Author: Des Grundy

I was actually in two minds to go to Zubiri or to Larrasoana, a further 5.3km.  A wet pack, a pressing blog and a sense of trying to understand time-management around this trek (my intentions to read fiction, learn Python, correspond with Ayaz have not proven plausible) made me take the shorter of the two.  So, I’m sitting here at a very basic cafe surrounded by the Bosch on the left and Spanish on the right.  It’s rather nice.  No smells other than fragrant, inexpensive food and the sounds of heavy road traffic over my right shoulder.

This morning started with rain which turned into drizzle but not before it had permeated my pack (don’t believe that a pack cover works; in my case it did not).

The morning also started with American inanity.  Everyone gets up, does their ablutions, goes downstairs, checks the weather, quietly gears up and goes.  Quietly.  Not Thelma and Sherm.  I don’t know what it is, and I am HUGE a fan of the ‘Land of the Free, Home of the Brave’, but Americans JUST HAVE TO TALK.  It doesn’t need to be to anyone in particular.  There’s just a need, at a primal, cellular level, to bump their gums.  Superiority complex?  Be the center of attention?  Inferiority complex?  Practicing dormant social skills?  Unable to deal with quiet?  Unclear.  These two were projecting their own, redundant, internal monologue, husband in particular…

“Hey hun, it’s raining so we’re gonna get wet, so we need to dress to keep dry”

“Yuh gotta tie them boots tight enough to keep the rain out, but not to cut off circulation”

“And these packs, yuh gonna have to put the rain cover on, real tight.  Like this….”

“And, yuh know,  we’re gonna have to cinch the stuff ties real tight.  Real tight.…”

“Really” is the adverb.  “Really tight”.  Twat.  Not “real”.  Ugh.

Everyone is looking at them – sideways in that indirect, judgmental fashion that Europeans are  great at.  Please, please, STFU.  It’s 0615 and we don’t need to hear it.  Even James Naughtie, preaching and railing on Radio Four is preferable at that time of day.  Almost.  His pristine articulation and sentence construction at least buys him some forbearance.

Captain and Mrs Oblivious got their hands on a matching, last-season odd lot from REI: matching beige caps, matching Ex Officio slate blue shirts, matching Ex Officio beige shorts and matching Salomon shoes.  So pretty.  So stereotyped.  That was the last I saw of them until I sat down here and they cruised by our eclectic European gathering of mid-afternoon diners.  The man, still clearly dumber of the two saying:

“Gee hun, I’m worried. I dunno where we can eat now….”

“How about this cafe here; it’s open”

“Aw yeah.  So it is.”

They walked by as if the observation was lost on both.  Ships passing.

Thankfully they didn’t sit down.

The informality of the Camino is wonderful.  You can amble up to someone, have a conversation, not exchange names/email/phone/star-sign etc, drop back or move up, see them later, smile and re-engage.  Or not.  No pressure.  People want and get their space, but equally they can engage.  It’s akin to anonymous speed-dating with no intent. It feels like most people want their space but don’t want to be unpleasant.  Unwritten rules?  Don’t know.  Too early.

Today I, met a Scottish language teacher living in Donostia (young lady going home soon). I mean to say, she was Scottish, I assume she was teaching a language other than “Scottish”. I met a German industrial designer (unemployed male who designed machines to extract coal but the Chinese do it more cheaply – so he’s unemployed), a female German student transferring from medical biology to medicine and studying in Holland (she doesn’t like The Fatherland), a Danish mother and daughter duo doing the Camino for a week (no back story but wish there was – both blond and slim), a mature Japanese student who’s studying religion in Paris (that man takes a photo every 30 seconds and was wearing a Chelsea football top – go figure), and of course, indirectly, Thelma and Sherm, an American couple who’d find a conversation about gravel to be enthralling.  There were a couple of other passing platitudes but for the most part, I kept myself to myself as it was as much as I could do to communicate with my legs let alone with other humans.  Other than the Septics, I don’t know any names.  And so it goes…

I left about 0630 and the journey was about 7 hours which seemed longer than it should but I am probably still acclimatising. I checked into the local Albergue for €8, not because it’s dirt cheap (really, honestly), but because it’s part of the experience.  It is a shit hole.  A clean one, but a shit hole nonetheless.  See photos.  I got a lower bunk, so did a cigarette-puffing, noisy, cheerful, crusty Italian to my right. We’ll see what the night brings – I’m off to the pharmacist for air freshener.  Fortune favors the prepared.  So I hope……

Legs are tired though I think they will recover relatively quickly.  Calves tight, hip flexors tight – need to work on that.  My back is complaining (moderately) about the pack, as are my hips (more so) where the thick waist strap applies downward pressure (because that, more than the shoulder straps, supports the weight).  My hips are very sensitive to the touch with small welts developing, caused by a large mass relentlessly and insensitively pushing down on a small area.  I know how Melania Trump must feel.

I bumped in to Maurice in the hiking store in Zubiri.  He was energised though his visceral reaction was the same as mine.  WTF have I done and WTF will I be normal.  His jet-lag did some of that to him.  He was up at 0345, raring to go, so he went. OMG!

Tomorrow, it’s about 22km to Pamplona.  Weather looks broadly cooperative after 10am with early showers beforehand.  I plan an early departure so I can spend some time exploring the first large city we come across.

I don’t know where the day goes (pun).  I’d kill for a Thai massage (fat chance).

Lastly, a non-sequitur.  Today is the 49th anniversary of the first moon landing.  Nobody gives a shit anymore, which is sad. SnapChat stock price is more important than celebrating human endeavour.  Pop quiz (no wiki-cheating, please): we all know Armstrong and Alrdin, but who was the third crew member of Apollo 11?

Early start at 0615.  I was first up and out – yes Doris, it’s not a race, but I wanted time at the destination so early was appropriate.  Surprisingly good night’s sleep, punctuated by limited snoring.  Crusty Italian chap was quite the raconteur.  Apparently, this was his 7th Camino.  That’s all I absorbed, but before I hit the hay, he talked for another 20 minutes, all grins and waving arms.  I smiled and nodded and tried to maintain eye contact.  Lovely fellah.  Never got his name.

As I travel and I’m asked about my nationality (a natural ice-breaker), I say “Scottish” (Zimbabwe would require too much explanation and historical perspective, though occupation “gynaecologist” is a sure-fire conversation-stopper.  I give you this for free….).  It’s a cop out.  In Scots Law, Scotland is my “domicile of origin” and that is inescapable and the plank on which I accurately base my statement.  But, it is neither my “domicile of choice” nor my “domicile of dependence” – Family Law, Professor Bill Wilson (RIP), circa quite some time ago – we have a number of domiciles in Scotland.  This is wholly-disingenuous because I consider myself more American than anything else.  I’ve never really liked the English – they always beat us at sport.  My recent dislike of my homelands has slowly metastasised into embarrassed revulsion, courtesy of Nicola Sturgeon and her grinding, whining, nasal delivery and never happy with this, wanting more of that, always demanding more handouts…. yada yada….  Enough!  She and Donald Trump deserve the same conclusion. As Lou Reed said “Stick a fork in their ass.  They’re done”. (Last Great American Whale).

Most of the day, passage was through unremarkable scenery, mostly woodland and some of it tracking the main road so there was always noise as the guide.  Few pictures today as a consequence.  I’m learning that in hiking, as economics, there is no free lunch.  When you walk on tarmac, it’s easy on your legs but hell on your feet.  When you walk on uneven surfaces, it’s easy on your feet, hell on your legs.  There is no respite, only discomfort and gradual acclimatisation.  Then, I suspect, you go home.

I checked into a private Albergue – Casa Ibarolla – just inside the city walls, south of the Portal de Francia.  It opened 1130.  I got there 1132 and petted the dog.  In like Flynn!  This was a tactical choice.  There are 20 beds.  The price point is €15 (including desunayo) vs the municipal albergue at €10.  Why choose?  Because 114 beds at 2/3 of the cost of my crib means lower probability of noisy kids, for which there is a higher probability in cities like Pamplona (pop 200,000).  The place is very IKEA (see photos) but very clean and well-organized.  The showers are hot and strong (like my Doris….) and it is in the heart of the old town.  Suhweet!

I’m not going to try to provide a commentary on Pamplona.  It’s a bastion of sheer insanity what with the “running of the bulls” thing – San Fermin.  Dumb.  Dumb.  Dumb.  Darwinian but apparently in insufficient measure – if it was, they’d not have 25%+ youth unemployment in Paella.  It is also very beautiful but my legs wont let me explore its grandeur.  I’ve taken a couple of photos that I hope capture the essence of the place.  As an aside, apparently Ernest Hemingway was a regular here for an extended period (read “The Sun Also Rises”), and was a great supporter of the Navarre region – I can understand that, as well as their desire for independence from the Paella-mothership.  This region is special and has a different culture – unlike Scotland.  Sorry.  There is a montage somewhere that summarizes the bars he frequented (subtle marketing, non?).  I’ll try and find it and get a snap.

Tomorrow, 24km from Pamplona to Puente la Reina, characterized by a steep climb and steep descent. More fun.

Yesterday’s pop quiz answer: Michael Collins, Command Module Pilot, and quoted as saying that during the 48 minutes of each orbit that he was out of radio contact with Earth, the feeling he reported was not loneliness, but rather an “awareness, anticipation, satisfaction, confidence, almost exultation”.  Quite apropos as it relates to the current pursuit.  He’s 86 and apparently, now lives in Rome.  Wish I had his pension.

Stop press: Salvador Dali’s exhumed body has a wholly-intact mustache!!  WTF?

Factoid: one of my fellow hikers (Paolo, bunk above me, Italian, frequent, staccato conversations over the last 3 days) told me that the reason it is so dark here in the morning is that General Franco demanded that Madrid be in the same time zone as Rome and not London, despite the proximity to the latter.  And so it was, and that is why, this morning, my labours began with my donning a head-torch and looking like a complete tool.  You play the hand you’re dealt….

Confession: I scored a 30 minute leg massage at 2000 (begging was involved), and I’m taking it!

Good night.

Departure was 0615, arrival 1230. In the dark once again.  Mixed terrain.  Mixed elevation.  Shin splits is today’s ailment.  ‘Piscine municipale’ is the cure.  I felt somewhat self-conscious and vulnerable though.  There I was, a single, bald-headed man in a wife-beater, farmer tan, walking with a limp into a public pool (for 0-6 year olds) festooned with small children and wary (tattooed) parents. Anyway, I think my natural indifference to rug-rats bled through and all’s well that ends well.

Pamplona to Puente la Reina takes you out through the city (which is the capital of the Navarre autonomous region), through the University of Navarre (nice campus), then past a couple of small towns, Cizur Menor, Zariquiegui, Uterga, Muruzabal, Obans and finally, Puente la Reina.  In the middle, you traverse a wind farm at Alto del Perdon – and it gets a bit chilly.  By the way, these windmills make a LOT of noise (whup, whup, whup) so when the bleeding hearts tell you they are a danger to birds, they are NOT.  How can they be?  Anyone can hear these things, not to mention see them…unless birds are deaf.  Not an argument I’ll enter into right now as I am data-impaired.

The landscape is arable.  Field upon field of hay and some vegetables.  Unlike 2 days ago, no livestock.  No cows with horns and bells, or sheep with bells.  Lots of large (modern) farm machinery baling hay into bundles.  Impressive.  The mountains and their serrated edges continue to cut their way out of the earth.  It’s stark and vivid.  I was inundated by field after field of sunflowers, standing to attention, with sad faces like tired soldiers.  The photos are a bit samy, so please bear with me.

For parts of the day, I tracked a large freeway from a distance to my right.  I could see that the traffic volumes were remarkably subdued.  Admittedly it is Saturday, but I had noticed this phenomenon over the past couple of days too.  In contrast to the UK where the infrastructure is underinvested and inadequate, here in Spain it is outsized versus needs.  To drill the point home further, almost without exception, in each of these podunk towns I walk through, there is a large, pristine, new municipal office and a couple of bank branches.  Europe’s structural excesses have not been fixed and have merely been swept under the mat for another time.  Ulcer waiting to burst?  Dunno.  But I ask myself, what is worse:  this excess or the UK’s under-investment?  Five years ago, I’d have said the former.  Not so sure now.

Day 5 Photo Gallery