My quandary: pink or blue? UK or US Passport to take with me. Each carries its own risks. With the pink one, condescension towards a febrile, disorganised, arrogant, petulant little Island that got in over its waders and is now swimming in a sea of home-made muck. Talk about eat your own cooking. With the blue one, there is guilt by association with a barmy septuagenarian sporting an apricot rinse who personifies stupid (and constantly goes out of his way to expand the definition), cant keep his Twitter shut and can’t run a government (but he can run a huge tax loss carry forward). On this occasion, pink it is. It’ll be easier to cast an apologetic smile and shoulder shrug about British disfunctionality than squirm at American crassness. Trump makes OJ Simpson look innocent and Bush Junior a genius. Nothing personal.
Getting to know my gear. Gear choices are difficult. There are an inordinate number of reviews out there. What to believe? Early analysis:
Salomon boots: Super. Comfortable. Easy to break in. Look no further (unless you have cloven hooves like Doris does…).
Leki hiking poles: Super. Invaluable. Easy to pack away. These are extendable, spring-loaded and take a huge amount of strain off the legs, particularly uphill. Be prepared for a pec workout though. Adjust the height to be about 5 degrees lower than forearm parallel to the ground. Note that the baskets seem to separate easily but can be replaced by rubber knobs (much better) at €4/pair.
Ortlieb transparent map carrier: Super. You get almost everything in it that you need. It’s waterproof and versatile. Put your iPhone in there and the plastic is touch-sensitive. Cons: the material is rubberised so anything rubberised that you try and slip in there (careful, Vicar), is likely to stick – makes it a bit tricky, but once in, watertight and protected. Nice, tight fit.
Osprey 50L AG pack: Super. Very comfortable. More than enough capacity for this mission. Cotswold Outdoor will help measure you. Well worth the 5 minutes getting close to the affable beardy guy at the Piccadilly store with the modest under-arm fugue. Not waterproof even with cover, as I discovered to my dismay. Suspect this is a weakness shared with other gear.
Rohan travel shirt: Super. Drop it on the floor when you shower. Piss on it. Kick it about. Rinse. Rinse. Rinse again. Hang out. Odourless and color-fast. Little long-sleeve into short-sleeve doo-hickies are great.
RavPower polar panel: Great idea but jury out so far. Says “not charging”, but worked at home. A bit heavy. Questionable utility. My bad.
Last night, I got the best sleep of the trip so far. There was a large (numerically, not physically) Japanese contingent at the Albergue, as well as (large) Canadian women. Don’t know if there is any cause/effect, but it was snoreless. I felt guilty making my rustling noises as I arose this morning. It is hard to sleep though, regardless of other noise, because you wake up in anticipation of the next day, thinking about what you need to do to be ready. Mental check lists keep you awake. From what I can tell in chatting to others, there’s definitely a pleasant addiction to this adventure. Everyone feels the same way and I don’t see any Kool Aid in sight.
The biggest criticism I have of the Camino is that once you arrive, you’re pretty fried – and you have remarkably little time (or energy) to explore the place you worked so hard to get to. It takes about 2 hours to get settled, showered, bedding done, personal effects packed away to safety. Then to eat and hydrate. This blog and photo edits take about 60-90 minutes, so that has to be factored in, and then the heat just drains any resolve you might have had to do big touristy-type things….. meaning you skulk around, take some photos and go to bed. It’s the journey, not the destination, apparently. It’s also 90ºF. For the Euro-trash readership speaking a different language, conversion is 90-32 x 5/9= 32ºC. Hot. Like Doris.
I walked the whole day on my own. I had animated conversations with dead relatives. It was tranquil and peaceful. Very much in the moment. I can’t remember when I felt as relaxed as this. No tension. Just one foot after the other.
“If you are depressed, you are living in the past.
If you are anxious, you are living in the future.
If you are at peace, you’re living in the present” Lao Tzu
Which leads me to…..moan for the day: cyclists. Fucking cyclists. Oh, the mood-swings. Mountain-bikers to be accurate. The world over, bug-eyed, spandex bandits peddle with an air of entitlement (fuck you, stop signs don’t apply to me ‘cos “I’m a cyclist!”) because they choose a vulnerable mode of transport and expect us all to compensate for their lack of awareness, attention and discipline (sorry NH, I know you are the exception). Same on the Camino.
Fucking Cyclists!
They come upon you quickly and quietly and then WHOOSH, they whiz by you. Just. They don’t give pedestrians the distance that drivers are required to give them – ‘cos they’re “cyclists”. And, no bell! No bell!! Why no bell?? It would be so much easier if the etiquette (and law) required a bell. Ding, ding! “On your left” (translated version). All is good. I may have a wet dream that involves clothes-lining one of these fuckers. Just for shits and giggles. Om, shanti Om.
Tomorrow, it is 22km from Puente la Reina to Estella. Limited changes in elevation, but I will leave early (not to win the race, Doris) but because the outlook is for temperatures creeping up and I want to be done earlier rather than later. Also, tomorrow is my last day to enjoy “the water of life”. Thereafter I plan to be dry until I see Doris, Numpty and Maidrian in Grasse on (hopefully) 26th August. Sobriety seems appropriate for a ‘pilgrimage’ but if anyone can cite evidence to the contrary, I’ll be an eager-adopter.
Sunrise at the lake was just gorgeous. I got the timing just right for the photo. Better lucky than good. After the lake, the radio masts.
I had a “ground control to Major Tom moment”, and with nothing much around me but the same scenery, mile after mile, I got to thinking about Bruno. Hadn’t done that in a while. Perhaps the Universe addressing unfinished business. Unblocking blocking.
Last I saw of Bruno, he was sitting in the back of the van that would take him to the plane and onto California to spend the next couple of months with Doris as she tried to unsuccessfully euthanize Aunt Anne (now deceased, natural causes…..). His glare was trying to burn the eyes out of my sockets. There was no “man’s best friend”, wagging stump and wet kisses. Hell no. If he could have spoken, “see you next Tuesday” (for those bleeding hearts and nanny-state softies with profanity-blockers on their email – get TF over it), it would have been part of what he had on his mind. He was not chuffed with me. And that’s my sad, lasting memory.
Bruno died two days after his tenth birthday. He enjoyed steak and medical marijuana in the days leading up to the end. It was mercifully quick. Under a week from diagnosis to “sleep”. Fast-growing cancer that sapped energy, but he was greeting and eating and pooping (and toking) until the day before. It was time. Doris called it. No double-guesses (this time).
In my next life I want to be a dog. Not a Schnauzer or Dachshund or Min Pin with painted toe nails and a bow in its hair, owned by a gay couple (no offence to homos, here btw. Live and let exist, in secrecy), but more like a noble, “manly” canine. Still working on the Karmic details. Will revert.
Quick Bruno CV. Born Oakland NJ (well, we cant be perfect, can we?) into the Jacquet kennel run by Rick Tomita. Lived NY, CA, UK. Within his first year he’d broken a leg, had corneal surgery (pussy-related injury….) and has his ‘nads removed. Sobering. He loved steak, loved booze, had the worst bad breath (wouldn’t chew bones and lack of opposing thumbs rendered flossing or brushing impossible), his best friend was Goblin (his ONLY friend) and his worst nightmare was “Hamas” (AKA Chloe, 8lbs of bitter Shitsu/unfurled tampon that kicked his ass).
Best/Only Friend
The Nemesis
He also had a late-in-life habit of grudge-pissing at the front door whenever I left. I don’t think he missed me. He just wanted to remind me of the hierarchy in the house – he never cleaned up his effluent; I did. Smart dog. Miss you.
And back to the present……
Things on my mind (so very Zuckerberg meets Tim Ferris, circa 2017). List, not sentences:
Camino signage is better in Navarre than La Rioja. Unfortunately, I am now in La Rioja and I need to concentrate more. No fun.
California has Ventura Highway (America circa 1972) but Spain has Camino Highway(s). I shit you not: beautifully-paved expanses running for miles – for us “pilgrims”. Germany’s tax-€uros at work. Thank you “Mutti”. Mwah!
It’s easier to get lost in a city than in the countryside. Getting out of a large town is bedeviled with difficulty, especially at 0530. Try it. On foot with a bad map.
Toilet paper makes great ear-plugs. Be sure it is unused.
Deodorant is cheap and plentiful but continental Europe still has to discover it.
I’m in a country where I can have 2x cups of coffee plus a sparkling water for less than a Starbucks’ Black Americano in London. WTF?
I’m in a country where a glass of wine costs €1.40 but a bottle of water costs €2.20. Does not compute.
I can get a 3x course meal for €10 here. I can’t get a starter for that in London.
Not all places take foreign credit cards here. WTF?
Why, so far, are the only blisters on my thumbs from the hiking poles and not on my feet from the walking?
Why do people not flush the loo when they use it? Once again, I came upon a “little smiling friend” that I wasn’t expecting…. Surely it is innate and reflexive – apparently not with Asian women – say no more….
Why has Spain not yet adopted screw-top wine bottles; there were none for sale in the local supermercado. None whatsoever, even at the lowliest price-point.
Why the local supermercado only sell wine with corks, but don’t sell corkscrews.
How you can buy a local bottle of wine for €1.30, but a corkscrew from the store across the road costs €2.50.
Why can Pakistan legally oust their President for dishonesty and non-disclosure, yet America cannot? Tick. Tock.
Just another day in Paradise. Dinner: Morcilla y Rabas.
For those of you who received an error message when trying to post a comment, the problem has been resolved. Of course it wasn’t my fault! Please feel free to continue letting Des know how you really feel. God knows I’ve tried…
