I’m forced to admit that walking any distance is a lot more difficult than it was 12 years ago. I am more conscious of my inadequate lungs, and my damaged knee joints. But still, it is a joy to walk. Today as I travelled through rich woods just coming into summer, I saw stands of trilliums, wild blue phlox, and a mink not more than three feet away from me as I idled on a rock near the lake. What a privilege it is to have that on my doorstep.
As I trundled along, I reflected on what a privilege it has been to walk four different Caminos; to have people who don’t know me at all open their homes and sometimes their hearts to me. It’s almost never about the money. Some do it as a symbol of faith, even though many of us who walk aren’t even nominally Christian. Others do it for the sheer joy of hospitality. They go out of their way to help.
In Portugal on our first full day of walking, when we realized that 19km in we had taken a wrong turn in a big stand of bamboo, and still had 6km of tough road walking to go to get to our destination, one of us just lost it. She couldn’t take another step. We came to a hamlet, very down at heel, and looked about for a phone box or a bus stop or a loitering taxi,with no success. It was, as I’ve heard it said before, as dead as four o’clock, though it was more like five.
There was no-one around to even ask about how to get ourselves out of there until a dusty Mercedes rolled in and stopped abruptly in front of a ramshackle house. Barking erupted as several dogs on the upstairs balcony greeted their master’s return. Master was large and rumpled and clearly tired. It looked like it had been a long day for him too. When I enquired about public transit, he told me that no, there was nothing like that. He hesitated for a second, told the dogs to shut up, and told us to get in the car.
He drove like the wind, windows down and dark hair flying. His tattooed knuckles on the gear shift crunching up and down as we slowed (a little) for the corners. We talked in Portuguese (sort of) all the way to Azinhaga. He stopped once to ask a couple of kids the way to the hostel and we were off again. We screeched to a stop in front of the hostel where we had a reservation, he whipped round to the trunk, unloaded our stuff, and was off again with a big smile, back to the delirious dogs, and probably a nice cold beer. We called him our Camino Angel; the first of many we would meet.
Our hospitalera, Helena, whose joy it is to make pilgrims feel at home, made us feel as if our arrival was a long-awaited homecoming of a dearly loved one. Freshly picked figs and grapes and a drink awaited us, followed by a wonderful home-cooked dinner with our fellow travellers in the local tradition with wine and conversation. Helena shared our meal and watched us tuck in with a glow on her face which told us how she treasured the chance to make us part of her life for a night. Another angel, and this one has become part of my life. We speak often on social media, and I get to see her put love into action every day. Knowing her is a privilege.
But getting back to Burgos, it was also a privilege to indulge in a lingering visit to the cathedral. What a confection of artistic virtuosity! I was awestruck by everything, but looking up at the lacy structure of the domed vaults gave me a hint of the sublime. Inolvidable! Unforgettable beauty.
I’m privileged to hold that in memory.
Having finally it made it here to virtual Burgos (38.5 km) by increments, I’m horrified to see that the next section I missed is 57 km! I took a taxi from Sahagun to Leon. It was not my intention to go that far by car, but the walking choices were invidious to my mind at the time; either on the road, or away from the road and any amenities or water for 20 km, followed by another 22km of the same. I wanted to see Mansilla de las Mulas with its ancient medieval walls and had planned to be dropped off there. But as we approached it looked like the back of Napanee, all big box stores, and it was only a few euros more to Leon. I’d heard that the slog into Leon along the busy N601 was not only unpleasant but actually dangerous, with pilgrims being killed there regularly. It didn’t take much convincing to just keep going. I don’t actually regret going the last 18 and a half km by taxi, but I wish I hadn’t skipped the section between Sahagun and Mansilla.
Unlike many people, I enjoyed walking on the meseta, the flat tablelands of central Spain. Sun, wind, and birdsong are your constant companions, and flat open paths make for easy walking. Never mind that when it rains, it becomes a sea of heavy cakey mud that has you impinging as much as you dare on the edge of the path to get out of the wallow made by thousands of marching feet.
People who walk the Camino de Santiago find that the meseta is where you find yourself, or where you lose it entirely. Mile after mile of sameness gets to you. I liked it in 2008. But on another journey, along the first stretches of the Via de la Plata in 2014, I began to understand why people had a hard time in the vast open land. With no points of reference it feels like you will never arrive at any destination. I absolutely hated it and I had to stop walking.
Sometimes, when I am walking for health rather than for pleasure, I get that sinking feeling again. That’s why a walk in the bush is always preferable to walking on a street or a designated trail.
Like I said at the outset. It’s a privilege, and I am grateful.
On to Leon!
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