Queridos amigos,
Laid waste another breakfast buffet at my hotel, and checked out. I asked the desk clerk about the storks. Why were these great structures added for them to nest in? An old medieval custom to bring good luck? Some legend, perhaps some kind of religious significance? She said she didn't know what they were called, and had no idea about any of my questions.
Asked another desk clerk if it would rain. He checked the Internet and said definitely; it would rain all day. So I suited up in my gear, and set off.
On the way out of town, I saw a man photographing his wife. They were French; the wife raved about Burgos and especially the cathedral. Magnifique! I asked if I could photograph both of them; yes they would like that. A bit of French came back as I counted to three. Then they took my picture, the only one yet of me in my rain gear.
Leaving Burgos in the Rain
The new medicine seems to be helping my toe. The day before, everybody was passing me because I was favoring my toe. Now I am passing people. The air is chilly, but there is no wind.
There is a procession of older Spanish women walking toward me, but separated by some 80 yards between them. Many like to banter a bit. One asks me to remember her to Santiago. Another thinks I’m German, which I take as a compliment.
I overtook two women speaking German. In my deepest voice, I drew out Morrrr-GEN! They immediately started speaking to me in German. I confessed I don’t really speak the language. They spoke some English. They were from Stuttgart.
A few miles up the way, I stopped at a little coffee shop or cafe for pilgrims, and got a small glass of real orange juice, a banana, and a package of toasted hazel nuts. And who should walk up but the Scots. They sat down and ordered a real lunch.
They too took two days in Burgos; we all agree the rest was needed and restorative. I’m still wearing my rain gear. They said their hotel clerk told them no rain today, and it is getting clearer as the day goes on. So I took off my poncho and rain hat but left my rain pants on.
They are headed to the same small town I am that night but have not made reservations. They play it as it comes. I asked if I might take their photo as they are the only men I´ve seen wearing kilts and the only ones wearing sandals. I tell them not to get up, but one says, "Let’s do this right," and they both stood and put their arms over each other’s shoulder.
Trevor Jones (L) and his Wee Bro
I asked if the sandals were working out. They said yes, it was great idea. I asked about walking over rocks. One answered, "Well, occasionally you get a wee stone, but it’s not much trouble"
The wind has turned cooler and stronger and is in my face again; ideal for hiking. The scenery, disappointing on the outskirts of Burgos, is beautiful again. I take a silence break and hear a chorus of cow bells. They come from a large herd of sheep cresting a high ridge at least 3/4 miles away. Even at that distance I can hear the shepherd yelling at the sheep.
The toe that is causing the problem is the little piggy between the one who went to market and the one who had roast beef. I think a new verse is needed for this stage of the Camino:
This little piggy went to Santiago
This little piggy got sore
This little piggy had a bocadillo
This little piggy had four
And this little piggy laughed and said, "I may be little, but at least I’ve still got an intact toenail, which is more than I can say for you guys.”
There are only a few low shrubs by the side of the road. No trees and really, no privacy. Everyone must deal with it in their own way.
After reaching Hornillos del Camino, I stop in front my lodging for the night, Del Sol a Sol, from Sun to Sun. It is right on the narrow road through the tiny village. I waited on the bench outside and was joined by an older man who had followed me for the past 3 or 4 miles. He was from Belgium. I asked if he were a Fleming or a Walloon; he was Flemish. He was older than I, and said he almost completed the Camino five years ago but had to quit for health reasons. Now he is picking up the stages his missed. He said he made his reservation here two months ago; I tell him I made mine two days ago.
Then the Scots walk by. They have no reservations and I worry about them. Their devil may care attitude works in the larger towns but not in a spot in the road like this.
No answer at the door. I called the number on the door twice but couldn´t understand what the woman was saying. Finally an older woman came by and she and the Belgian conversed in French. Then he entered the tiny grocery across the street and emerged with both of our keys.
I was on the second floor. A Spartan room, but an amazing shower stall. This one had a huge overhead shower head, a hand held shower, six nozzles pointing at the body, a seat, a light overhead, two stereo speakers overhead, a control panel to tune the FM radio, and a hydro massage knob which is sadly missing. The only thing that works is the handheld shower and the FM, which blasts me with inordinately loud and awful music. I turn down the volume, but it’s still terrible. KMFA it is not. Unable to find another station, I turn it off and settle for a shower.
Very hungry by this time, I went into the small grocery across the road and bought a bocadillo and a small bottle of wine. I sat in the only chair in the place and ate. I saw one man come in and get his pilgrim seal. I asked for one too; the last casa rural didn’t have a stamp and this one might not either.
Downtown Hornillos del Camino on a Busy Day
There is only one restaurant/bar in town. It’s crowded with pilgrims from the albergue. I sign up on the list and am told to come back around 8:45. I do, and join the line with the Belgian and others. We decide to sit together and are joined by a Spaniard.
I order wine and mineral water; the Spaniard gets wine and a small bottle of sparkling water. We both intend to water our wine. The Belgian is put off; "Water is for brushing your teeth," he scoffs. He speaks Dutch, German, French and English. The Spaniard speaks only Spanish. I’m the go between. The Belgian assures me Obama will not win a second term.
I return to the hotel to attend to my toe. For the past several nights I´ve been trying to lance the swollen, squishy blister on my toe that hurts so much. The needle probes from various directions and at various depths; nothing but dry holes. Tonight, on the first try, I hit a gusher, a veritable Spindletop. The fluid just spews out, at least five inches straight up. With no pressure, the pain is dialed down immediately. The white ring of infection has gone too. Apparently the firepower of 4 antibiotics plus cortisone is too much for the infection.
In the morning I’m the first down for breakfast, which is two slices of toasted Wonder bread, two miniature croissants wrapped in plastic, coffee, fig jam, and all the butter I can eat. The pretty waitress/manager introduces herself. She is Isabel, and lives in Burgos but commutes here every day.
When I check out, she tells me that it will rain all day. It looks great outside, so I pull on my rain pants and pack the rest. On the way out of town, I decide to take a picture of the bar/restaurant where I dined the previous evening. Usually, I carry my camera in my pants pocket; the rain pants make it harder to get out, so I have it in the pocket of my fleece vest...where I discover my room key. I head back to the hotel and who do I see sprinting wildly toward me in flip flops, the white road smoking behind her, but Isabel. She made the same discovery I did, and at about the same time.
It will be a day of surprise encounters. I am soon alone in a beautiful valley. I take a silence break. The silence is total. Not even bird song or wind. In The Spell of the Yukon, Robert Service describes a valley as "plumb full of hush to the brim." That describes what I am experiencing. I see a clump of lovely wildflowers I´ve not seen before. I leave a lock there. Ten feet farther down the road, I see another clump of beautiful purple flowers, close to the ground and tiny. I look up to my vision of Susan and ask, ¨"Here too?" Her answer is an immediate and cheery, "Sure!" This is a first.
The Long and Winding Road
Misty Vista
A Long, Wet Slog
Yesterday I often passed a man walking alone. Today, he is accompanied by a woman, which adds zip to his step and they pass me easily.
I pass one young man who sits and eats a bocadillo. I wish him Buen Provecho (bon apetit); he offers to share it. I decline and press on.
I come across another young man taking a rest break. Can´t place his dark look or his accent. I think he might be a Serb Later he catches up with me; he´s Irish. He says maybe we’ll meet in the next down, and is off.
In the last few days, cumulus clouds have begun to appear for the first time. Reminds me of home. Just beautiful scenery.
The Approach to Hontanas, Where I Lost All My Money
As I approach the town of Hontanas, I hear something drop. It’s my cell phone. I stop at Hontanas because I’m hungry and need to take off my rain pants and fleece vest. As I walk into town, a woman is staring at me. She is the woman accompanying the man with the zip in his step.
I order in the restaurant, then come out and take off my gear, including the unneeded clothes. The woman approaches me holding out a wad of cash. "Did you lose this," she asks. It’s my roll alright, some $500. Talk about the kindness of strangers! I keep it in the same pocket as my cell phone.
The money could be replaced, but not here. ATMs are just about non-existent in the boodnocks. And everything in the countryside is on a cash basis. I would still be washing dishes in Hontanas had it not been for her.
The Woman in the Red Sweater who Returned my Lost Cash
I tell the waitress I want to pick up the tab for the couple at that table. She says they are being served by the other restaurant, but goes to see what can be done. She returns saying the couple and four others are all together. I go over to the other restaurant and ask to pay the bill for the whole table. I’m told it is too late, the bill has been paid.
The woman in the red sweater will not let me leave a tip for her waitress. The man has gone and she begins to pack up, as do I. She is traveling with a friend. Back on the road, she takes a picture of her friend. I ask if I can take a picture of them both. They like that and I take two, one with each camera. Then I ask them to take my picture, but I’m taken with the friend, not the woman who saved me so much trouble. I do have a photo of her at the table.
I walk ahead. They follow several hundred yards behind. I resolve to try to wait for them in town and get the picture of the woman. But as I approach Castrojeriz, I look back and they are gone, probably to some outlying albergue.
I enter the city and walk past a large gathering of pilgrims outside a bar overlooking a beautiful country side in the sun. I keep walking and someone calls out to me. It’s the Scots. They tell me they found lodging last night in some sort of gymnasium adapted for that purpose and had a good night’s sleep.
Until now, we have not known each others names. I tell them my name and they say that it is a very Scottish name. I tell them the name of my son, and they say that is an even more Scottish name. I leave and the fireman calls me back. He says he is a bit of a poet and hands me something he has written. "When you have some leisure," he says, "you might want to look at this. If you don’t like it, toss it in the trash. If you do like it, you will know who it is from."
I check into my hotel, and read the poem. It is the voice of one who has passed on, and speaks to a beloved who is still here. Yes, I know very well who this is from. I cry for a least a quarter of an hour. I need to take these guys to dinner. I go to their albergue, but they are not to be found.
More on this day next time I get to a computer.
Hasta luego,
John
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