, the night before. Because I
was vegan I was allowed to eat the fruit
given I could not eat the packaged cakes.
Then she looked abashed. But only for a
moment because she came back
with, ‘But, have you paid?’ And I
replied, ‘Of course I have’. Then we
had a relaxing chat about how
everyone had a different camino and
the mere fact we’d spent thirty-five
days travelling on the same road,
staying in the same places and yet
we’d not heard or seen anything of
each other in that month proved it.
It was a lovely forestry sort of day.
207
Much of the track was off piste (not
highway!) with delightful ancient farm
buildings and the Galician version of the
horio, slim, rectangular, some with
crosses, looking elegant and aged. Others
with hideous modern brickwork or awful
metal doors.
kilos were out in front, not everything in the
backpack. In the front pockets of the pack
I normally carried water, an orange in one
side and an apple in the other, together
with some random stuff like tissues,
sunscreen, sunglasses and dried fruit and
nuts.)

You do get the feeling that this type of
farming, mostly consisting of grandparent
farmers, won’t be around for much longer.
There are machines and tractors that must
have been working for fifty years trundling
over fields that must have been working
for centuries. There were hay carters,
shifting green long grass by fork full on to
a cart, then there’s still the old small bales
ready to be picked up by trucks. But more
and more now we’re seeing
the great balls of plastic
wrapped in blue or black,
leading the way into the
future.
Yesterday I was writing and took a little
nap in the afternoon. I had my water bottle
next to me, not touching me, but on the
same mattress. And my heart was
pounding so hard you could see my pulse
in the movement of the water level. Not
just faintly, either. Very obvious
movements. Like the entrance of the T-Rex
in Jurassic Park. How wild is that? My
blood pressure must be strong!

(A note about the water

bottles: I carried two of the
plastic bag kind, they were
both capable of a litre/kilo of
water although I normally only
filled them two-thirds. They
were the right size to fit into
my front pouches so I was
balanced. It meant a couple of

208
O Pedruozo, Miercoles 13th Julio, DAY 36 -
Albergue recently renovated? - 33km

Missing out on WeeFee once again. Got
the sulks. Sunny day. Feeling a bit lonely.
People seemed to have clumped together
and I called René ‘Richard’ by mistake.
From the back he really did look like
and filling up the entire kitchen with their
big pots and spoons and chatting and
laughing together without me.
I did enjoy my dinner and I ate an entire

Richard. Now I feel like I’ve done the block of vegan chocolate to finish.

wrong thing and although he assured me it

So many bars along the way. And the way
didn’t matter I feel like he won’t want me
seems so neat and tidy and there are so
to stay in their flat in Paris because I don’t
many people. There are also signs; peace
even know who he is and everyone seems
signs and Peace and One World and Love
so happy in their couples and their large
written on walls.
family groups making huge pots of pasta

209
Suddenly as Santiago approaches it feels
like it would be nice to have someone
special to share this with - and I think there
are all the peeps on the road, of course -
and especially all the Camino peeps - we
are different and special and superior to
the Frances in everyway. Just kidding.
Strangely, like going to different schools,
on the Norte there was a sense of
recognition of the regular faces. Then on
the Primitivo at first I was overwhelmed by
the new ones. Then I remembered folk,
especially after the Bodenaya ‘getting to
know you’ night. Then I felt like I could
pretty well name everyone on the track. In
my wave of people now blended up with
the Frances, there are such a mixed
bunch. The Johnny-come-latelies from
Sarria - the last town where you can
expect to get a certificate having walked
the minimum 100km.
On meeting at an ancient chapel, Rebecca
assured me I could get a sello there. ‘For,’
she added, ‘You have to get two a day.’
Two a day? Really? I’d only been getting
one! That meant I was fifty percent down
on my stamps! After a short panic till the
next albergue, the hospitalero reassured
me that was only for the
Johnnie-come-latelies, if you only walk
100km you have to have two stamps a day
to make them concentrate on the task in
hand. Clear once more, I’ve filled one
credential and stapled on a new one.
Shouldn’t be a problem.
When I set off this morning, most had left
around 6:30, but I took my time and left
about 7:15. It was still cool and pleasant
but the sun was up. It was a rural day. Not
so many on the track around me but it
quickly became apparent they were in the
bars! You can be part of a line of a dozen
walkers when suddenly they decide to go
to that bar, there, and then you’re alone
again!
Spent some quality time with Rebecca and
Barry again. They really are an interesting
couple. I worry they don’t eat very well, go
super fast and then collapse. Then they
210
eat crap food to get their rockets fuelled leave my pack at the monastery before
up for the next rush. They’re up to a heading into the Cathedral to see what we
thousand km and starting to hurt. But I could see. If the pilgrim mass was on at
can’t be worrying about them. That’s their noon at Friday well, it might be worth
Camino! hanging around for an extra 24hours in
Santiago.
We passed some interesting new bars and
albergues along the way. A group of young
Americans sprawled on bean bags on a
lawn in front of an old crumbling building.
Their coffee machine wasn’t working but it
was a cool place to sit in the shade and
have a yarn. Two young fellows owned the
place and intended to bring it up to very
profitable. They already ran a successful
business walking rich Americans into
Santiago overnight, seeing the stars, to
arrive at dawn. This was the equivalent of
medieval fireworks. After the streets are
washed first thing in Santiago, the street
lights gleam golden over the cobblestones
and ancient walls.

I walked into Giancalo - no vino no camino

- again which showed me the Norte troops
had arrived! Met a woman from Arkansaw.
She has arrived via the Aragon way. She
I keep remembering Anthony’s comment,
says there are shorter gaps in the
in such a quizzical tone, ‘You’re used to
albergues and less people and it’s very
not getting what you ordered, aren’t you?’
beautiful. That could be my next one.
He was speaking about pizza, of course,
She’d done it twenty years ago when it
but we both knew it applied to everything.
was very different. So, tomorrow. Up and
It’s true of many things. I have not
away before it gets too hot. I intended to

211
managed to find an effective way of
getting what I want.
I thought that I might like to sleep! I hope
this albergue of modern glass booth for
the hospitalero in the foyer and dark
colourful walls and little internal gardens
turns off the ambient music soon. And the
lights. This is a very refurbished place with
a hilarious ad about three km away - a
motion sensor picks up each clump of
pilgrims as they arrive and plays them a
recorded welcome to the way. There’s a
poster and a map. There’s tables to lean
and chat while watching the advertisement
for the albergue. There’s an electronic
counting down like a carpark … 23 bunks
available. 22 bunks. 20 bunks.
René and Martine arrived. They’d done
this walk before and needed to stay in a
place that was near the pizza joint they’d
visited previously. Martine was craving
pizza. Seriously. She thought perhaps this
was the very albergue and he rang to book
a place. No change in the electronic
countdown.
Martine got her pizza!
212
Santiago, Jueves 14th Julio - DAY 37 -
Albergue Seminario Menor La Asunción -
20km
Made it to Santiago! Perfect timing.
Slipped in to the Cathedral through the
Forgiveness Door. The clear resolute voice
of a nun rang through the hallowed hall.
She gave instructions to the mass of
people gathered in front of her as to what
to sing and when. The sound of a female
voice ringing clear and amplified through
these majestic and brilliantly lit chambers
was thrilling. She was the leader of the
people and delightful to hear and see she
was.
There were other nuns too, by the altar,
and it made a great change from the dry
male droning previously experienced in
monasteries and Oviedo. Mind you on
213
each occasion there’d been a female in the
congregation to carry the tune and timing.
The day began surprisingly early. I don’t
know why they woke me at 4:40 but it was
a good time to go on with brekkie and
preparations. Ready to go at 6:00 but
chatted with René and Martine about
Paris. And then we were off in the dark
with street lights for vision. I held my head
torch, easy to operate, in my hand, the
elastic wrapped around my wrist. By this
method the arrows and shell road markers
sprang into view without marring the light
from the stars above.
It was wonderful. Very quickly we arrived in
a forest. The light was coming up fast
through the trees. I’d been able to see
stars while I had breakfast in
the albergue, slightly tainted by
the lights from the kitchen and
auto motion sensor by the
toilets. (At least they’d turned
off the lovely hippy music by
22:00!)
the forest path was wide and easy. Then I
realised someone was coming up behind
me with a head torch. Two of them, their
beams like car lights blasting the dawn
magic. It was very annoying and I stopped
to let them pass. I couldn’t help myself,
saying, ‘You don’t need the head torch.
There’s light enough.’ But they bustled
past with their knee bandages and their
bastónes and head wraps making them
seem like oversized insects replying, ‘We
prefer it.’ They were haughty.
Just as they got out of sight they doused
their light but by then it was obviously day
time. Soon enough we were out on the
road. We encountered ashfelt and suburbs
peppered with some strips of forest for the
rest of the trip.

So there we were. I’d

separated from my fellow
travellers almost straight away.
I was mesmerised by the
dappled light coming through
the trees while the soft curve of

214
About half way I met Barry and Rebecca
looking very happy. They had spent an
inspiring night. A seventy-nine-year-old
woman had taken the adjoining bunk in
their albergue. She had walked all the way
from Cologne by herself, through France
and Spain. They said she was positively
glowing with the experience, having met
such lovely people. They too, looked very
happy. Particularly Rebecca. I hope I do
see them again. I have really enjoyed
talking with them.
The trail was getting as crowded as a city
street now. The sense of anticipation was
real and high. I stopped for coffee at a bar,
sharing a table with a young Indonesian
man. He had left his legal job to study
advertising in the Netherlands, of all
places. I suppose there was a love affair in
there somewhere. Then he decided what
he really wanted to do was make films. So
he’d found himself back at the beginning
of yet another degree, sitting next to
seventeen-year-old girls in classes, trying
to write scripts and feeling like an
oversized frog in a small pond. He
watched all his legal companions stride
ahead of him into important jobs and
successful careers.
I couldn’t help but draw the comparison
with the Camino. We could see people of
all ages walking with great heavy packs or
tiny little day bags, laughing, singing, alone
or sharing conversation with a child. They
were all going past and it was not a race.
Even if you did feel, in the tide of humanity,
it was a race, then you could be pretty
sure you’d meet some of them at the next
bar or watch them sitting by the side of the
road checking their blisters.
I listened intently to myself. This was about
ME!! It was all very pertinent and resonant,
especially on this day of days, as we
walked into Santiago.
There were many people on the road, all
purposeful, although some were plain silly
with ukuleles, singing and banter, though I
suppose if you walked that way, all the
way, together you would get to know more
people more intimately, even if it was just
that there were more people generally.
The only other person I talked to was Jack,
a young guy from Connecticut who was on
holiday with his pilot dad. Dad was
suffering from a bout of food poisoning
and lagging along behind. Jack intended
to go to university in St Andrews and
sounded just a little bit proud as he told
me that it was the same place Prince
William attended. After four years of Social
Anthropology he intended to study law
215
back in the States, with a view to politics. missed them by a day. They’d headed on
Big plans for a little kid, straining at the with their adventures while she stayed in
neck as he strode up the hill. That’s partly Santiago. She loves the place with the
why I talked to him, because he was going daily tide of pilgrims. I don’t know, there’s
like fury and didn’t look like he was having a bit of a hippy scene not far from the
any fun at all. surface. I saw some drug action going on
surreptitiously in the main drag - so if I saw
He walked right past me later, with no sign it openly then it will be rife, I reckon.
of recognition. Anyway, it’s not my scene, not my life, not
my business.
I took a side trip on entry to Santiago. I
met Carmen and we ate dates as we stood Arriving at the Cathedral was everything I’d
by the busy intersection. I didn’t follow the come to expect from film and tv, packed
traditional Way into the city. I went to the with people, some more tired than others
monastery and dumped my backpack into from recent arrival and all giving it a bit of a
a locker and headed in to the old
town. There was a girl sitting on the
wall reading a book. It was a beautiful
day, I should add, and the wall was
hundreds of years old. She was
overlooking a parkland, next to a
vegetable patch planted under some
olive trees. There was a grape vine
fresh with new green leaves.

We looked at each other with a kind

of wonder for it was Marta, the
Spanish girl I’d first met walking with
Danish Julie way back at the start of
my Camino. We’d shared our table at
Markina, the place of realisation.
She’d walked the rest of the way with
the young American brothers. I’d

216
sing as the nun lead everyone in song. Not
long after I squeezed into a pozzie, the
procession arrived. These men were more
sprightly that the old guard in the old
monuments along the way. The main priest
spoke very clearly about being brothers
and sisters and peregrinos and it was in
Spanish and I was tired so I didn’t quite
pick up the details.
I’d walked all around the church to get a
full view of the ceremony and pushed my
way in to the back of the seats. This was
brilliant as it was a pew with kneeling bits
at the back. A chance to get the weight off
my feet. I was very happy when it was time
for prayers. I felt very humble as I kneeled
when the rest of the congregation sat or
kneeled.
The young Indonesian man, Harith, was
standing in a line of people in the
Cathedral, waiting to embrace the statue
of the Saint. I had read about this but
forgotten it.
When I was at the back of the pews near
the great door way watching the service I
had noticed a pair of arms around the
statue in the altar piece. It sent a shiver
down my spine and I stared in wonder.
What was the meaning of this?
I was far from the glory of the altar. There
were crowds of folk in hiking gear ahead of
me, then a space, then the steps and the
area leading up to the altar which is as big
as a hall, populated by nuns and a crowd
of important men. Behind them, the
altarpiece was a burst of colour and gold,
a magnificence of heaven and glory. In the
centre, raised up high, was a statue of
Saint James. All the churches and
cathedrals I’d visited over the last months,
in Barcelona, Toledo and Oviedo, and
those smaller towns and tiny wayside
chapels, had their altar pieces hard up
against a wall of some description. There
was nothing behind them, no moving
parts. The pictures and images telling
scriptural stories of suffering and
redemption were all still lives. Well, in so
far as I’d noticed, anyway. And here, in the
Catedral de Santiago de Compostela, I
had noticed loving arms embrace the
Apostol Santiago. They really were loving,
it looked for all the world as if the Saint
was being embraced by an angel.
One at a time I could see the people
ascend the stairs to the right of the altar,
and then go off to the left. But from the
back of the church, overwhelmed by the
grandeur and the crowds. I didn’t notice
the movement until I became aware of it. I
wondered how it started for it really was a
217
 They heaved on the ropes attached to the
enormous humidor and it swung right
across the Cathedral. The congregation
held their phones aloft to capture every dip
and lift. They don’t do it for very long. The
waft of smoke didn’t penetrate to the back
of the nave even as much as the
hand-held small burner in the Oviedo
cathedral had sprayed the aroma around.
It was very theatrical and the great beams
overhead did not shift in the slightest with
all that hefty heaving going on.
lovely sight. Some of the people were
really devout and they were extremely
I jogged down the side to get a view from
emotional about their touch. I saw no
the other side. I could see Micky from
slobbering, don’t get me wrong, there was
Melbourne on that side and gave her a
pure grace and beauty in their
wave. She’d be returning to Australia the
envelopment.
next day, booked already on a flight. There
were other familiar faces but there was no
I considered it rather a shame that Saint
room in that crowded place for anything
James had to be such a warrior and
but a smile and a nod.
murderer of men. The story had
everything. Magic, shellfish and a stone
I put a five euro note, my only cash, into
coffin. But thunderbolts and border
the collection plate. I turned and walked all
control?
through the Cathedral, staring at the
sculpts and fittings, the glory and glitter of
After the body and the blood, the men in
heaven and the magnetism of an
red with scallop shells marched around the
enormous theme park.
great church, the leader smiling while the
younger men looked determined. I thought
When it was all over and people poured
they looked familiar and there was a buzz
away like sand from an hourglass. I met
of excitement and an array of raised
Mar and Eloutra, from our Bodenaya
phones. They lit the incense! The joy in the
family.
place was palpable.

218
Mar told me about the Forgiveness Door.
It’s normally closed except on Holy Days
but, because the Cathedral is being
restored, the Pope had declared this year
The Year of Mercy. We could come in the
sacred door and all our sins would be
forgiven. I felt that coming in the door in
ignorance might not be sufficient so I went
out and came back in again, knowing
made it more powerful, I think.
I left the great building and came out into
the fresh air. I was greeted by a deaf
woman who held out a clipboard. She was
collecting money to build a school for the
deaf nearby. Tremendous idea. I signed the
petition and filled in my postcode and then
came to the last column where it expected
I would fill in how much money I would
donate. I looked at her, impressed. This
was a neat method of raising money. Or
begging, whatever you like to call it. I was
sorry, I had no money to give her. I
gestured to the Cathedral. I’d spent it all
inside. Once she’d left me, I turned back
to look at the edifice. It was covered in
metal scaffolding and clearly a great sum
of money was needed to restore this
glorious church. Maintenance must
continue all the time but now, much money
was in evidence. There was also many
more people in evidence in the employ of
the church. The nuns and priests,
obviously, and presumably the staff in
the cathedral shop and offices …
This was a huge, thriving business.
Where did all the money go?
The old town of Santiago was covered
over with tourist tatt. There’s many
people walking the streets. I suppose I
could have gone to museums and tours
but all I could think of was my stomach.
I budgeted twenty euros for a delicious
meal. I tried a likely place and found a
slightly grumpy waiter who agreed they
could make a salad and some chips for
me. When the chef heard I was vegan
219
he was pleased to inform the waiter there
was a dessert he’d invented that would be
just right for me. He was right. It was a
large martini glass filled with mango puree
with different berry couli layers. I tasted
intense flavours of blackberry, currants
and blueberries mixed with a rosy firework
of mango. It was scrumptious!
I felt that I had celebrated my arrival to the
highly anticipated destination even though
I had not planned it. I had walked in to the
Cathedral just as the pilgrim service
started. I had found delicious and healthy
food. Either someone/thing was looking
me or I had a great deal of good luck.
I had plenty of strength to go forth seeking
my Compostella. There I found Jenna and
Julie from the States, proudly holding their
certificates. I bumped into the two
auxiliares, MJ and Steph. When I was
uploading info about Finisterre from the
tourist information office I ran into young
Italians, Guilia and Cynthia. It was great to
see them, hale and hearty and on their
way. Although I didn’t make any intense
passionate soul-mate connections on my
way, I did connect with a few beautiful
people here and there!
Back in the monastery room I had
everything I needed. There was a small
washbasin in my room which reminded me
of the room I shared with my younger
sister when we lived in Auckland. And
Bells Palsy. Hmm.
When I had Wifi at the café, I messaged
my husband to tell him I’d finally made it to
Santiago. He was on his way to bed on the
other side of the world, complaining he
had a cold so he was miserable, I
suppose. Anyway, I made my report and
sent a couple of snaps and he replied, ‘Oh,
I was wondering how you were getting on.’
It felt like I was really on my own. That I
was preparing for something new. Even
though immediately it was a simple
continuation. Because I was in my own
room instead of being part of a flock or
pack, with a hive mind of when to do
things, I had to make my own decisions
about my own life.
I decided to go to bed and I slept.
220
Vilaserio, Viennese 15th Julio - DAY 38 -
Albergue O Rueiro - 33.7km
Today started quietly enough. The alarm
didn’t go off, at least for my conscious
mind. I woke up at 5:3ish - I think I set the
alarm for 5:00. Whatever. I got up in time
to leave before the sun was up, to see the
streets of Santiago being washed with, if I
am not mistaken, a floral-scented
detergent. Looked lovely but of course the
description that ought to be available to
the pilgrims - they told me GREEN arrows
- does not quite live up to reality.
I had been concerned that the way to
Finisterre would include a long walk out of
the city similar to others, industry and
badlands.
Luckily, I met a couple of taciturn Spanish
young men who pointed me in the right
direction. I followed them hopefully. We
got to the ancient oak forest I’d been told
about in the turismo and my fears were
allayed. There were some beautiful
wooded walks this morning. The weather
221
 two men seemed to
head into a bar and I
kept walking, quite
happily, thank you very
much.

But then Lee came up

stayed bearable for the first 10kms (and a
nice-ish coffee) then walking on through
small farm-villes and lesser roads, I
paused for my morning orange.
Clearing the picnic area a strange
alignment of me and two men, both
dressed in black. We walked in this line,
stretched across the road for a few
minutes until we came to a street sign
blocking the way put up by road workers.
Neither of these guys were youngsters and
both were long-term walkers. The first had
walked up and down the lengths of Spain
and France. He was the older one who
talked to himself in a slightly disconcerting
manner. The second was a Yank with a
cap. Lee. Or so I came to know him. The
behind me and said,
almost accusingly, ‘I
thought you guys were
walking together!’ I
didn’t think this
deserved much of a
comment. Normally I
proceed with cheery
chat so I did. It turned
out that not only was this fellow a devout
Catholic who had walked to New York
from Michigan in May, wherefrom he’d
flown to Roma to team up with his good
buddy the Italian Lawyer to have an
audience with the Pope for Jubilee Year,
but he also has not read the Nature
Encyclical, although he thinks he should
because he is an ecologist. But he can’t
read Latin well enough.
Although he did have some good ideas his
perspective seemed tainted by the idea
that science ‘preventing’ climate change is
better funded than his baby, ‘mitigating’
the effects of climate change. He also
believes it’s important to ‘prepare’ for the

222
effects of climate change. I remarked if
American funding was anything like the
policies behind Australian scientific
funding then that was possibly an urban
myth. Very few scientific endeavours were
being funded at all - and certainly not
those in prevention.
He understands that people don’t want to
learn new things because they don’t want
to look stupid. For example, I had met two
middle-aged American men walking along
the trail back a while. They took great
delight in stopping at each milestone,
seriously, this was Spain, they were
marked in kilometres left to travel to
Santiago. I was amazed to hear them
discussing the translation - not an easy
sum to have to do every few metres - into
miles. I asked them why they did that and
both men, slightly defensive, said they
didn’t understand kilometres. What a
waste of brain.
Lee informed me that there had been an
attempt to elevate the USA into metric
some years back but most folk had
continued to use Imperial because they
didn’t want to change. Part of the reason
for that, said Lee, was that there had been
translation tables provided so there was
always reference to the old ways. The old
ways were familiar
and trustworthy and
visible. So a step into
the easier,
international,
straightforward
system failed because
the past came too.
He went on about
taking two years off to
work with an
impoverished inner
city school teaching
advanced maths. I
asked why he didn’t
teach in his own speciality, ecology. He
said, ‘Because most of these kids in LA
223
didn’t know what a tree was, much less try
to conserve any’. This just further
infuriated me.
Unable to keep listening to his
self-important mansplaining for much
longer, I suggested he watch out for the
opportunity to join a Symposium. These
informative sessions are often run by
Engineers Without Borders, church groups
or schools. Originally dreamed up by a
tribe in Ecuador, Pachamama and a
Californian group, they have become more
international and inclusive over the years.
One of the original speakers was Paul
Hawkins and I heartily suggested Lee
google his oft viewed speech about the
Greatest Movement the Earth has ever
seen.
When the time came to part, he headed off
to the nearest albergue with a bag of
groceries, I was greatly relieved and went
on my way. Neglecting to understand that I
had unwittingly told him of my plans. None
the less, I enjoyed a strange salad
sandwich and then hit the increasingly hot
road for a further three hour walk. It got
hotter but the first hour was beautiful
forest, increasing incline but shady. The
second hour introduced more road walking
and also the clear realisation that my
intended albergue was lying about the
distance to keep us on track to their till. I
knew it was 15km but their signs said
10km! All the rest of their signage kept
pinching the truth hopefully. I’m glad I
worked it out because then I would be
able to avoid them and head to the
municipal albergue instead.
The road was reflecting rays of heat and
the sun pounded down. I was stuffed.
When I came to a bar, which happened to
be the trapdoor spider evil albergue in
disguise, I asked how far it was to the
municipal as I sucked down a refreshing
cool drink. Oh, he said, ‘It’s far, very far.’
So I gave in and handed over my
credential to be stamped. I would be
staying in the privado that night. Surprise,
surprise, who should be sitting in a corner
watching the American football match on
the bar tv, unseen behind me until I turned
to follow the hospitalero out, but Lee. He
grinned at me, with his dark wet hair,
relaxed after a shower. He sipped a cool
beer.
I spoke some pleasant remark about his
son, who apparently played football in the
States at some high level, and added that I
had thought he was going to the albergue
many kms ago. He said that he couldn’t
find the one that had been recommended
to him. Oh yeah. He went past at least
224
three. Good lesson. I wouldn’t be telling
any Tom, Dick or Lee about my plans any
more. I went on my way, trailing behind the
owner.
It was a clean place, the bunks were
comfortable. The showers were strange.
The bathroom was almost entirely given
over to the shower. I would definitely need
the earplugs, given the motley collection of
old men I was in with. One guy stretched
out dressed only in his knickers - the sort
that are brief speedo size. It was a
generous spread of flesh. I quickly averted
my eyes and went about my business.
After a shower I came back to the café
section to enjoy a fresh and generous
salad with chips. Lee stayed in the bar
with the telly. A couple of other single folk
stayed quietly at their own tables and I hid
behind the propped up menu. Until the
family gathered outside in the evening
shade. The new baby was on display,
dressed in bows and frills. The baby was
passed to relative to relative and it was
lovely.
I thought of rusty gates, dogs with
something stuck in their throats but it was
only abuela (grandmother) laughing.
225
Hospital, Sabado 16th Julio - DAY 39 -
Albergue Casteliño - 34km
It was an effective launch form the
Vilaserio albergue this morning. There was
snoring, of course, and for the first time in
ages, talking. Much talking from the
restless man below me, unfortunately also
shaking the bunkbed. I did manage to
sleep. I was tired. I woke at 5:25 and
snuck all my stuff out of the room and
downstairs where I had clocked there was
a general bathroom and a foyer area with
sink. There were a couple of men awake.
Not sure how I managed to luck in with
such a bundle of blokes. There was one
other woman but she was quiet as a
mouse, preferring the lie-low tactic.
I was surprised to discover that muesli,
chocolate flavoured rice milk and chopped
nectarine were quite so delicious at 6:00. A
German smoked cigarettes outside and
another man, who preferred to walk
around in his undies as much as possible.
He looked better dressed.
226
I was also surprised there were so many
men with shaved heads who reject the
notion of hats. The last few days were
torrid with hot beating sun and the men
sported beetroot faces but they still sipped
their beer and discussed sports
regardless.
I slipped out into the sunrise and it was
lovely and still on the road. I tried to
capture the glory on the iPhone but it
would not fit. It was
like my old
instamatic camera
from childhood.
Somewhat
frustrating. There
were limitations as
to what is actually
out there and what
can make it into the
little box.
As I drew near to a T
intersection a white
car pulled up. The window wound down
and a young male face peered at me. He
looked as if he’d just had a brilliant idea
but couldn’t quite remember it. It was just
on the tip of his tongue … We stared at
each other for a moment until I had a
brainwave and said, ‘Hola!’ The boys
inside the car grinned and shouted,
‘Hello!!’ I replied, like a boss, ’Have a great
day!’ We all smiled and they drove off.
Good party, I think.
As I walked on, various ones from the
albergue passed me by, polite greetings
until Lee arrived. ‘I’m a lazy gringo, didn’t
get up till 6:00. Had to photograph the
sunrise … ‘ Blah blah blah … (I was
starting to get the idea that Lee was one of
those fellows who had a wife pleading with
him to get
him out of
the house.)
I completely
agreed with
him. Yes, it
was a
magnificent
day and we
were lucky
and I hoped
his
grandchildren
would be able to see it like this one day
(his first grandchild was about to be born -
I really did know a lot about Lee by this
time). We happened to be passing a very
large modern milking shed. It seemed at
last the industrial agricultural machine
might be making inroads into these
antique lands.
227
Lee then launched into what sounded like
an oft-practiced lecture on industrial
farming practices changing our
relationship with nature as though I know
nothing at all which is certainly not far from
the truth. I thought I disliked him so much
because he had absolutely no interest in
finding out anything about me. He only
wanted to expound on his theories, his
experiences and his expertise. Breaking
into his lecture, I asked if he’d read
Jonathan Safron Foer’s book, ‘Eating
Animals’. He hadn’t. I don’t think he made
a note of it, or Paul Hawkins or the
Symposium either but at least I’d made an
effort.
I couldn’t help myself at once stage in his
diatribe I pointed out that his work in
forestry climate change mitigation
appeared to me to be putting the
ambulance at the bottom of the cliff rather
than trying to fence off the top. I was
actually quite glad to see him because
something he’d told me the previous day
had been niggling away in my mind. The
audience with the Pope. Now, I knew he
was holding off on reading the Encyclical
until he learned enough Latin but I
wondered if he’d spoken to the Pope
about the environment at all. I asked him,
‘Did you tell the Pope you were an
ecologist?’ He became a little bit
uncomfortable and admitted that the
audience was not actually a private chat
but a group activity where the Pope talked
to them and the international group of
admirers just listened while the Pope
banged on about poverty. Lee thought he
was a lucky man to have ‘met’ the Pope.
We were pulling into a small village. Oh! A
delightful little park with dappled shade! I
thought this was a fine time to pull out one
of Anthony’s ‘Camino Excuses’ and tried
the classic, ‘Excuse me, I think I’ll just
utilise this nice park to eat my morning
orange’. And did. Lee went on the hunt for
coffee and sugar. Not far away …
I slurped every drop of juice from my fresh
fruit and I too went to find coffee in a
(different) bar on across the road. It was a
small bakery and the gentleman who
served me had a severe disfigurement on
his face, possibly as the result of burn or
some kind of extreme surgery. This in no
way impeded his work but did offer me
contemplation and counting of blessings. I
took my coffee and an apple outside and
chatted to a woman who was waiting
there, sitting at the other table. She was
very sad. She had spent a day on the trail
from Santiago and found it all too difficult.
She was Italian and between us we
managed to cobble together enough
228
words to have a conversation. I tried to
encourage her, pointing out that if she’d
got that far from Santiago in one day she’d
really been pushing it. She was
disillusioned by the whole thing and glad
to see the taxi arrive. The taxi driver was
even more glad to see the café and made
her wait while he swallowed a coffee and
had a chat with the bar owner.
After they’d left, I stowed my belongings
and took to the road again, tightening my
belt. Who should leap out in front of me
like a bounding hare but Lee. I couldn’t
help myself, my. brain didn’t connect with
my mouth, I let out a ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ I
really don’t know how loud I said it but he
veered off and marched ahead. I didn’t see
him again for another 10km where we met
again in a bar. He informed me that this
was the place he would stay and I was
thrilled for him (for I intended to push on). I
encouraged him strongly, saying that he
had plenty of time, he may as well break
his journey in comfort. As if I cared.
I went on my way with my takeaway salad
roll (bocodillo - very large!) in a plastic bag,
bumping on the outside of my backpack.
By this stage, let’s recap, I’d had three
breakfasts. 1. nectarine and muesli 2.
Banana/coffee 3. Orange/sesame
bar/coffee. The energy provided by this
fuel was necessary as I continued on in
this heated day.
I walked out of Olveiroa, looking for the
perfect picnic spot. As I left town there
were a line of benches against a wall. They
were nice but not the quality which I’d
come to expect in a picnic spot. So I kept
on. Up. Some more up. Up to the wind
farm and the sparsely planted pine trees.
Up above the shadey parts! Where, oh
where, was my perfect lunch spot? I
began to despair.
I turned a burning corner and there were
two pilgrims huddled in a meagre puddle
of shadow under a spindly pine tree. I
congratulated them on their good fortune,
took a slurp of water to sustain myself in
this arid windswept curving roads cape
and continued down. Down over a little
bridge, baking in the sun. Hark ye! A
bridge? Yes, it ran over a little stream!
Hang on … running water and a shadey
spot! An idyllic lunch area created by the
creek spreading out over a rocky patch.
There was a little pool one might have
dandled one’s feet if one was of the kind
that took their boots off willy nilly but I had
grown stern about that kind of reckless
blister inducing behaviour and kept mine
well fastened. I didn’t trust the water
229
quality either but snuggled down into a
seated position. My back well-cushioned
by cool plants and the chair created by
soil and rock could have been designed
by Danes.

This was utter bliss. I stared in grateful

wonder at the wildlife. There were four
different types of dragonfly and a spidery
fly that stood on the moving water. The
sound of the creek burbling gently
through the heat of the day made me feel
as if I were in a green cave.
The wonder is, I had seen these dragon
flies at the beginning of my walk. As I
found the path to Pasajes de San Juan I
had been attracted to a particular shrub,
about my height, that was decorated by
these iridescent beings of green, blue and
bronze. The ones I saw as I breathed in the
water-cooled air were black on first sight,
then as they moved I could see the blue
blended into their wings.
As I dawdled (not dandled) and opened my
pack, seeking MORE food, various
pilgrims puffed past with their red faces
and burnt shoulders (why did the girls
insist on wearing tiny string singlets?).
They all admired my place of beauty yet
none came down to join me. I wouldn’t
have minded sharing but I was awfully
glad they kept going.
After about an hour I thought perhaps I
should move on. I knew it would only get
hotter but I only had 3km or so to get to
the albergue. I gathered myself together
and proceeded. I used the bathroom at a
bar, brought fruit for the morning and when
I turned the wrong direction, the whole
place, full of a large family group of
pilgrims, all shouted at me!
I continued along the river, admiring it from
further downstream. When I saw a hill I did
the only normal thing and marched up it. I
found out later that this was where I first
went wrong. Secondly, I turned the wrong
way when I got to the top of the hill. As I
marched along my misgivings about the

230
missing yellow arrows grew until I
questioned a sleepy family gathered on
their front step to catch a breeze. The man
leapt into action, rushed down to the fence
and described corrective directions with
gesticulation and repetition. I marched
back again, still on the road, but found the
Camino centre shut. At least I was back on
The Way!
I found the last bar before Cee, 15km
away, which I think was a slight
exaggeration but even if it was only 10km
it was plenty for this day. It seemed to be a
local bar for local people. When I enquired
about the albergue there were strange
smiles and an odd attitude. I got a creepy
feeling that perhaps this was the final
albergue connected to the meat pie
factory … I put on a derring-do, we’re-all-
in-this-together cheery face and laughingly
asked the very attractive bar tender what
the heck was going on? She explained
they had been teasing their younger sister.
She had been expecting that no-one
would come to the albergue so she
wouldn’t have to do any cleaning the next
day.
The mother and the bartender bustled
about looking after the local people in the
local bar while the young sleepy girl looked
after filling out the forms and stamping the
sello. I really didn’t understand what was
going on. It all felt a bit grim. I began to
feel this was a mistake, miserably
snapping peanuts out of the shell from the
bowl in front of me. The young women
indicated that I should follow their mum
out into the car park. This was a busy
road. There was indeed some kind of
factory near by. (I don’t think it made meat
pies.) It all looked industrial and truck stop.
Then she indicated I should stow the pack
in the boot. I thought I shouldn’t be getting
in a car - I’m supposed to be walking! But
we went backwards (so that didn’t count)
down the highway and turned into the little
pueblo down the road. We parked in the
middle of some elderly stone farm
buildings. Dogs were going off and a cow
was screaming. Mum unlocked the door of
a recently renovated house. It was very
comfortable indeed. There was a kitchen
with everything one could desire. I was the
first person in so chose my perfect top
layer bunk near the window. I showered,
washed all my clothes in the washing
machine, hung them out in the seering
heat and tried to toast myself from the tan
lines so my feet could get some balancing
sun.
For some hours it looked as if I’d be The
Only Pilgrim in The Albergue! But around
19:30 the hospitalera drove down the entry
231
way and tipped in a Hungarian. I did
suspect it would be so as the previous
night had brought many a weary traveller
to the bar. Presumably some chose to
walk in the evening, having waited out the
extreme heat in a cool bar somewhere.
Also, it did seem the advertising was far
reaching, attractive, and as previously
discussed, misleading. So perhaps, people
were attracted. This place just might miss
the neatly strung up web 2.2km up the
road.
Young Hungarian childcare worker taught
English and German to tiny tots. Her
belongings were covered in cartoon
characters and sparkles. She was very
purposeful and intended to get going early.
We packed up to sleep. We’re both tired. It
was 19:00.
I was so glad I found the mini oil and
vinegars. How to turn a packet of rice
cakes and a tomato into a feast! Oh, and
the emergency dried one-cup veggie soup.
Multi-course dining!
It seemed I walked 28km today which,
given the extra couple of km I walked up
the hill and the wrong way down a
motorway, seemed fair. It meant I’d
snipped tomorrow to under 30km. Given
the high temperatures predicted, that
would be fine. Especially as there was to
be BEACH!
Looking back through my photos I was
surprised to see I hadn’t taken that many.
Most of them I even vaguely remember
where they were taken. Thank goodness
for smart phones that label locations!
There was a cow in pain, or grief, in the
shed next door. Her piercing cries shook
my world. Probably not the only one right
now. I ate an entire block of dark
chocolate with hazel nuts and half of one
just plain chocolate. I would have no more
chocolate for my last day. Day 40. It would
have taken me 40 days and 40 nights to
get to the end of the world.
It would be the last day the next day. The
last yellow arrows. The last albergue. And
a direction to be decided. A new Way and
on Monday, an aim that I shall decide.
Somewhere. On this next day I would
throw my troubles as far as I could throw
them from the end of the world. I would be
who I am after tomorrow.
232
Fisterre/Santiago, Domingo 17th Julio - DAY 40
- Hospidería de San Martín Pinario - 31.3km
(AND THEN SOME!)
I couldn’t really explain this day to myself
as yet, perhaps I would in time. I got up
with Sarah from Hungary, with her Minnie
Mouse towel and her Hello Kitty purse and
she was very positive and purposeful. She
juiced two oranges and put them into her
water bottle which I supposed was one
way to stay hydrated.
What a day! On the split second of 6:00
she was out the door. I ate my breakfast
(banana/museli) in a leisurely manner and
pottered out soon after. The road was still
warm from the day before and the sky was
clear. I saw one star. The way of the stars.
Pah. Not when you go to sleep at 20:00 it’s
not.
233
It was lovely walking this morning, if a little
strict. I really wanted to get to Cee, 15km,
as quickly as I could to avoid the heat. It
was in direct sun for most of the way so,
all in all, correct choice. Got to Cee about
10:00ish which hardly seems right looking
back.
There’d been some wild festival the night
before and the place was covered in
empty bottles and evidence of extreme
partying. Wading through the litter I asked
the street cleaner if he’d been out drinking
here and he shook his head, shocked. No
way! He’d been asleep!
Found a glamorous café and parked my
stuff in the window. Particularly good
coffee and tos/tom/aci. When Sara arrived
I ordered another coffee but wouldn’t you
know it, the place was full. The bartender’s
skills went out the window in direct
correlation with the amount of people he
had to serve.
Sara and I chatted about her Melbourne
friends and how she would love to cuddle
a koala and pat a wombat. She was very
disappointed when I disabused her of this
romantic fluffy notion. (Should I have? She
was so cute.)
Then she said she was really looking
forward to this night of nights when, at
sunset, she would burn all the clothes
she’d worn along the Camino. I
thoughtlessly said, ‘Oh, I’m not doing that.’
She was really shocked. She stared at me
with disapproval and surprise mingled on
her sweet young round face. She
stammered, ‘But why?’
And I sternly said, ‘Climate change.’ Of
course.
And she said, ‘But, it’s just us, burning a
few clothes, that’s not going to make a
difference.’
And I said, ‘Yes, it is. It’s all of us. All the
time. All our actions.’
Quickly we changed the subject to safer
ground. What did Sara think of the Pope?
I asked her if she’d read the Encyclical
about Nature. She hadn’t heard of it. She
added that she didn’t like the Pope. I had
never heard of such a thing. How could a
Catholic express negativity towards El
Papa? I didn’t know it was possible. I
pressed her for more details. She said she
thought he was like a fox. Wily? Tricky?
She couldn’t find the right English word. I
asked her what made her think that. She
said that ever since he’d been elected she
had worried that he was going to do
234
something, what she could not say, but
she felt with all her being that he would be
the last, or perhaps the second-last, pope
ever. She thought he would destroy the
entire Catholic church. I told her about the
American ecologist who had attended an
audience with the Pope where they had all
worried about outcasts and poor people
but did not mention any action that might
assist such folk. That was, according to
the American ecologist, of course. He’d
been very impressed with the Pope.
Sara’s lips drew thin and taught across her
face. She was disapproving. ‘That’s as
maybe … ‘
I asked her to think about exactly what he
might do to bring down the church and
please let me know if we met again later. I
left her to apply more sunscreen and drink
more orange juice.
As I walked, I found I was
angry. With what? With the
Catholic church. Hugging
false idols, huge empty
monument buildings,
burning their plastic lycra
clothes. It was all absurd. I
did ask Lee if the Pope
knew he was an ecologist
at the audience. Turned
out it was more like a seminar where the
Pope gets to chat with people and Lee no
more met the Pope than I did. Fie upon
them! I have no patience with them.
So I marched on. And up. There were a
number of steep sections today and luckily
a good number under shade. I kept on,
determined not to be caught in the sun.
Through Cee, by the sea, where a filthy
factory burned coal, even on a Sunday,
with no sign of what they were making.
Power, I suppose. Huge heaps of coal lay
around the grim installation of pipes and
smoke.
The coast changed every time I saw it, the
rocks jagged in some places, the sand
smooth and naked as the tide receded.
The water was completely flat. The tide
was out as I came into a bay, with strange
235
patterns of currents drawing finger paint
swirls across the smooth blue surface.
I stopped at a bar, packed with families
enjoying a midday meal, their children
spilling out over the pathway and onto the
beach with gurgles and shrieks. The
overworked waitress had no idea if there
was a fruiteria nearby. I took a detour away
from the beach to see if I could find the
town. It was very hot by now. The road
parallel to the beach was filled with
hideous apartment buildings and hotels.
The road was hot and I could find no sign
of a shopping strip. I slunk back to the
beach path. I started to feel a toilet would
be useful and decided to look for a bar.
Then I turned a corner and found a public
toilet facility and it was OPEN! Not only
that but it was CLEAN! There was
excellence in timing!
As I continued down the beach path it
curved and wandered through sand dunes
and then into a grassy area. The
composition turned from boardwalk or
ashfelt into crazy paving and lead into a
spindly pine forest. A sturdy man ahead of
me looked around. He looked furtive. Then
he let his large black and tan dog off the
choker chain to roam amongst the slender
trunks. Then the man popped behind a
spindly tree for a wee. I did remember
Keira’s story about meeting a flasher. I
didn’t think I was in for such a treat but I
was wary.
The man had to hurry as I was nearly upon
him. He pulled himself together and
returned to the path. I pretended not to
notice anything amiss. He straightened his
trousers and checked his front for drips.
Fascinating.
I met a lone pilgrim coming back in the
opposite direction. She was thin, sensibly
dressed with long sleeves and a very large
sunhat. She was checking her phone. I
asked her if we were going the right way.
She was caught up in her private concern
and looked up at me with worried eyes.
She said, in a strong English accent, ‘If
you want a bed, then you need to turn
back to find a pensione.’
But Finisterre was ahead and I had
business in Finisterre so I kept going.
There were reputedly plenty of albergues
there. It was a hot day. It was a small
fishing village, with curling roads and sea
themed decorations on houses. I passed a
clump of tired sunburned pilgrims. They
lay in the shade opposite the municipal
albergue like a motley gang of kangaroos.
There were a number of packs lined up
outside the Municipal albergue, waiting
236

while their owners went to lunch. This was
not common practice on the Norte or
Primitivo but I understood it was normal on
the Frances. I wasn’t sure I’d like to leave
my pack lying about like that, unattended
and vulnerable. Look what happened to
Martin Sheen in The Way! The bars after
Melide preferred no packs inside either,
leaving a pile outside while the pilgrims
jostled about ordering and going to the
bathroom inside. In one way I suppose this
practice acted as a sign for friends, most
people having distinctive flowers or flags
on their packs. Of course, everyone had a
scallop shell.
I kept going, with my pack, and marched
past albergue owners soliciting business in
a friendly manner. They chatted to
passersby. I wanted to get to the end on
this day. I was like a train. Onwards,
onwards, ever onwards. There was no
reason to stop. As usual there was little
thought going on in my head. Just my legs
moving.
The signs pointed to Faro and I asked
someone, one of the albergue owners
hanging around outside, and he said, yes,
that was the way to the light house. Only
2.2kms to go. That would make it 30kms
that day. Ish. I kept going and by jingoes it
was hot. Up the hill, curving up into the
sun, beside the road, marching, marching,
marching. When I was hungry I stopped
and stood by a pine tree offering some
meagre shade. I wolfed down a packet of
mixed crispy corn, fruit and nuts. It was a
salty cocktail mix, crunchy and chewy all
at once. Like bones from the sea.
I stopped next to the sculpture of the
classic pilgrim near the top of the hill.
Interestingly he looks away from the coast,
as though he’s battling wind and rain. I
stood and looked across the sea. The sun
beamed down on the road behind me, on
the sparkling sea and on the roofs of cars
that travelled like big beetles up and down
the hill. Sun blared down on a large
souvenir shop but that didn’t stop me
walking around it and finding the
bathrooms. There were many folk
237
examining the fridge magnets and tea
towels with great interest. I kept going,
past the light house and over to the tower.
It was like a red-painted skinny bit of Eiffel.
There is a sign forbidding people to burn
anything but clearly that has not stopped
them. As I went on, on, on to the end of
the land, I could see boots and socks and
shoes scattered about. Little mounds of
black smeary nylon ashes. It was a bit like
a sparse tip. Knowing I was about to throw
something was slightly unnerving but at
least it was biodegradable. Earth to earth.
Crystal to mineral.
Past the lighthouse was a grassy but
inherently rocky landscape. Sandy parts
between huge boulders sheltered tough
grasses and small shrubs. It was a steep
descent to the water. The waves crashed
against the rocks at the bottom. The water
was calm, but still powerful. There were
currents meeting out there, fishing nets
and small boats.
But how strange. There were other
landmasses clearly visible right in front of
us. It was difficult to think why the Celts
thought of this as the end of the world.
You could easily see other ends of the
world nearby. The sun glinted from the tips
of waves. It was very hot. My head was
hot.
I climbed down past the day-trippers and
tourists, past the three young men who sat
separately on their own rocks, looking at
splashing birds pounding into the flat, hot
blue like an airport floor. There was a line
of white, which could have been sewage
or could have been a fishing net, marring
the perfection of the view. I kept on going.
I really wanted to land the stone in the
water. I perused the options. I chose a
large rock I thought I could get to in safety
and be able to manage the throw. I
calculated the distance and angle of climb.
I climbed down to a midpoint boulder and
ditched the pack. I was a bit shaky by now
so I ate my orange. It was half-cooked. I
crammed it in my mouth.
I went down, through the spiky plants,
thrown boots and tights and burnt
remains, expecting to see a snake at any
moment. I got to the chosen rock and
leaned on it for a moment. I felt there was
no need to endanger life and limb any
further, as I was by myself, and prepared
the stone by exposing it to the energy of
the sun and loading it up with insecurity,
self-doubt and helplessness. All the things
I no longer need. Then I returned it to the
plush purple bag with insignia prepared by
Keira and spoke to the elements. I found
my voice catching in my throat as I
thanked the sky, the earth and the sea for
238
this opportunity to make myself the best
person I could possibly be. I was leaving
these things behind to become part of
them.
And I threw it. I clung slightly to the rock
with one hand for I had no desire to be like
Mrs Pidgeon who threw a spider out of her
front door and landed in hospital with a
severe case of broken bones, having
thrown herself out with the spider.
The stone bounced three times and landed
about half a metre away from the sea. I
was shocked. That wasn’t in the script. I
should have practiced with other stones. I
looked at it, lying purple obvious in the
sun. I examined the few metres of rocky
landscape I would have to negotiate to
climb down to it. It wasn’t much but it was
steep. I’d already come considerable
distance and I was tired. I knew I had to
get back up again. I felt like a loser. All I
had to do was chuck the blessed thing in
the water and I couldn’t even do that.
for their own needs. It had served its
purpose for me. I was done. I had
delivered the things I no longer needed to
the end of the world. Criticism,
over-judging and over-thinking were on
that stone too. It was over.
I turned and climbed back. It was tricky. I
got back to the pack and hoisted that on
too.
I went into the lighthouse, Faro de
Finisterre, to collect the sello in my
credential. Another sculpture of the classic
pilgrim stood by the door on a little plinth
with wheels. I guess they moved him in
and out. I watched all the tourists. There
was a man with a selfie stick taking photos

Then, I thought I would rewrite the script. I

only had to throw it as far as I could. I
didn’t have to kill myself as a byproduct.
So I called The End. The edge was near.
One storm would have it over. Alternatively
it would fade and become part of the cliff.
Or some brave fool would find it and use it

239
up womens’ dresses. Outraged, I took a
photo of him. Did he see?
I asked a cheerful young woman if she
could take my photo by the last milestone,
marked with 0:00km. She didn’t speak
English but she was happy to oblige and
she left her seat with her picnic of various
snacks and treats spilling from her bag.
She had a lovely smile. A Spanish family
were posing by the marker so we waited
for them to finish. Recognising us as the
virtuous pilgrims we were, they asked me
where I had come from. They appeared
impressed when I told them I had done the
Norte/Primitivo route, some 870km. My
photographer performed her duties with
aplomb and I asked her where she had
come from. When she revealed she had
walked from Prague, we were all amazed.
She had walked through Germany, France
and Spain to get to the end of the world.
Three months of walking. The Spanish
family and I applauded and congratulated
her like mad. She refused to have her
photo taken. One of the men suggested I
should now walk to Prague. We all laughed
when I told them I was indeed going there
but I would be taking the train.
And that was that. It was over. I had
finished.
I came back down the hill and
half-heartedly tried at a pensione to see if
they had a bed. She did not but suggested
a vego friendly restaurant for me. When I
got there it was shut. There were many fish
food type restaurants clustered around the
port. They were all closing. I found a lovely
waitress who took my order; ensalada
todas verduras; sin mayo, sin atun, sin
carné; solo verduras and some patatas.
There was consternation in the kitchen.
One of those where the chef, a small
woman, came to look at me. Really? Yup.
Por favor. She got it done.
I sat and looked at the commercial fishing
themed tourist trap around me as I
munched bread and salad. I emptied my
pockets of the empty cocktail-mix packet
and I found the bus timetable I’d picked up
in the Santiago tourism office. I asked the
waitress if the bus-stop was nearby. It was
just around the corner. The bus would be
going in half an hour.
There was a long queue of people waiting.
A slim young fellow, about the same age
as my son, came to stand beside me. After
a little time he turned to speak to me. ‘I
saw you. Climbing down the rocks.’
I remembered him. He’d been one of the
three young men sitting on the rocks
240
above me. He had sat with his knees
crossed. Perhaps meditating. Watching a
middle-aged sun-stroke victim clamber
down the cliff. I felt some comfort. If I had
thrown myself off the end of the world he
would have been able to tell people. I was
not sure I liked having a witness to my
failure to get the stone into the water. I
looked at him and debated telling him I’d
not lived up to my own expectations. I’d
missed the target. Then I reminded myself
I’d rewritten the script. I had succeeded in
getting there and off-loading my unwanted
items. I had done my duty. I was on track.
We looked at each other and held our
peace. We smiled. We’d been to the end of
the world. It was a little bit like having Felix
there with me. His friends came to gather
him up. I moved forward in the queue.
The bus-driver was grumpy. Tourists and
pilgrims alike kept trying to pile on without
putting their luggage in the cargo hold.
There seemed to be no room when I
looked in and the driver looked like he
might have a stroke when I tried to board,
still with the pack. He indicated strongly
there was more cargo area on the other
side of the bus, if I’d bothered to look. I
sheepishly stowed my bag, paid the ticket
and got a seat right in the front. The
air-conditioning was bliss. An extremely
large fellow from Brazil sat beside me. He
had spent five days on the Portuguese
way. He was staying in Santiago, being a
tourist by catching the bus. I must have
really smelled. I know my pack did. I felt no
shame. I was glad to be on my way out of
there.
Back in Santiago, I shared a taxi from the
station to the Cathedral with two German
women who couldn’t be bothered waiting
for three-quarters of an hour for the bus. It
was Sunday, remember?
I knew the parador monastery by the
Cathedral in Santiago had special pilgrim
rates so I checked in there. I was in a quiet
room on the top floor. There were to be no
yellow arrows for me in the morning. I
could see the sunset from my monastery
room.
241
6
Go Back to the Beginning
From Santiago to Leon, 18th Julio - DAY 41 -
Train!

Going backwards to Leon! Poetic really. I of the way of the cleaners just before the
reflected on my journey. Immediately I first dawn walkers.
found more anger. On that hot march
onward and upward towards the end of I had given coins to one beggar but not to

the world was the realisation I had been all, those women with rotten teeth, who

sucked in. I had taken the mythology bait held up a little cup, plastic or paper

and swallowed hard. I had taken photos of crumpled and stained with remains of

the glorious Cathedral and avoided getting take-away coffee. They cried out, ‘Por

the beggars in frame. Those blanketed favor! Por favor!’ with increasing

figures lining the walls of the shops, desperation and volume as I passed them

sleeping under shelter, waking to move out by. It was heartbreaking.

243
The young mute woman (who I suppose
my father would have assumed was
actually perfectly fine, probably from
Sydney, probably with a trust fund) who
got me to fill out the form. She said it was
a petition. It was to encourage the
Santiago powers that be that a building
was necessary to house and educate
those with misfortune, such as she. The
last column which I did not see until I got
there was a request to fill in how much
money I would donate. I had no cash and I
was not impressed by the idea of pledging
to pay money to an unknown organisation
on a photocopied petition in a religious
city. I left it empty and apologised silently
as she expressed dismay that I did not
hand over similar sums as those that had
preceeded me; 5 Euros, 10 Euros, 50
Euros … I tried to explain that she had got
me outside the Cathedral, on exit. I’d given
5 Euros to the church for theatrical
purposes alone, and I don’t know what
coins I’d handed over to the elderly
woman dressed in black with stumpy teeth
and a black hat. There’d been another with
a green cardigan on the way into the
Cathedral as well, so I was afraid, blonde
mute girl, you missed out.
I feared having to grit my teeth and
examine my finances. I knew I hadn’t been
profligate but I had just spent, without
noting anything down, without keeping any
receipts, wildly and irresponsibly. It did
add up and soon I would have to recover
the mantle of modern living. It cost 23
Euros to stay in the smart monastery but
with a generous buffet breakfast which
had included plenty of fruit, cereal and
toast options. I had eaten as much
breakfast as I could stuff in.
I had a mad dash around the early empty
streets trying to find a way to the train
station. Eventually I settled for a taxi for
the first available seat. Then, as I
attempted to explain to the guy in booth
number 4, he said, computer says no, train
to Leon full. I could go on the next day. I
paused. Thinking. Luckily I did for this
simple task had become increasingly
difficult since my first easy discussions
with the monastery receptionist, the taxi
driver directing me, the man in the pilgrim
office directing me, the young woman in
the invisible RENFE office (hiding behind
the post office) who could see the
available seat on the train but couldn’t
make the booking because she couldn’t
stamp the Eurail pass directing me that
she could hold the seat for an hour but I
would have to hurry to the station to pay
for it and she’d written the details down on
a slip to show to the staff … All seemed
lost.
244
Suddenly the man in booth number 4
deflated and said I should move to booth
number 1. And this fellow did some And how fast did the country fly past?
juggling on his computer, found a seat,
stamped the Eurail pass and pointed me
to the correct platform. An interminable 25
minute wait and I was on my way,
backtracking across Spain.

So the vagaries of the transport system

would be my focus and interest. The
slurped on painted yellow arrows giving
way to the iron streamers of railroad lines.

245
Irun, Tuesday 19th Julio - DAY 42 - Train - and
on to France!

Just spent last hour in Vallalodid, checking to spend some time there, to work out
out a mysterious sculpture with an eagle what the heck that sign/statue meant.
rending the face of a woman standing
behind an explorer in a boat. The next I woke a couple of times in the night and,

layer down was a lion ripping the letter ’N’ luckily, finally on the alarm but it was silent.

from a sign that said ‘Non plus mas’. There I must have done something to the

were other people and things but the sign settings. Great. Worked it out. I’d turned

said there was study and bravery. It was off the sound. Not helpful. Must have been

very confusing. There was reason enough ESP.

246
Felt a bit unpractised as I organised
breakfast, packed up and noted I’ve left
faint hemp oil marks on the shiny wall from
my feet. Tried to wipe it off. I expect the
cleaners would be using full force
detergent. When I thought of all the
albergue walls that were smudged with oil
or Pomada St Juan from my feet up the
wall times …
cool ice-cream shop called me inside for
fruit salad. As I walked in the power failed.
I sat quietly soaking up the cool
environment as she frantically tried to work
out how to switch it back on. She was in
charge of the ice-cream, after all! Finally
she rang an expert and made some
adjustments and the lights, and the till,
hummed back on.

Together with this

helpful young
assistant, we worked
out there were two
albergues in the
vicinity. One was full
and I couldn’t find the
other. Returned to
primary eating idea.
One restaurant kitchen
closed, the waiter
there advised another
just around the corner.
This would always be
open. All this within
sight of the enormous
When I arrived in Leon about 16:00 it was
Cathedral baking in the middle of an oven
really hot. Stifling. Very quiet. Siesta time.
plaza like an ornate wedding cake. A
The station was about ten minutes from
bunch of kangaroo pilgrims lounged in the
the Cathedral and I slunk, bent and beaten
shade waiting for the tourist office to open.
by the sun, from shady spot to shady spot.
Even the beggars had deserted their posts
I wandered off piste a bit trying to find an
in front of the cathedral. It really was hot. It
open albergue or hostel but eventually a
turned out the restaurant that was always

247

open was attached to a small hotel and
that it had a vegetarian menu. I floundered
on the notion of spending 30 Euros for a
one room but, given the last forty nights
had generally been within budget I could
probably splash out. So I got a
comfortable room (to smear with hemp oil)
and a new, clean bathroom. I washed,
decided to get my small amount of clothes
washed done for 9 Euros and headed out
to the Cathedral.
Got out into the baking zone and realised
I’d forgotten my credential to get stamped.
I turned to the supermarket for supplies to
get me through the long train journey on
the next day - not very arduous but so hot
- and trotted back to the Cathedral. Toured
it with the audio guia and once more with
my own eyes. It was being renovated so
the full angry glare of the afternoon sun,
turned to glory through the rose window at
the head of the church, was covered by
scaffolding and marred somewhat.
The great inner space of the building does
celebrate light. The first impression on
entry was of those enormous windows of
leaves and vines on either side of the main
nave. Utterly huge, beautiful and intricate.
Apparently the renovations in the
nineteenth century brought the choir stall
midway down the body of the church and
that does tend to forestall the view. I had
to take my credential to the museum for
stamping and I discovered that was all the
sightseeing I could manage that day. I
went back to the restaurant and ate plenty.
Then I went upstairs, gathered my empty
back pack and took it down to the bar. I
ordered a shot of vodka. I took both drink
and pack to a quiet corner and sprinkled
vodka over the arm straps and the most
smelly parts of the fabric, hoping the
drycleaning process would kill the worst of
the bacteria.
248
In the morning, the train went on and I was
back in Victoria Gasteis, back through San
Sebastian and Irun. I decided to stay on
for Hendaye and do the walk into Irun from
France, a mere ten minute stroll.
Hilariously, I could not get Wifi, could not
organise accommodation and became
suddenly nervous about not having a bed
for the night. So I turned on my mobile
data roaming and the thing that landed
was Anthony’s comment about walking
across the bridge and swimming in the
Hendaye beach. Fine, that sounded great,
so I asked a couple of people where the
beach was and off I trotted obediently
following their FRENCH instructions.
Of course, it was the wrong way and I saw
eventually there was no beach, only more
France. I was incredulous that everyone
spoke French, here in France, just ten
minutes away from the Spanish border. I
did ask again and a sympathetic woman
told me I was wrong. It was 41 degrees. I
was very hot. She told me I had to head
back to the railway station and from there
go back to Irun. Start again. How prone
am I? We walked together to Irun. She told
me about her cleaning job - she lives in
Irun and works in Hendaye and walks four
days a week. She has one son, still small,
and they live with her mother and her aunt.
She left me at the local train but I did press
on en pie, and I did find the bridge - at
least one with pot plants - and I saw a
yellow arrow but right beside this utilitarian
bridge there was another, more ornate, so I
thought perhaps that one was more
celebratory of the enormity of the border. I
went over there and snapped what I
assumed to be border markers. There was
nothing clear, no a sign that says here is
Spain! Then I proceeded to a strange
collection of Tobacconists. I wondered if
French people came over the border to
pick up their cheap tobacco. That’s what it
looked like. There were at least four, big
shops. One was more like a duty free
shop. It even had attractive models
offering free tastes of tobacco. This
probably spells SPAIN!! to the French side.
So, back to the yellow arrows. They
pointed up, and then down, past a nice
river fringed with reeds and picturesque
painted rowboats. I made my way into the
town and found the Irun Cathedral. It is
obviously very old. The stones were
melting away in the atmosphere. The faces
on the people decorating the edifice were
worn smooth and lumpy. The Cathedral
was shut up tight. I was also melting.
I dragged myself to the museo. I gasped in
the air-conditioning through my mouth and
every cell in my skin as though I was a fish
249
thrown back into water. The
woman behind the desk
laughed as I entered,
bastónes akimbo, fabric
stuck to limbs, face purple
with heat. She directed me
to their free exhibition
displaying sexual images
from Roman murals.
Reluctantly, I demurred,
preferring instead to ask for
directions to the Irun
albergue, the place where I
wished I’d begun my
Camino some forty one
days before.

Eventually three kind

women gathered to
compare notes and
eventually to phone the
albergue. They felt the
albergue must have moved.
They found an old map of
the town for me. They drew
directions on it. Once again, I held a map barely entered the common room before I
of Irun with swirled instructions drawn spilled my aggrieved story to the first man.
upon it and I moved straight ahead, He gestured me inside and introduced me
through the streets of shops and down the to the second man. Both thin and retired,
hill by the pizza parlour. I arrived with one both sincere and kindly, these men
other and we were beamed up to the first listened while I explained about my
floor and welcomed by the gentle double-crossing priest, the man who had
hospitaleros. I could not believe my luck. I

250
steered me wrong on my first minutes of
the Camino.
But, the map that I pointed to, the map I’d
been given by the museo staff, was a
different printing to the one I’d started
with. There, in the middle of the highway,
was a shell. The road was an accepted
part of the Way, to the extent it was
decorated with concha! The priest had in
fact told me one of the correct ways that
joins up eventually with the more popular
route. It was the map that was wrong.
The hospitaleros were quietly shocked
with the idea that El Padre would mislead
a poor pilgrim. I think the men I met were
so convinced they knew the correct way
they made me think the priest had steered
me wrong. Again, everyone has a different
Camino.
I began to see, particularly after today, that
it was just my normal style to head off, to
start straight away. To bravely begin. I was
good at that. Jumping in. Normally there
would a fifty percent chance of being right.
If there were more options my success
rate lowered. But I congratulated myself,
at least I did begin. At least I did conquer
my fear and I did it anyway. I persevered
and found out the error of my ways.
And eventually I made it. I got on the right
track.
There you go.
251
Irun - France - Miercoles 21 July - Day 43
I made a valiant effort, getting up with the
first crackling of plastic bags and
zippily-zip of the extremely dynamic
German woman, Beatrice, on her sixth,
Camino. She had three kids and a
husband who understood that if she did
not go away each year, she would go mad.
The shape of her torso was bent, her neck
forward, striving with her heavy pack even
as she stood without pack. She was the
loudest, most social person in the albergue
kitchen the previous night and certainly the
keenest to crack on in the morning. She
had opinions on all her Caminos and many
stories, but she was equally as keen to
deflect any advice. She listed some of the
‘shoulds’ that people had given her over
the years; go slower, take in the views,
take in the spirit of the Camino … But she
pointed out when she went slowly she
tended to wobble. She had to go far and
fast. She couldn’t use poles because of
trouble in her neck. She was super fit, and,
there you go, it was her way.
I met Paul, a young man from a small town
near Dresden. He was wearing a very cool
tee-shirt. I asked permission to
photograph it for my son. He told me he
had never been in a plane before he took
the one that brought him to Bilbao. He was
252
twenty-nine. He was very nervous. He also
had a lovely smile. He was a
mathematician - I suspect he’d completed
a doctorate. He told me he had grown
tired of working so hard on things he could
pilgrim checking on a newbie.
That was that, then, 6:15 I was out on the
not-so-busy highways and byways of Irun,
making my direct way to the train station

not communicate with his friends and without faltering much. Just one correction

family. They would ask him about his day with the help of a street sweeper and a

and he could only wave his hands gently in smart lady further on and I was at the

front of him as he tried to gather the station half an hour before the train’s

abstraction that was pure mathematics expected departure. Wrong. I had three

and try in vain to translate these ideas into hours to wait. So I did the normal thing

words. So he apprenticed himself to a and decided to head over to visit the

watchmaker and learned how to make beach. In France.

watches. He loved transporting the

I struck out on my well-worn path of the
physical elements into perfect clockwork.
day before. I became more and more
And he could talk to his family about it! I
uncomfortable, needing a bathroom quick
gave him my bastónes. It felt like the right
smart. The views were lovely, coming to a
thing to do and I was lighter for it.
marina/port/wetland area with a boardwalk

As I was preparing to sleep, I met a Dutch pathway for early morning joggers and dog

woman with four children and four walkers. Not so many at 7:30 but enough.

grandies. She looked younger than me! The public WC was locked. I kept on and

She was on her sixth Camino also,

though far more quiet and self
possessed than others in the albergue
that night. She was a swimming teacher
and very fit, you could see that in her
bearing. I liked her immediately and
ranted to her about my surprise that the
Catholic Church and the Camino are not
more connected to saving Creation. She
agreed to keep an eye out for Paul for
those first couple of days as an expert

253
turned to where I suspected this famous
beach might be, sweating with the
humidity and heat left over from the day
before. Already it was 21 degrees
according to the farmacia’s clock. The
streets became more cultivated, more
manicured than those I’d encountered in
Irun. It felt French, somehow. I passed
boulangeries and RE shops and finely
turned into a street that lead directly to a
pavilion, not unlike the one at Bondi, so I
knew I was near the beach at last. I
stumbled into a French café (just in time
for my presence of mind and calm of
bladder), enjoyed the smooth jazz
ambiance, the slim waiter with smartly
sculpted hair who forgot I existed as men
approached the bar and engaged him in
lively and warm French banter.
How stupid to be surprised by French
things when I was in France. I realised I
had spent all my time preparing for Spain. I
had not thought of France. I’d managed
‘Merci’ scraped from school. I needed to
concentrate on the future!
Relaxed, full of bread and coffee, I took
the Wifi opportunity to check out my
options. The big cities, Bordeau, Toulouse,
Lyon and Nice all seemed to offer grand
museums and churches with
expensiveness. As I was walking around
the boardwalk by the water I was struck by
a feeling of peace and quiet. I felt I needed
to be somewhere relaxing, perhaps for a
couple of days. This could also be a
holiday, not just continual exploration and
derring-do. Why not? The idea of finding a
little coastal hotel somewhere, even by a
river, suddenly seemed very attractive.
So then to the beach, and it was indeed a
lovely, lovely beach stretching to rocky
outcrops in the distance. I was very
pleased to have seen it but I had no time
for swimming and relaxing at that time. I
turned on my heel and made my way
back, stopping at a newsagent to find a
French phrasebook. Well, of course, they
had an English/French book which gave
the correct pronunciation of the English
words, assuming that the reader already
knew French. Not ideal for me. And I had a
plan for a bocodillo to eat on the train but I
will have to seek one in Bordeaux in the
hour I had to hand there.
So pleased to be facing the right direction.
All in all, life was very good. French bread,
jam and coffee, sea air and the sight of a
surf school and I was in France!
There you go … Ahí tienes … Voilà!
¡Buen Camino!
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255
Aftermath After the Camino
Visiting new places
Revisiting los peregrinos!

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PARIS
René’s Walk in Camino Style
(this took me two days!)
Leaving the albergue, (which is just near
Cloud Cakes 6 rue Mandar 75002 Paris
https://boutique.cloudcakes.fr/en
so you may as well have a delicious coffee
and a vegan croissant to begin your day),
turn left out of the shop and turn right into
Rue Montorgueil. Continue and turn 4th
right in Rue Tiquetonne. Take ahead Rue
Etienne Marcel up to Place des Victoires
(Louis the 14th statue).
On the place take 2nd small street on your
right Rue Vide-Gousset.
Facing the church take small street on
your left, Passage des Petits Pères.
Straight ahead enter Galerie Vivienne. You
may visit the Galerie but you have to turn
left to exit Rue des Petits Champs.
Turn right in Rue des Petits champs and
immediately left to take stairs down to
Passage des Deux Pavillons.
Cross the Rue de Beaujolais and ahead to
the small passage to enter the Palais Royal
gardens.
Cross all the garden up to the Buren
columns and exit opposite side. You
should arrive on a place facing one entry
of the Musée du Louvre.
Cross the Rue de Rivoli and enter the
Louvre court in front of the glass pyramide.
Turn right towards the Place du Carrousel
(big arch) and continue straight ahead
through the Jardin des Tuileries.
Exit the garden at the opposite side on the
Place de la Concorde (obelisque ).
Turn left towards the Seine river, do not
cross it but get down to follow the river
bank heading to the Eiffel tower.
Continue on the river bank, leaving on your
right the Grand Palais and passing under
Pont Alexandre III and Pont des Invalides
bridges, up to Pont de l'Alma where you
will leave the bank.
Back to the river facing the place, take on
the left side Avenue du Président Wilson
and continue up to Place du Trocadero.
Take the large stairs on your left to get the
best view on the Eiffel tower.
257
Continue downstairs towards the tower,
cross the river to go to the left bank, pass
under the tower and continue straight
ahead across the Champ de Mars gardens
up to École Militaire.
In front of this building, turn left and take
the Avenue de la Motte-Piquet, continuing
up to the Invalides gardens.
Cross the gardens, go to the opposite side
half way to catch Rue de l'Université.
Pass the Assemblée Nationale building,
then take on your left the Rue de Courty
and continue by Rue de Lille.
Turn right in Rue du Bac up to Boulevard
Saint Germain. Turn left on the boulevard
up to the Saint Germain des Près church.
Facing the church take on the left side the
Rue de l'Abbaye along the church up to
the Rue de Buci.
Turn left and continue Rue de Buci straight
ahead to Rue Saint André des Arts. You
enter the Quartier Latin district.
Cross the Place Saint Michel and take the
small Rue de la Huchette.
Continue straight ahead by the Rue de la
Bûcherie up to the Seine river.
Cross the river by the small bridge the
Pont au Double. You are in front of
Notre-Dame de Paris on the Île de la Cité.
Facing Notre-Dame, take the street on the
left along the cathedral the Rue du Cloître
Notre-Dame.
Ar the end cross the bridge to arrive in Île
Saint Louis. Continue straight ahead in
Rue Saint Louis en l'île.
At the end cross the river to come back to
the right bank of the Seine.
Turn left to take Rue Saint Paul and
continue up to Rue Saint Antoine.
You enter the Marais district.
Turn left in Rue Saint Antoine and enter, if
open, the Hôtel de Sully. Cross the courts
and exit the garden by a small door in the
corner on your far right.
You will enter then in Place des Vosges.
Keep left and exit the place by the next
corner on your left in Rue des Francs
Bourgeois.
Continue Rue des Francsk bourgeois
straight ahead (Picasso museum nearby),
continue then by Rue Rambuteau (along
Musée Pompidou) up to Rue Saint Denis.
258
Turn right in Rue Saint Denis.
Pass Rue Etienne Marcel, Rue de Turbigo
and Rue Tiquetonne.
Then turn left in the Passage du Grand Cerf
(just after Rue Tiquetonne).
To have the best general view of Paris, it's
better to go the top of the Tour
Montparnasse. More central than Tour Eiffel
and the only place you do not see this ugly
Tour Montparnasse.

Continue straight ahead in Rue Marie Stuart.

Turn right in Rue Montorgueil and Rue des

Petits Carreaux.

• That's set.

Part 2

- Montmartre --> try to go to Place Blanche

and climb to the hill by Rue Lepic up to
Martine and René are super! They continue
Place du Tertre. Have a look to Sacré Coeur
to walk - here’s their Rome pilgrimage:
church and streets around like Rue Saint
http://essert-roma.blogspot.fr/
Vincent 

- Opéra district, Place Vendôme, Grands
Boulevards, minutes from the albergue



-  DO NOT MISS the Saint Chapelle on the Île
de la Cité, but avoid any knife or inadequate
stuff in your bag as it's located inside the
perimeter of the Palais de Justice and
security is reinforced

- the Champs Élysées, but NOT this Sunday
(Tour de France ends there)

259
 Anthony Plant is a guitarist from
Texas and I haven’t visited him
yet. But you can see his
performance of ‘The Way to
Santiago:
https://www.anthonyplantmusic.c
om/media

I visited lovely Nadja in Munich! Here in the

English Gardens, she explained how the
German people socialise with pretzels, beer
and bands beside a pagoda.

260
I met Dorthe and Sue on the
Primitivo and we met again in
Copenhagen. Then Sue
invited me to housesit for her
at Christmas so here is Dorthe
in Asnaes in the Odsherred
Region, about an hour west of
Copenhagen. Beautiful!

261
The glamorous trio of Oscar, Rebecca and Barry now live in Scotland. But I managed to
visit them twice when they lived in the south of England, near West Wittering. And they
returned the favour in 2018 when they came to visit me in Sevilla, Spain. I’m now in
Australia and who knows when we will all meet again. There you go!

262
And here I am again, walking from Pamplona to Burgos in 2019. I
arrived in Madrid April ‘16 and I left Santander June ’19. There you
go! ¡Buen Camino!

Victoria Osborne 2020

www.ourrelationshipwithnature.com
https://www.facebook.com/Victoria.Osborne.author/

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