I'd applied the anti-inflammatory patch, a big gob of it, to my right knee before setting out, and by the time I was a half hour out of town, I suddenly realized that I was in no discomfort at all....I mean, NONE! I was fairly flying along the path. I got the idea of leaving little bouquets of wildflowers for the rest of the crew along the wooden montons which marked the path, to show them that I was thinking of them. Every time I saw a particularly nice patch of flowers, or stopped for a water break or to take a picture, I'd make one for them.
After an hour or two of walking through woods and fields, I came onto a series of secondary roads with charming little farms. There were lots of ups and downs but on this day, it didn't matter. I was having a wonderful time.
As I walked by some newer houses set among apple trees in bloom, I came upon one which was evidently undergoing major construction. I had paused to consider the guidebook because two roads diverged at this point. Soon I heard someone calling to me. The lady of the house asked if I would like some tea. I was just about out of water at this point so I was thankful and accepted. I waited at the end of the walk, but again, she came out and invited me in. Putting aside everything I'd ever heard about walking under ladders, I stepped through the scaffolding over the front door and entered. The place had just about been gutted, so it didn't matter that my boots were filthy. The owners sat me down in the kitchen where the lady was making a hot lunch for the workers, Pan fried sardines, eggs, potatoes...yum. We conversed in Spanish about various things, and I gulped down the scalding tea. They were fairly conversant with Canada, something which no longer surprised me, and were eager for me to understand that it was actually the Basques who discovered my country. I was glad to be able to tell them that we were indeed cognizant of the contribution of the Basques to the development of the Newfoundland fishery and that there was a major display in our national museum about Basque whaling.
I set off again after about half an hour, having been put on the right road, and with a thermos of tea still uncomfortably hot to handle. I didn't learn their names, but at the base of the hill there was a communal mailbox. I photographed it, thinking I might be able to use Google Earth to pair up the name with the address, and send them a thank you note. No such luck.
The path crossed under the Bi-4137, and onto gravel paths. It descended into a lovely ferny river valley, but it had its share of abandoned caravans and empty parked cars which, coupled with the quiet of the afternoon, gave it that dangerous vibe I'd felt before. No harm has ever come to me in such a place at such a time, but it puts me on my guard. Not enough to stop me from stopping and taking photos or making bouquets though. The path climbed along the edge of a range of hills and gave me lovely views of the surrounding country heavily treed for the most part, but with the odd white farmhouse and hamlet perched, shining, high atop another range nearby.
On the other side, I came into another valley, this one a bit suburbanized, with some very grand houses being built in the traditional style, and a group of curious horses, who specialized in racing about their pasture with thundering hooves, and then pulling up short at the fence to say hello. The low ground in the foot of the valley was dotted with wild flowers including yellow flags. It was charming.
By the time I got close to the village of Goikoletxea, (Go-Each-Oh-Le-Chay-Ah) not only was my knee nearly numb with painkiller, I was starting to feel very tight in the chest. That's when the penny dropped. It suddenly occurred to me that this might be same medication that had been banned in North America a few years before because of its tendency to induce heart attacks. I decided to stop in the village, get that patch off ASAP, and wait for the rest of the crew.
It was deepest afternoon, and everything was still. I went first to the church, which was in itself a medieval wonder(although I didn't get inside), where stood the ancient stone table where the Lords of Biskaia meted out justice. Such a disappointment. I think I was expecting it to be like Aslan's slab, but it was tiny, and unadorned, standing in the porch of the church. I really need to stop letting my imagination go unfettered in these matters. Its one of the downsides of over-researching.
I went to the small park near the village cross or cruceiro
and sat at one of the picnic tables amongst the long uncut grasses. I undid the patch. Whether or not it was a placebo effect I don't know, but I started to feel better immediately. I aired my feet and socks; sorted out my pack; ate the rest of my food, and wrote in my diary. And still there was no sign of my peregrinos, or any other peregrinos either. I think we may have been the only ones on that stretch that day. The bus rolled up, and I got the schedule from the driver. Although I had wanted to see Larrabetzu, the next village, supposedly unchanged from medieval times, I mostly wanted to stop walking. There was no albergue in Lezama, the next town, either, I didn't want to walk on the major N-637, and I didn't want to climb down Monte Avril into Bilbao. In fact there were all kinds of reasons for getting on that bus. But not until I'd found my friends again.
Eventually, after I'd waited for about an hour and a half, the five of them arrived together. And just about the same time, the bar opened. Perfect timing. We sat outside and drank our beer or coca-cola, and chatted about the day. I was delighted that they had immediately recognized that it was I who was leaving the bouquets, and for them. Gisbert had even been taking pictures of them all.
The bar was sparsely provisioned; all they seemed to have were beer, coke and lemons. We soon found out why, when a large cube van, with sides emblazoned with photographs of the arctic, drew up, and the proprietress of the bar went out to get her groceries. Here we were, less than 20 km from a huge metropolis, and groceries came in a truck....amazing.
The five o'clock bus drew up, and I got on. The trip to Bilbao took no time at all, and none of it would have been a good walk. Larrabetzu; at least the corner of it which I saw, looked solidly nineteenth century, so I didn't feel bad about missing that. Lezama looked modern and boring, and the descent through the impoverished outskirts of Bilbao make my knees (and soul) hurt just looking at it. I made the right choice.
When I met up with my companeros later, I learned that I was right on all counts. The road into Bilbao, though not the one I took, was so steep that there is a) an elevator, and b) they took a bus too. I missed a nice day of walking with them, but I got an extra day in Bilbao to play tourist, once again!
No comments:
Post a Comment