Thanks to all of you who helped with the name of the brilliant yellow flower. My daughter-in-law and my Army buddy from Korea correctly identified it: rape.
Rapeseed is used to create cooking oil. The Canadians were the first to produce it in North America. Marketers there wondered if anybody would buy something called rapeseed oil, or worse, rape oil. So they renamed it Canola oil and a star was born.
As I climbed past a vineyard I came to the famous wine fountain of Irache.
The Wine Fountain of Irache
Very handsome, with two spigots, one for water, on the right, and one on the left for wine. I had to drink out of my hand; the wine just gushes out. Like all Spanish wines, it was delicious.
Nice poem exhorting pilgrims to drink it:
Exhortation to Pilgrims to Drink This Wine in Order to Arrive in Santiago with Vitality
A little later I passed two women sitting in the shade by the side of the road. They were facing a magnificent view that a camera could not have captured. I commented on the view in Spanish. One said to the other, in English, “What did he say?” They were British, one from the west of England, one from the south of England. They were doing the Camino in pieces. This year they were walking from Pamplona to Logroño.
My training in Austin was all done on more or less level ground. Here, at least 90 percent of the time you are ascending or descending. It makes a difference.
I stopped for a coffee and a rest, removing my boots and socks and drying them and my hat in the sun. A couple of young Asian girls also stopped and sat outside on the patio. I overheard one of them speaking in English to a another couple, who were residents.
I departed and a little later was overtaken by the girls. They were walking zigzag up the climbs. Susan had shown me this trick for climbing up a long, wide stairway; you are able to take a longer stride and it is easier. I tried it, but soon decided 500 miles is long enough.
I complimented one on her excellent English. She said she was Japanese and had studied English in Australia. She asked where I was from. I said Texas. She asked, “Texas Austin?” I told her that is where I lived. She said her cousin had gone to the South by Southwest music festival in March and really enjoyed it.
They quickly passed me and passed from view. I was alone again. Several times I would see a hiker behind me, gaining on me rapidly. When he was about a minute or two behind me, I would pull over to one side of the road. Several minutes would pass and would I look back and see nothing. I had a clear view of the road for at least a mile and there was no trace of anyone. Just vanished. This happened twice yesterday and again today. I came upon three pilgrims who apparently were getting up from a rest about 60 yards ahead of me. When I got up to the top of the hill, not a trace of them, and I could see ahead for at least a mile and a half. Not sure who or what is arranging these timely disappearances but the gesture is greatly appreciated. When you spend three to four hours walking through wheat fields, you would rather not have any distractions.
At least 95 percent of the time I am utterly alone, no one in sight, no farm animals to be seen. If any of you come across a newspaper story about people gone missing on the Camino, please clip it for me.
The trail is mercifully away from the highway. The highways are most unpleasant and dangerous because the roads are so narrow and the shoulders are tiny. On one country road the shoulder could not have been more than 6 inches, steeply dropping off after that. Every passing car was an occasion for tension. Once I heard a car coming and turned sideways. The car whizzed past me, missing my person by no more than a foot. Emily Dickinson expressed my feeling precisely: zero at the bone.
I eventually came to my stop for the evening, Los Arcos. After a shower, I went into the town where there was a pilgrim throng, sitting and drinking. They all looked fresh and relaxed, but the bandages on their swollen feet were revealing.
There were probably a hundred people there. All had just been immersed in the same grandeur as I, and sweated up the same hills. This really does form a bond.
After dinner, I went outside to join others. I sat down at an empty table and ordered a digestif. At the next table were two Irish women. The older one had lost her husband to cancer and she was a breast cancer survivor. While I was talking with them, the Dutch couple walked up and said hello. The night would not be complete without the urologist and professora showing up. This may be as far as they go; we both sensed that we would not see each other again. He handed me his card and asked that I send him an email when I got home and tell him how the rest of my journey went.
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