Author: Des Grundy

Just a brief comment to close off yesterday’s blog and perhaps add a (rare) pinch of hokey history.

I mentioned a chicken coop in the back yard of the Albergue, which no doubt seemed out of place. It did to me, initially. However, asking around, there is some heavy historical and traditional relevance as Santo Domingo de la Calzada is (apparently) most famous for the legend of the “cock that crowed again.” There is a lot of cock imagery here – all of which has nothing to do with Lord Dampnut or the Mini-Me, knob-accomplice, Anthony “Tourret” Scaramucci.

There are, as is usually the case, several versions of this story, however the one I heard was this: a couple from Cologne were traveling to Santiago de Compostela on a pilgrimage with their son, Hugonell. Apparently, the innkeeper’s daughter took a fancy to Hugonell, but he virtuously resisted her advances.

During the night, once the vengeful, over-sexed nymphette had finished pleasuring herself, she took the large silver goblet that she had been using and (somehow) hid it in his possessions. In the morning, she denounced him as a thief and he was hanged, Beijing-style, summary justice. No mention of organ-harvesting.

As his parents were preparing to depart, they heard Hugonell’s voice imploring them that he was still alive and that St Dominic (Santo Domingo) was holding him up by his feet – all very David Blaine and WELL ahead of its time… The parents ran off to tell the magistrate the story. The magistrate responded that their son was no more alive than the cock and hen on his plate!  Whereupon…. the birds grew feathers, jumped off the plate and fluttered around the room proving that Hugonell was indeed innocent. Quod Erat Demonstratum, I guess.

Friday Haiku:  Walking is walking. Fields are fields. Dirt is dirt. Same shit, different day.

Today was short. I left at 0500 because this Albergue requires you to clear out by 0700 and not 0800 as usual. With 140+ odiferous pilgrims, I feared a surge for the bathroom facilities and decided to get ahead of it. Good job because as I awoke at 0430, so did another half dozen – and that was only from my room.

Now, 22.4 km later it’s 1030 and the Albergue of choice, Cuatro Cantones, wasn’t opening until 1200. What to do? Walk another 6km to a picturesque Albergue built into the side of a mountain….or sip Espresso, read the news and wait for the Albergue of choice to open….and its swimming pool?

I am shallow. I waited.

 

Somewhere just after sunrise (and what a corker it was, today), I crossed from the autonomous region of Rioja to the Junta de Castillo y Leon. Earlier, coming out of Santo Domingo under torchlight, I had crossed a river, the Rio Oja (and the penny dropped about how the region got it’s name). It was all beginning to gel AND then, to help, there was a whopping great sign in the middle of a dirt track to let you where you were. Thank you, Generalissimo. It meant a lot.  More Merkel €uros being squandered.

When I got to Belorado (a grand-sounding name for a small town bisected by the N120 main road, just FYI), I plumped for the €12 room instead of the €7 dormitory as it meant 6 to a shower, loo etc as opposed to 30. This Albergue is almost completely self-contained: its own restaurant, communal kitchen, large back yard, speakers in the yard, cabanas, pool, they do your laundry for €3.50 (so I went all in). All that was missing was the fall-out shelter and the 3 years of dried rations. Still looking…..

It’s also not too busy. Yet….

It’s a mixed bunch. There’s the non-flushing Japanese cadre (see “Day 11 – What I Am Trying to Understand”), a group of cyclists who quickly hobbled off to bed for a siesta, a brace of wrinkly, Liverpudlian slappers debating the merits of the €10 three course menu, a couple of American students discussing the importance of the accuracy of GPS measurements when hiking (yawn) and trying to sound intelligent by speaking very loudly, another lanky American student who sidled off to a corner to toke on something or other (and is now dozing…) and a couple of Australian lesbians with matching orange towels and zebra-patterned two-piece bikinis. Ah…the petri-dish the Camino brings together.

The next door neighbours are barnyard animals.

Photos speak better than I can. I prefer the barnyard animals to present human company. They look better, say less and seem altogether more intelligent.

The communal dinner is at 1930, which is way too late for me, so I had garlic soup and a main course of poached hake for lunch. Both were delightful.

Breakfast is also way too late for me at 0700 so mine will be water and a large banana until I make the first coffee stop, hopefully Villafranca Montes de Oca, +12km and ETA 0800 with an 0500 departure. That’s the plan – as slick as KY up the Hershey Highway (metaphorically, that is).

Day 11 Photo Gallery

I left later, at 0615, because some locals were up carousing during, and into most of the night. They stopped me from sleeping. I need my recovery sleep. I guess if you live in a small town in the middle of nowhere with limited prospects, amusement is limited to drinking and having sex with close relatives. Sounded like this was their way. It also explained some of the unusual physical appearances (can’t just be the water, can it…?).

Sunrise was again delightful though less striking than prior days.

I bumped into the Italian contingent first thing, just as sun rose. They’d marched onto Tosantos to spend the night in the Albergue that was built into the mountain…only to find it was closed. Bummer. You could feel their disappointment. These are decent people looking to savor the full experience and were sorely let down by a failure in information-sharing. I still don’t know their names but there are four of them, one female, three males.  The gentleman whose phone I found is a policeman in the Abruzzo region and has to be back by 10th August so he wont go the whole way. The others I don’t know. They’re a happy bunch, enjoying each others’ company and the more spiritual aspects of the Camino. I am a different animal. Shallow, vacuous, opinionated, vulgar, critical, hypocritical and contradictory. Yes, just remember that I CHOSE to be an American, instead of being born into it by quirk of biology or a Grateful Dead Concert!

I walked the leg from Espinosa del Camino to just past Ermita Valdefuente with Isabel from Madrid. Isabel and I have bumped into each other and chatted over the past couple of days.  Another passing face. “Walking” with her is an understatement. Isabel is less than half my size, has a pack that weighs about a third (I picked up with my pinkie), she runs 10k before work each day and she moves like an Ibex with the strength and grace of a Springbok. It’s humbling.

Isabel’s a high-end tour guide (careful there with the loose thinking…) in Madrid catering to corporates with dough to blow. After her daily constitutional 10k, she dons high heels and an “office suit” and proceeds to walk her clients around Madrid, the Prado, Segovia or wherever she is instructed for the day. She started this 23 years ago. At that time you needed a degree in tourism, humanities or law to undertake the profession. Thereafter, you needed to pass separate exams about the history of each autonomous region, set by each autonomous region. There are seventeen regions. Thereafter, places like the Prado required you to sit a separate exam before you could lead tours within their hallowed walls, but first, you had to have the other exams. She works for the Ritz Carleton, Westin, Four Seasons etc, all high-end establishments. It also sounds like she is to modern (free) tour-guiding as the London Black Cab is to Uber…. a dying breed rendered obsolete as regulatory hurdles are bypassed by technology. Sad. She’s clearly proud, passionate and encyclopedic in her knowledge.

During our “walk”, I got a detailed lesson on Franco and the Spanish Civil War (1936-1939), why civil wars are more pernicious than wars with external enemies, why it takes two generations to adjust to the collateral and cultural damage of a civil war, and finally a discourse on why it’s impossible to vote in the Spanish electoral system as it stands (she didn’t know that the Aussies fine you A$100 for not voting. Ha! Gotcha!). Oh, and corruption is part of Spanish life and on a certain level, defensible. I was barely able to catch my breath and nod coherently; she was just limbering up. Force of nature. Reminds me of my friend, Arancha. Two peas in a pod.

San Juan de Ortega was to be my destination, but there is nothing there but a monastery and Albergue.

The books don’t exactly make that clear. I got there at 1115. The Albergue opened at 1300. There was a cafe but the owner began closing umbrellas just as the sun was getting really strong. There was some wind but my sense was he wanted rid of his clientele. Say no more. I decamped the extra 3.6km to Agés where there were four Albergues and a greater chance of a pulse. Greater indeed, but not much.

I chose Albergue El Pajar because it was most way through the town (an extra half dozen steps). The South Koreans had already invaded and seemed to occupy Habitacion #1.  I was allocated bed 20 in Habitacion #2.

I’ve noticed a lot of Koreans on the Camino (I’m assuming from the South as they’re friendly….but….maybe….. that’s what they want us to believe). This may be an unkind generalization but……they’re all the same. They are all really dorky (maybe they think the same about us – pallid, pudgy, bad teeth, bad breath, bad skin etc). Same big, black, elliptical (thick) specs. Every inch of skin covered by Spandex. Floppy hats, disproportionately large versus circumference of skull. Big, thick, steak-like calves on short, stocky legs. They sing, tunelessly (is this Gangnam, I don’t know?). None have paid attention to any orthodontic advice. Always on the phone (AT FULL VOLUME) and they seemingly carry the phone in one hand and a spare battery in the other. Now, let’s be clear: there is NOTHING wrong with this. I am just observing differences and trying to understand the shallowness/depth of the underlying gene-pool. It’s a bit like living in the Carolinas, returning to live ANYWHERE ELSE and realizing you’ve been released from the twilight zone (been there, done that). BTW, I love bipimbop, kimchi and Soju. Seoul rocks (who can explain the proliferation of “barber shops”, open into the wee hours….?). Embrace the differences.

Tomorrow should take me to Burgos, one of the larger cities, and one of the launch-points for shorter Camino excursions. Thereafter on Monday and Tuesday, I’m thinking of truncating a three day hike into two days so I can create extra time in Finisterre (at the end). The distances and topography are favorable. We’ll see..

In the meantime, Lord Dampnut has outed Reince Priebus (what responsible parent would name a kid thus…?) and replaced him with John Kelly, a man with pronounceable name. The “Mooch” (“I love the President….he’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever met.”  – my loud retching sounds followed by involuntary loss of bladder control…) was apparently cock-blocked by Mr Priebus, and didn’t like it and now has his revenge. Brussels is suing Poland (wait for the WW2 reparations counter-suit a la Greece…?). Australia may vote on becoming a Republic. I need another Manzanilla.

Manaña.

Day 12 Photo Gallery

I’m having a Heineken overlooking the majestic Cathedral of Burgos. A truly vast, gothic structure that apparently took over 300 years from consecration to completion. My pilgrim Credencial gets me in for a 50% discount but I’m not sure I have the interest or the stamina. Anyway, these churches are all pretty much the same. Seen one, seen all – contrary to the inner American in me that should normally be programmed to devour, absorb, memorize and then (painfully) recite every detail in search of even the most tenuous link to a (somewhat recent) past.

The Burgos region is known for its Morcilla (local black pudding) and as General Franco’s headquarters in the Spanish Civil War. I am in search of both.

I found the latter at the Albergue into which I checked. Most places state a time by which you must leave. This place says between 0600 and 0800. When I asked if I could leave before (which is what all have allowed, hitherto), I got a starchy “No!  Seex hay hem erleest”. Me in my place, and the Fascist mindset very much alive.

I found authentic Morcilla, served in an authentic Bar Parilla by authentic Spanish people.

 

“Los Toneles” is small, clean, basic, on a side-street, packed with badly-dressed locals and screaming rug-rats, with insufficient (inadequate better, hmmm…?) wait-staff for the turnover, who then in turn, over-compensate with a surly attitude that matches only Paris and New York in it’s unbridled derision of the customer. Me. The fat guy served the food like he’d dispatch a curling stone down an ice rink – sliding it along the table with a bit of left-hand Irish and he almost dropped the change in my lap. No tip! Ha!

Service aside, the food was spectacular. I had Morcilla and Pulpo.

The Morcilla has a texture that is hard to describe; less “soft” and moist most than UK black pudding, more aromatic yet not as resistant as the rice-like appearance might suggest. It’s quite rich too. The marinated pepper sets it off perfectly. Goes down very easily.

I’m a sucker for Octopus (ho-ho-ho).

The preparation of the Pulpo a la Gallegos was exquisite. Actually, it surpassed the Morcilla with ease. Thin slices (thicker than Carpaccio, thinner than sausage) of tentacles, quickly fried in olive oil, salt and Cayenne pepper. The salt was liberal, crystalline and crunchy and was a delightful counterpoint to the heat of the Cayenne.  Small pieces of soft potato unassumingly occupying the center of the dish – a culinary chamois-leather for the olive oil and its warm content. This was a harmonious cacophony of textures and tastes. Genius.

The hike from Agés started well but ended in horrible, sole-torturing (no typo) tedium. It started in the dark, and then for the last 10km, it was on concrete, effectively through an industrial estate that would make Newark, NJ look interesting. In the interim, there was the MOST unhealthy breakfast I can recall….but it was great. The photos don’t adequately capture the sheen from the fat.

I subsequently consulted my Kindle guidebook and it recommended that one takes a BUS for the last stretch. Memo to self #1: read the damn book before you hit the road. Memo to self #2: how good is a hiking guidebook that advocates a bus over Shanks’ Pony?

The saving grace was Isabel, the Spanish Ibex. I’d passed her earlier as she had breakfast and we exchanged platitudes as I stopped to examine my boots and feet (You do that here. It’s important). She caught up as we entered the approach to Burgos and kindly moderated her pace (think Concorde dropping from supersonic to VRef approach speed) so we could cruise into the city together. The signposting into Burgos was less than adequate – to my earlier post that navigating cities in light is more difficult than navigating strange, wilderness expanses by headlight and wonky maps. We got there, though – she to her pre-booked hotel and me to the Fascist Albergue of earlier mention. I’m hooking her up with Dobbin, our eclectic travel-writing friend.

I bumped in to Thibaud at today’s Albergue. I met Thibaud yesterday in Agés at the other Albergue. Witty, camp, acerbic, delightful conversationalist. No holding back. We had a communal dinner together with a Spanish actress and Lithuanian data-scientist. Quite the mix – conversation meandered between Python, R, unemployment benefits, headshots and, and, and I don’t recall the rest because I went to bed.

Thibaud is acutely-tuned into the pulse of the Camino….and it turns out that certain of our Asian contingent are “cheating” in their travails. Yes, your instinct was correct. Koreans!  Cheating!! Perish the thought!!!

The portlier Koreans (according to their less portly Komrades) are taking the bus between destinations and ‘faking” the hike. Thibaud’s pretty sure because the physical ability of these cross-eyed, buck-toothed Walruses and the protracted orchestral wheezing that accompanies tying their laces/brushing their (rather outsized) teeth means they are nowhere near able to walk the Camino. Enquiring minds want to know more.

Thibault, this is your scoop! I am your muse. More to follow (I hope). KJ-u – don’t shoot the messenger. Shoot the French guy. I really don’t know him….

Tomorrow a long hike. Dirt and more dirt. I start 0600 and not a moment sooner, Generalissimo. Gracias. Fuck you very much.

Manaña.

Day 13 Photo Gallery

As expected, the Albergue didn’t open until 0600 on the dot. Clunk, creak, clatter, then patter of feet. We were literally prisoners of the Vatican, banged up in ‘stir’ for the night. There were a few puzzled faces, geared up and ready to go at 0530, only to have to stand around and wait until the dungeon master appeared to free us. They didn’t ask the prior day, and to “assume” makes an “ass” out of “u” and “me”. Arf. Arf. I was stretching. They were pacing.

I’m on day one of three days collapsed into two to give me more time at the back end and in Finisterre. I am transiting part of the area called the Meseta, which is en route to Léon, the next significant destination.

It is soul-destroyingly boring. Much like a moonscape, but alas without the Lunar Rover. Nothing to see except mile-upon-mile of sun-bleached dirt and then more anaemic, unfriendly dirt.

And when you get into town, it’s so hot that the tarmac gives underfoot to my Tevas (imagine the problems with my stilettos…?) – and you can smell the oily discharged quite strongly. This uncomplimentary assessment is not my isolated, biased view, incidentally. It is the universally-held view of everyone here, that I, as unofficial, unelected, unaccountable spokesman (so European, no..?) am merely articulating. There was a lot of relief to have finished the day’s hiking. I know that some have cut this entire section out and chosen to take the bus to Léon. Pussies. Go big or go home. No middle ground.

Speaking of buses, I didn’t see any Koreans today. Maybe there’s a scheduled detour to an outlet mall…?

Redemption for the day’s travails is the piscina. Out of nowhere, in this one street, two dog, three car, four bar town, there’s a swimming pool. A humongous one. I’m guessing 27mx15m (weird, yes, but I measured and counted the squares in the fencing), with separate paddling pool, lifeguard, BBQ, fussball table and……bar. The lifeguard also moonlights as the barman and though he advertises cocktails, he’s unable to dispense them: a mixed-up mixologist.

Why someone put such a large structure in such a small town is beyond me. They did. It could have been 1/3 of the size and been more than ample, and I’m not sensing that the gene-pool here is going to produce the next Michael Phelps – if you feel me…? It’s here, as with much of the excess infrastructure, courtesy of Frau Merkel’s “free” €uros. My unit is nicely chilled and my tired legs feel great.

32km was a long way to walk with a heavy pack, in the heat and with nothing to occupy the mind but pain. Tomorrow will be the same but at least I’ll be able to leave at 0500+/- instead of the Fascista-mandated 0600 and knock some of the tedium out in the dark and cooler temperature.

It’s still a LONG, LONG way to Léon.

It’s beginning to cloud over (bit late for the pilgrims, eh, Big Yin..?). I’m going in for one last dip then back for dinner and zzzz.

Post script. Just after dinner, the Dominican Sisters offered a foot massage to pilgrims, which included moi. As I was waiting, I heard the saddest thing.

THUD!

A baby pigeon fell out of its nest, and without the strength to fly, it hit the ground right in front of the entrance to the Church. I’d have thought that the Powers That Be might have intervened on their own doorstep, but no. The little furry body shuddered and made a couple of final, sad sounds and was lifeless as the mother looked on from above the arch on the door. Now, I know the death of a baby pigeon ranks low by any measure of global relevance, but nonetheless, the timing and location were intriguing, so…..

I don’t “do” churches, but on this occasion, the confluence of events, free foot massage and avian death compelled me to do do. I’ve attached a couple of pictures of what is quite a warm and seemingly contemporary place of worship, located in a little town in the middle of nowhere. Vatican tendrils do indeed extend far.

Have a good night.

Day 14 Photo Gallery