14 Sep; Day 14. It took us nearly an hour to get out of Burgos as we had to circle to find the Camino again. Being honest I didn’t care much if we found the exact right street, I did not feel the need to walk every single step of the marked trail but my travel companions did care so time was spent ensuring we walked it as close to our accommodation as possible in the heat of the afternoon and circled to where we left it in the morning.
We stopped at the Cathedral for a look, took some photos, found a place for breakfast and got on the trail again. All of that took over an hour before we cleared town. The sun was rising though it was still cool thankfully as we had 28km to go. We walked through a small village where we had a drink and rest, then as we set off again we found a lovely little chapel where a nun was stamping Compestellas and offering trinkets for a donation to support the nuns going on a pilgrimage to Lourdes and St Chappell’s in France. As we had seen both places we were happy to donate and receive a wonderful blessing for our journey.
We carried on as the day got hot, the meseta, the high plains are sweltering. Hard yakka, one foot at a time. We were about done when we stopped in Hornillos for food and a blessed cold drink, then realising we needed to hoof it the next 5km to claim our beds at Arroyo San Bol. It was a very tough 5km in the heat, we were all struggling and beginning to wonder if this was the day we planned a kilometre too far.
A little off the beaten track, Arroyo San Bol is a small alburgue with 12 beds, solar power, a healing mineral pool, one toilet and one shower. The communal meal was cooked by the host. The last km was hard on the feet, knees and spirits. I was never so happy to see the sign that said we had 800m to walk. Before dinner we had time to have a cold beer, do our laundry in the pool outlet, soak our feet in the blessed cold water and hang the laundry to dry before sitting down to an amazing chicken paella with salad and red wine.
Brenda braided my hair in spite of her sore hands and feet, heartfelt thanks for the blessings of a sister. We were in bed by 8.45pm. Laying down my weary body, earplugs in, eye-mask on, snoring before the room was quiet. Deliciously thankful for the rest. Though I believe a few of my roommates had something to say about my snoring the next morning.
18 Sep; Day 16. As we did most mornings, we were up and leaving Boadilla in the dark. We walked along the canal watching the sky lighten as the sun began to rise. Walking by the water we found a boat landing, wondering where the boat was as that seemed like a good way to pilgrim down the river. We wandered on, following the canal to Fromista where we found breakfast, about 5km. Walking to breakfast has now become a habit, one we all seem to find works for our systems. Just before the town we found the boat tied up at another landing, just before the lochs. I found myself thinking of a canal holiday in a long boat. That could be a thing sometime in the future. The canal we followed was from the 18th century, for the transportation of crops as well as providing power to turn the corn mills. Many pilgrims had stayed in Fromista the night before and had already departed, so after breakfast we followed on.
At the end of the next town we had a choice of paths, one going via the main road and the other taking a more scenic route. We had left Brenda attending to a chap with a shin splint. With both of my travel companions suffering from shin splints, they had become experts at taping them, so we made an executive decision to take the slightly longer more scenic route, texting her to follow. As the fastest walker among us we knew she would catch up before we stopped for lunch. Following the dusty road, we eventually came to a turn across a bridge. A man in a van was handing out pieces of tomato. Tomatoes here are huge so half a tomato is a good snack. He had no English and rattled on in Spanish. His named was Pepe and he was doing service for the pilgrims by offering food from his garden. After a moment of wondering how clean his hands might be, I took the offering gratefully and enjoyed the sweet taste of the sun in the juices.
From there we meandered along the river to where the track met the road and stopped for lunch before trudging another 5-6km to Carrion de los Condes. A 25km day, we were ready to kick the shoes off, shower and die on our beds. We had decided not to go anywhere that night, though we usually looked for a pilgrims mass to finish our day. The owner of the hostel very kindly gave us the information on what was where in Carrion. As we discovered the church was across the street and they were having a guitar concert, we decided to go. So happy we did, the guitar was lovely, followed by mass and a wonderful blessing by the nuns which felt very special.
19 Sep From Carrion de los Condes we rose early to be on the road by 7.15am to start the walk to Ledigos, around 26km. Still on the Meseta follow the road along a dirt path lined with trees in places, for which we were grateful. Our room in the old building was very quaint. There was a separate room at the front with a double bed and a window. We had been taking turns at having a separate room and tonight was Pilgrim Pauline’s turn. There was an old baby cot in our space, we made jokes about having a ghost baby to look after since the two of them were baby nurses. The bathroom was at the end of the corridor so a little distance to trot. Being industrious after our 26km, we got our dusty clothes washed and hung out in the hot afternoon sun. Everything was soon dry.
Well, eating my words. A bit like cardboard with a side of dust. For years I have sworn that I would never visit France. I have refused to buy any French produce, cheese or wine. While it has been many years since a group of French terrorists sank the Greenpeace flagship, the Rainbow Warrior in the Auckland harbor, killing a man in the exercise, it happened in my country. They got away with it. It hurt my heart and soul very very badly. So I swore that I would not support a country that these people came from in any way. I have been pretty staunch about that.
I did not book our flights for this trip, that was PilgrimBrenda and was not impressed when I found we were to spend a couple of days in Paris. Quite unimpressed. However, over the year of planning the idea grew on me.
We arrived on Friday afternoon, via Dubai, a journey of 32 hours from the time I left home. Jet lagged and hungry and dehydrated we found the trains, worked out how to buy tickets, and set off into the intricacy of the Paris metro. Apart from a weird thing with a man who seemed to be helping us and a wrong train, we found our way back to the point we had missed the direction, the right train and found our hotel. Thank you Google maps!
A client of mine hearing I was going to be in Paris suggested visiting Sainte Chappell. We Googled it and discovered there was a petite classical concert and bought tickets. Probably not smart when we had been on the go for so many hours.
Sainte Chappell is beautiful. Stained glass that is breathtaking. Part of the original French palace complex, close to the Seine. Gothic in style, the huge arching ceilings and the stained glass is pretty special. We looked and enjoyed, had dinner in a small cafe across the road and then returned for the music. The group of 3 violins, a 1794 Giovanni Battista Guadagnini played by Frédérik Moreau, a cello and the voice of soprano Cécile Besnard made for a stunning evening with amazing the acoustics.
Wandering back to the hotel, the age of the buildings and the history of the city made me realize how young we are as a country and a people in Aotearoa New Zealand. Next post, our trip to Chartres.
September 14 2018. When I started this journey and this blog I imagined long relaxed evenings updating, chatting to friends, sharing stories, drawing in my journal.
The reality is that by the time I have walked between 20-30km the body is sore and tired, the mind is going ‘oh goddess, do I have to get out of bed tomorrow?’ And my art journal remains in the bottom of the bag while I shovel in fuel for tomorrow and curl up in tonight’s bed.
So with the lack of updates, we are now in a small place on the high plains called Castrojeriz. We are in the old part and the actual town is 15 minutes away.
We have realised that the Camino follows the old roads and trails, winding through the countryside, up and down stony hills and through old cobbled streets of the towns. It is like walking through history. I have grown to hate the roads and sealed paths and sigh with relief when I see a rocky track ahead of me and my sore feet echo the sigh as they embrace the uneven dirt and stones, rolling across some kind of weird reflexology as I walk.
Spain is a very Catholic country and the cathedrals and churches are magnificent. Quietly pleased that the ceilings haven’t caved in on me yet, my Presbyterian upbringing is in awe of the gold and glitter, statues and saints that abound here. I find I still prefer the small plain chapel’s, the quiet hominess of them.
I have not been in churches for many years having left the construct man has put around religion and moved more to a quiet belief in the holy and following the path of the Goddess or Holy Mother. The beauty of the churches here, from Chartres and Lourdes to tiny Spanish towns, is the presence, front and centre of the Holy Mother in the form of Mariam or Mary.
Ok talking about my inner beliefs was never meant to be a part of this writing but there it is, falling out when I least expect it.
September 7 2018. Having to go to France, with my arm twisted up my back, (never forgetting the Rainbow Warrior debacle), the only other place I had a desire to see was Lourdes. Having flown from Paris to Biarritz, staying a night at a lovely airbnb, where our hostess Patricia met us at the airport, and picked us up in the morning and took us to the train, we made a train change on the way and landed in Lourdes around 11.30am.
The grotto where Mary appeared to Sister Bernadette is a place of healing and pilgrimage for thousands every year. The town of Lourdes is built entirely around the pilgrims. It felt very touristy to us. We had booked a nice old hotel just 3-4 minutes from the grotto.
We bought a few small bottles to fill with holy water and visited the grotto for the English service in the afternoon. It was stinking hot! Sitting in the sun, listening to the chanting of ‘Hail Mary’, and watching the seemingly endless line of people streaming around the grotto, touching the rock, seeking healing was amazing.
We filled our drink bottles with holy water, lit candles, prayed and then soaked our feet in the river, which we figured the holy spring emptied into.
It was nice, but not the experience I had thought it would be with the endless lines of people. We climbed up the stairs and investigated the chapel which was amazing and on up to the upper chapel. It was beautiful and worth the climb, we spent some time in it.
Leaving there we found our way outside and a sign pointing uphill to the 12 Stations of the Cross. Pilgrim Brenda decided we needed to do the walk (did I say it’s stinking hot?) so up the hill we went. We climbed the hill past the lovely depictions of the life of Christ and wandered down the other side. Near the bottom there was a path off to the side which Brenda and I wandered into. It was a natural cave, a natural chapel with a statue of Mary holding the crucified body of Jesus. It was a chapel for prayer for lost children, lost as in death or lost as in drugs, estrangement or by other means. It was overwhelming, beautiful and an amazing energy space. The tears ran as my heart felt the tenderness of the holy mother watching our children. The people tending the space offered to pray with me, an act of compassion that held us. This was me having a moment or two.
Back in our room it was time to repack and shed some weight. Dumping boarding passes, used papers, receipts, spare underwear, a tshirt and a blanket out of my pack as I tried to hone my weight for the adventure ahead.
Next stop would be St Jean Pier de Port. We had discovered we could get our pilgrims passports from Lourdes and so the next morning we went early to refill water bottles (need as much holy water as we can get), get our passports (not as flash as the fancy Camino ones) our first pilgrim stamps and off to the train. Two train changes later we were at our jumping off point. No more transport but our own feet for the next 5 weeks.
September 6 2018. Still in Paris. Some time ago Pilgrim Pauline found a food tour online, the secret food tour what’s more. She booked us and we wondered what we were getting into. Often on these types of tours there is pressure to purchase extras from the ‘best’ vendors of this or that. In true Kiwi style we are resistant to such selling techniques and hoped we would not have to endure too much of it.
We got sorted early on the Sunday morning, leaving our bags at the hotel, we took an uber to Montmartre, outside of Paris. The locals here refuse to be a part of Paris or be called Parisian.
The uber dropped us beside the subway entrance where we were to meet our guide. It was early and businesses were just opening. The church opposite the station was beautiful. Rather new but built in the old style. We went to a cafe that was just opening because breakfast out in Paris – why not? I had a cheese buckwheat pancake thingy called a gallette, which I thought was the name of ice-cream but turns out that is gelato. It was delicious! Could be my favourite breakfast if I can learn how to make them.
Returning to the subway entrance we met up with some others doing the tour. We all looked around wondering when the guide would turn up and suddenly there was this rather large kilted dude with a leather vest and a motorcycle teeshirt and boots. This was PJ, holding a pink umbrella, and he was not what we expected.
There is a large map on the fence by the subway, and using this we had a 10-minute history of Paris and Montmartre including the reasons behind the revolution. Very interesting. Then we found out why Montmarte is not part of Paris and sits outside the original city walls.
Going to the bakery, we learned about bread. Who knew that a baguette is only a baguette if it weighs 250g? If it is heavier, it is something else. Why? Because it was designed by an engineer! Seriously! How good is that? Apparently back in the day everyone took a round loaf of crusty bread to work in the fields or wherever, cut it up at meal breaks with a knife. Baking was once a week so it could get pretty tough by weeks end and a knife was needed to saw through it.
Society got a bit industrialized; workers came from all over to work different trades, factions arose, rivalries began and, well, knives are good for stabbing people. So an engineer came up with the idea of smaller loaves that could be torn with the hands and knives were banned from the workplace as the baguette was born.
PJ bought some fresh bread from the oven and on we went to the cheese shop. Volumes have been written about French cheese. We learned about types, tastes, rinds, probiotics and quality marks. And we got to taste some cheese. PJ bought some cheese and off to the butchers we went.
Meat, how it is presented – ducks and chooks have their heads and feet left on so the customer can identify what they are getting. Everything is fresh. Really fresh. We learned about the relationship between the vendor and the farmer, quality and traceability. PJ bought some meat.
Then we went up a side street where with a joke about breaking and entering, PJ unlocked a closed wine bar and led us inside. We were a mixed group with a young family in the mix. PJ was lovely with the girls, including them in the food discussions. Now we had a session on wine tasting, with cheeses, 4 or 5 different types. Then another wine and meats, the histories of different cuts and the flavors… oh la la!
By now we were in seventh heaven, wine, cheese, meat, good company, entertaining guide. We were having fun.
But wait, there was more! Following the meats came red wine, tasting and aroma and cellaring information and two more amazing cheeses, including Roquefort blue cheese. I did not know it was sheep cheese or made in a cave that has some special mould spores to make it blue (some is now made in factory conditions with the mould introduced by a bread with the mould). Great story, great cheese, lovely organic wine, what’s not to love?
After this sumptuous feast we headed out thinking the tour was done. But no! We stopped at a sweet shop and had a talk on the chocolates (handmade) and the macarons. Such variety! We were allowed to choose 2 macarons and 2 chocolates. I chose an almond and a grassy/herby type macaron, really soooo good, with a wasabi and a salted chocolate. PJ paid the account and off we went to the crepe shop where he took orders from the group and we all had a crepe each.
It was an amazing tour, no pressure to buy anything. Jam packed with information, jokes, anecdotes and fun. We had an amazing time and would highly recommend the experience.
August 31 2018. Paris via Dubai. When I knew we were coming to Paris, the only thing I wanted to do was get to Chartres Cathedral, the Cathedral of our Lady and walk one of the oldest known labyrinths which is paved into the cathedral floor. On Friday nights the chairs are removed to allow pilgrims to walk the path in contemplation.
Arriving in Paris on Friday afternoon, the timing was not right to catch the 1.15hr train each way as we would barely have 20 minutes with the labyrinth before they closed. We caught the train down on Saturday and the adventure took the whole day. The cathedral is the 5th built on the same site over the last few centuries.
Originally, the Well of the Strong, a site of Druid worship was a place for pilgrims to come. The original sacred well still exists in the crypt under the building and pilgrims still flock to the church of Our Lady. The well has a square bottom, the corners pointing to the 4 directions in the earth or underworld and a round top, the circle of infinity, close to the heavens.
The cathedral is the site of an ancient cult to the Black Madonna, centred around a statue know as “Our Lady under the Earth”, a statue of Mary and her son. Black is not just a colour though Mary was a Nazarene and Aramaic and dark of skin, but ‘Now their appearance is blacker than soot, they go unrecognised in the streets’ (Lam 4:8). Most of the church was razed by fire in the 11th century, only the front facade surviving and the crypt or lower chapel. The rebuild was influenced by the Knights Templar and constructed in the Gothic style. The Knights Templar built sanctuaries and temples across France and Spain over a period from 1130 to 1250, many of which were dedicated to Our Lady and the feminine principles. 1250 saw the rise of the Inquisition and the destruction of anything to do with the feminine. We live with that destruction today.
The Cathedral has a relic of which they are very proud. In 876AD there was a gift of Mary’s veil, or the cloth she was believed to be wearing when Christ was born. It is a beautiful piece of white linen which has pride of place in an especially secure area. It is a living church, a place of the people, the home of the holy mother, and feels like a community house.
When we walked up from the train station toward the Cathedral there in the footpath was the pilgrims shell. I saw it and knew my pilgrimage had started. Then finding the cathedral was dedicated to the mother figure and holds a sacred relic as well as the evidence of the ancient Druids, many of my beliefs came together in this place.
It was here we met Michelle, a wonderful woman who was staying in the Monastery. She gave us a picnic which we enjoyed, along with a vege knife that came in mighty handy during the adventure. After taking the train back to Paris, we met up with Pauline, our travel companion for the next 7 weeks and went out to dinner, in Paris, how good is that? A wander along the Seine to see Notre Dame under a full moon rounded off the day.
August 23 2018. The starting point. Then there is leaving home and family. Getting ready to leave has been a marathon in itself. In the last week I have moved my wee home, tried to compress enough gear for 2 months into a pack, had several meltdowns, worried about my knee and finally made it to Wellington airport to discover my bag won’t be checked through to Paris as I expected. Quiet panic over the two hours I have to collect said bag, get to international and book in. Need a cup of tea and a lie down before the adventure begins.
My daughter and grandson ready to drive me to the airport.
This blog is about one part of my life, walking the Camino de Santiago. The challenges and the successes. It was hard, it was long and I was glad to get home. The pilgrimage changed me in many ways. Stories are still writing themselves in my mind and heart of my adventures there.
August 28. When we started this journey I didn’t realise how time-poor we would be. It has been an education.
From Lourdes we took 3 trains to St Jean Pied de Port, a small town in the lower Pyranees. We arrived at 1pm when everything was closed except the cafes so lunch was the first stop. It was very hot and I had the first tickle of unease about our days plan. My pack was too heavy and it had taken time to arrange to send some stuff forward. To do this we needed to wait for the post office to open. So we had lunch, wandered down to the post office, packed up 3kg of items into a box, including my one dress, my spare tights and a book among other things. Having already left a fleece blanket, a teeshirt and some underwear in Lourdes, I felt I had trimmed enough. Later in the day, I knew I hadn’t.
We had got our Compostellas or pilgrim passports in Lourdes, so needed a stamp from the pilgrims office. Finding that took a bit, the lovely man, Patrick phoned ahead to Orrisón to let them know we were coming and advised we needed to be there by 6pm. Even though we had booked and paid, our beds would be given away if we did not get there. Nine km, 3 hours? Piece of cake!
We set off at 3pm in 33degC and got on to The Way. It is marked with yellow arrows and yellow shell signs. The shell being the sign of the pilgrim on the Camino.
Leaving town, the road went up, and up, and up. It was hot, the pack was heavy, and the road was very very steep. I plodded. Watched my companions disappear in front of me. I sweated, drank a bit of water. Stopped in whatever shade I could find to rest a moment and then plodded on. I hoped that Brenda had enough in the engine to get us booked in by 6pm, I knew I didn’t. It was hot, the heat was unrelenting. By this time it felt like the road was perpendicular and required a grappling hook and crampons.
It was too hot and too hard. And it was day 1. The track deviated from the road into a dirt goat track around 2km short of the destination. Oh Holy Mother I was going to die on this hill!
I stopped and prayed for a ride, any kind of ride. The only thing that came along was a tractor. So much for that.
Shuffling on up the track using my trekking poles to haul me up, I stopped in a bit of shade. Hard to get started again, I felt like a failure. A year in the planning and this hill was going to beat me.
Funny thing about having no choices, we all kept going, in our own particular kind of hell. At one point I decided sleeping under a tree would be a good idea. But kept going anyway, gasping every step of the way.
Why, when the cold that had put me in bed for 5 days 6 weeks ago and left me very weak had I thought this was a good idea. Fair, fat and over 50, what the hell had I been thinking?
Finally I popped out the top of the goat track onto the road. Staggering up the hill a little I saw a building, yes! But no, it was the alburgue before Orrisón. Oh hell.
Then a van came along. Holding out my hand, he pulled up. I asked how far to Orrisón. I had no French, he had no English and could not tell me. I think he may have thought I was going to have a heart attack on the spot, he could have been right. He waved to the passenger seat and I caved, hell yes! Prayers get answered sometimes. He gave me ride the last 900metres. Shite. 900 metres, if I had known that I would have staggered on but as it was I made it in time for dinner in just under 4 hours.
Blessings on my sister Brenda who nearly burst a fufu valve, and also wanted to die on the climb, she put in tremendous effort to claim our beds so we did not have to sleep under a tree. Forever grateful to her determination. I cannot describe what an effort she put in. Huge gratitude to her, people were waiting for beds. Just as well we weren’t all under a tree, there was a massive thunderstorm in the night.
The dinner was fantastic! Just what the doctor would have ordered. Our hosts got everyone to stand and introduce themselves with where they were from and why they were walking. It was to prove very helpful as we meet with the same folk in various places along The Way.
Bed was welcome in a dorm of 10 people. Showered and in my sleeping liner, I listened to the storm outside. Tomorrow we had to climb the rest of the Pyranees to Roncesvalles. Oh Lord what have I let myself in for?
Visions of Clarity 