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Left early this morning to take the 9:00 high speed train to Paris. As the connection onwards to Bayonne does not leave till 16:00, I have plenty of time to walk from Gare Nord to Gare Montparnasse. On a bridge across the Sienne, I meet Armand, a lively little fellow with a Chaplinesque moustache and white-painted face, dressed in black suit and tennis shoes. With his expressive face and a little mime, he shows me how he earns 10 German Mark and 10 French Francs off the next two tourist couples who cross the bridge. Would'nt mind possesing that talent.
Arrive in St.Jean-Pied-de-Porte as the sun is setting. Not particularly interested in sitting down in a restaurant or checking into a hotel all alone, I end up in front of the municipal camping. As there is no one at the gate, I simply go in and lay out my matress and sleeping bag under a porch near the bathrooms. The shower is great.
Woke up at sunrise. I tell the man at reception that I arrived after closing time, and ask what I owe him. He is a bit at a loss as I have no tent or vehicle, but settles for charging me 14 Francs for one person, probably thinking I'm nuts. I go back to town to find Madamme Debrill for the first stamp in my Pilgrim's pass, and to buy some bread and fruit.
The walk uphill is rather steep, and it is misty most of the morning. After passing the Virgin of Orisson, I lose track of the yellow arrows. A man comming down from the fields tells me the shortest way back to the trail is to cut straight across the meadows towards a gap in the hills up ahead. The ground is wet and spongy, and treacherously uneven, but I soon find myself back on track. The winding gravel path uphill that follows seems endless, but to judge from the Spanish cyclists who drop down half-dead alongside me as I have lunch, my mode of transportation is far easier. During the next short break near the top, two French girls and a Swiss guy join me for a rest and smoe small talk. As I get up to go, they are amazed to see I don't have any shoes. "I thought you'd taken them off to rest." the guy stammers incredulously, "You must be from Mars."
It starts to drizzle lightly as I cross the border mark into Spain. From here on it is downhill. The densly wooded slopes have a melancholy beauty, and the muddy gound is pleasant underfoot, though slippery. I arrive in Roncesvalles around mid-afternoon. The girl at reception offers me a pair of flip-flops for the rest of the journey, and is somewhat disconcerted when I politely refuse them.
I meet the Swiss guy again. His French companions have already left to go back home by bus. To our mutual relief, we discover we can communicate in Spanish. His name is Guillermo and his parents come from Alicante. We share a small local cheese for dinner, and attend the benediction mass. Though I am initially somewhat reluctant to enter the chapel barefoot, Guillermo tells me not to be silly.
The immense dormitory of the hospice is full, and I experience my first ice-cold shower. The other-worldly snores of one of the guests during the night at "Ronques-valles" (Snoring-Valleys) will be the topic of conversation between pilgrims the next day. I (unjustly) suspect the old man from Munich with the spindly legs and humongous backpack...
I wake up early, and set off with Guillermo. He has very long legs and is at least ten years younger than I am, but our pace seems to be well matched. We walk along mostly in silence, greeting other pilgrims as we pass them. The country lanes are cold and muddy, but the sun soon warms us nicely.
At Alto de Erro we meet two Civil Guards charged with environmental protection. The short one hasn't left his fly open, it's broken - State Material. He's worried about going down the trail with his heavy motorbike, as he has never made it without a crash. We meet the unfortunate fellow later on, walking his broken bike back to the police-station. "State Material..." he grumbles as he trudges along with a marked limp.
Stopping in Zubiri for lunch, we find two French fellows whom we have repeatedly passed on the way. Legionaries. The chubby one has taken off his shoes, revealing bandaged feet. His military boots are new and a size too small. He asks me how I manage without shoes. We wish him all the luck, but quietly doubt he will get much further. To our surprise we meet him much later near Trinidad de Arre, walking painfully on the gravel in double pairs of socks, leaning heavily on two of sticks. That evening, his friend gets him a pair of sneakers, but we are to hear a few days later he had to give up in Puente la Reina. Sorry for him, we agree to let him have the last bed at the hospice, laying out our own sleepingbags on the floor in a secluded alcove. A good thing, as we found out next morning he'd kept everyone awake with his penetrating snores...
When we reach Pamplona early morning, Guillermo wants to send some of his baggage on to his family in Alicante, where he will go after reaching Santiago. His backpack is too heavy, and is giving him problems. At the Tourist Information, we ask for the nearest Post Office. The girl attending us asks if we would like to see the Bullring. We take one look at each other and say no in unison, leaving her flabbergasted. Why else would one be in Pamplona...
When we arrive in Puente la Reina, we find the hospice full with a busload of noisy Italians and the square in front crowded with other pilgrims from all the wind directions. We are informed of another hospice opened up by the municipality over by the bridge. As we take off our bags and sit down on the matress there, I exchange a glance with Guillermo. Without a word, we pick up our things and leave. The place simply doesn't feel right. "Two more who leave." we hear the recepcionist comment dryly to his companion.
Reaching the village of Yesos de Pamplona, Guillermo is beginning to have serious problems with his left ankle. It is swollen, and he is starting to limp badly. We decide to proceed only as far as Cirauqui, in the idle hope of finding some sort of lodging there. There is none, but a nice lady directs us to the local priest, who with a sigh of resignation hands us the keys to the parish hall alongside the church. To our pleasant surprise it even has a shower, albeit with cold water.
Again, we are up before sunrise. The hard and narrow church benches have not encumbered our sleep in any way, and Guillermo's ankle has miraculously healed. We leave a generous donation in the collection box and leave the key in the priest's mailbox as agreed. The ruined Roman bridge just outside the village is bathed in the golden glow of sunrise. It no longer has any pavement, being used only by goats and pilgrims. We encounter various remains of the old Roman road during the rest of the morning.
We reach Estella before lunch. The morning market is still in full swing. Curiously it seems to be filled with Africans, which makes it somewhat exotic. We buy a water mellon, a honey mellon, some figs, apples and bananas, and eat all of it on a small park bench nearby. Since we did'nt get our passes stamped in Cirauqui, we do so at the tourist office.
For some reason we pass the wine fountain at Irache. Not a great loss, for I don't care much for wine in the middle of the day, and Guillermo is a vegetarian...
Later, resting from a long climb uphill under a shady lone tree, an old man stops by for a chat. He's just done the Camino by bike, taking only nine days to reach Santiago. He can't believe I'm doing it without shoes, and wants to see me walk on the gravel. "My God," he exclaims wide eyed, "when you reach Santiago the bishop will have to kiss your feet!"
By the fountain of Villamayor, I dislodge from my left foot the first and only sliver of glass. It is as thin as a needle, and draws only a single drop of blood.
The last ten kilometers to Los Arcos go across a flat, shadeless plain. The road of sharp uneven gravel is difficult to walk on even for those with shoes, and is scorchingly hot as the afternoon sun burns down on us. It seems endless, and we are grateful for the shade of a large haystack halfway.
The arcaded main street of Los Arcos is welcoming. We stop by a grocery store to replenish our supplies. "Look Maripaz, this one's doing the Camino barefoot." the storekeeper calls out to a lady nearby. She comes over sceptically and asks me to show my soles, which she touches. She's the town pedicure. "These are the healthiest feet I have ever seen." she announces primly, "They're filthy from walking around town, but you've left your shoes at the hospice. You wouldn't get very far like this." I'm at a loss for words. Don't even know where the hospice is. Guillermo and I burst out in laughter as we step outside.
The local hospice is just out of town, and is already packed with people. To our dismay they direct us to the sports pavillion, on the other side of town, quite a way off. When we arrive, my legs will not carry me much further. Guillermo is hungry and goes back to the hospice to cook some spaghetti. He brings some back for me.
By sunset, the sports-hall is crowded with sleeping bags. A thick coat of dust lines the floors and bleachers, so we decide to sleep outside.
We encounter a lively group of Spanish hikers along the trail by mid-morning. They offer us a sip of wine from a soft leather flask. They show us how to point the tip at your open mouth and squeeze it lightly. To everyones delight, Guillermo spays the wine all over his face, the liquid runing down into his collar.
At the grocery in Viana to buy lunch, the girl behind the counter asks if I plan to reach Santiago without shoes. Sure, I say. "You're crazy." she smiles at me enigmatically, shaking her head. The pleasant main square outside presents an amusing spectacle of pilgrims coming and going with varying degrees of limps from muscular aches, blisters and fatigue.
Later, arriving at the top of a hill, we see Logroņo spread out below us. Felisa sits in front of a small hut on the way down. She's a frail old lady with heavy spectacles who stamps our passes and offers us some water from a pump. She can't understand why the cyclists, glad to be finally over the top after a frustratingly long climb, do not stop for a stamp. She tells us she´s been here ever since the Camino was set out again many years back. Guillermo asks if she has seen many pilgrims doing it barefoot. "Mother of God!" she exclaims anguished, crossing herself as she stares at my dusty toes, that she has never seen.
In town, we have to wait outside the hospice for a while before it opens. More and more pilgrims join us.
The hospice is brand new. Compared to what we have seen till now, it is like a five star hotel. Finally a good opportunity to wash some clothing. High time. There is a small fountain in the patio for soaking one's feet, but I don't want to use it before washing mine. A pretty German girl sits there looking down despondently at her own feet, completely white with blisters. She won't go much further.
Walking through the supermarket in the center of town on the cool clean floor among the elegant local shoppers to buy some more supplies, I feel out of place, but no one seems to even notice me.
Leaving the hospice before sunrise, we meet two very well dressed couples. They are clearly on their way home from celebrating something well celebrated. One of the guys asks where we are going. "To Santiago" we reply. "Didn't you sleep?" he asks amazed. "My name is Juan," he says, swaying on his feet as he offers me his hand. He points to my feet and wants to know if I do the whole Camino like this. Sure, I say. "What balls!" he pronounces solemnly, shaking my hand again.
Azofra has a small hospice, remeniscent of a cosy weekend house. Incongruously it stands in the middle of the village, in front of the church. The caretaker is a friendly, fussy lady who can't stop talking. Imagine the nerve of the pilgrim who arrived yesterday, his dog riding on a horse. Where is one supposed to leave a horse here?. Or a dog. She leaves us a basket full of fresh vegetables from her garden. Three more pilgrims arrive after she's gone - Saul from Brazil, and a lightly travelling Doctor from Navarra whose a companion lugs around a huge backpack, on account of which he is intoduced as The Sherpa. With much skill and and even more humour, the two Navarrans prepare a veritable feast in no time. They poke fun at Guillermo's predilection for vegetables, but are later full of praise for him when he manages to fix the boiler for the shower.
In the evening, the crisp young parish priest comes to offer us a short pilgrim's blessing out on the lawn. He tells us he has done the pilgrimage himself not long ago. When they mention to him I'm doing it sans shoes, he looks as if his faith has just been shattered. I guess he has no sense of humour. "Opus Dei" the Doctor whispers malisciously to me.
Although Guillermo and I get up before sunrise, the others have already left. The yellow way-markers take us almost exclusively over the busy main road. The asfalt is rough and burning hot, and the gusts of wind from the trucks thundering right past is annoying. We have breakfast in Santo Domingo de la Calzada, on a stone bench under the porch of the old pilgrim's hospital, now an expensive hotel (Parador). I am not interested in entering the church in front to see the famous chickens, and Guillermo comes out unimpressed.
Unfortunatelly as we leave Santo Domingo, the Camino takes us along the main road again. Increadibly, we meet up with Saul, the Doctor and his Sherpa a little further out. As we take a short break in a patch of grass together, I notice the soles of my feet are wearing out fast the abrassive tarmac. I put some bandaging tape on the tender white patches under the balls of my feet, which seems to help, but I have to replace it regularly. When we reach Redecilla del Camino, I tell my companions it is probably better that I stop here for the night. They join me for a coke at the bar below the hospice, but as they get up to continue, I join them without comment. Don't feel like staying here.
When the arrows finally take us off the road, they lead us along a very wide detour, and it takes much longer to get to Belorado than we expected. By the time we get there, the hospice is already full. The simpathetic caretaker tells us there is an abandoned house outside town that has been opened for pilgrims, but invites us to shower and cook a meal here first. In her long white gown, she has a flower-power air around her, and seems to calmly have limitless time and attention for everyone. She tells me she once knew another Dutchman who did the Camino barefoot ten years ago, all the way from Paris, when the trail was being set out again.
The abandoned house is about 1 km out along the route, near a small stream. It is remarkably clean, and has running water but no furniture. The Doctor grumbles that they brought no matresses. To general hilarity, the Sherpa manages to find a complete double bed including blankets, which he drags in behind him.
The morning is difficult for me, the wet pavement painfull to my cold feet. After stubbing my left toe on a rock for a third time in a row, I let out an involuntary cry which allerts the others. Frustrated, I tell them to go on without me, as I will have to continue at a slower pace.
Arriving at Villafranca Montes de Oca still morning, I decide not to stop there. The pleasant wooded path up ahead looks inviting. To our mutual surprise, half way up the hill, my former companions pass me by. They had stopped for breakfast. We wish each other a good journey. It is the last time I see Guillermo.
The walk through the hilly forests is beautiful, but increasingly painful. My feet hurt and my legs can barely carry me, so I have to stop frequently. I have demanded too much of myself these last days without the proper preparation. Just as I am starting to wonder if I will have to continue on hands and knees, the monastery of San Juan de Ortega suddenly appears before me down in the valley, not far away. I sit down cross-legged in the grass to revel in the sight of the buildings, shimmering in the afternoon sun. Thank God. Arriving makes it all worthwhile. After sitting there for some time, a fellow pilgrim comes to ask me if I am allright. Ofcourse, I smile, I'm admiring the view.
The hospice is still closed when I arrive. I have lunch with a fellow pilgrim from Madrid in the adjoining cafeteria. When I check in later, I ask the caretaker if my friends arrived earlier. He looks down idly to see my feet, nods, and tells me they have moved on to the next town. It does not surprise me. I go up to find a bed and have a shower. The water is icy cold, so I barely go through the motions and drag myself miserably into my sleeping bag. I don't have the energy anymore to go down into the refectory to have the traditional free evening meal of garlic soup.
I wake up to gregorian chant, and for the first time, I dont' feel like getting up, so I am the last to leave. As you can only spend one night in each hospice, I am determined to check into the next possible one along the way. It is chilly and overcast, with an occasional drizzle. The next village is deserted, the hospice and the local bar look closed. I don't even stop.
In Orbaneja, I arrive just as a small van stops on the road to distribute bread from a bakery. Gratefully, I buy a baguette from the delivery girl. It is still warm. Seeing I am a pilgrim the girl gives me a big smile and a handfull of prunes, wishing me a good journey. It makes my day.
As I pass the airport, the sun finally shows itself. I lie down by a haystack in the fields and close my eyes to soak up the welcome warmth. When I wake up, I see two large vultures circling me overhead. It makes me laugh. The rumours of my recent demise are somewhat exaggerated, I think to myself.
Further along the sandy road y meet a girl from Pamplona walking by herself. She is exhausted. In the next village, she asks a man getting into his car if there is a bus to Burgos. No, he says, but we are welcome to a ride, as he is going there himself. I am determined to make this journey on my own means, and wish the girl good luck. The suburbs of Burgos that follow are not very inspiring, but I am happy to be walking, feeling much better.
The hospice consists is a wooden hut in the middle of an old park. There is a Frenchman with a horse and a dog outside. I share a bunk with a Brazilian lady who tells me she's been wandering the globe, living out of her backpack for 25 years. Wonder how long she'll keep that up...
The walk today, by myself and at my own rythm is pleasant. I arrive at the new hospice in Hornillos del Camino around late lunch-time. To my surprise, as I enter the common room, the burly caretaker beams a big smile at me. "Marco," he exclaims, opening his arms in a welcoming gesture, "we've been expecting you." It seems Guillermo was here last night. The caretaker's wife comes in with a shallow pail of salt water to soak my feet in. It feels wonderful. I get a plate of suculent lamb chops and a good glass of wine set before me without asking. Joining us at the table is Antonio, and old friend of the caretakers, also doing the Camino.
In the afternoon, I wash my clothing, and help the Frenchman who just arrives feed his horse. My French isn't good enough for much conversation though. A couple of Americans on bicycle arrive later.
The caretakers prepare garlic soup, fried vegetables and lots of fruit. One of the Americans horrifies everyone by mixing yoghurt into his soup. He tries to make up for it by preparing some Korean tea, but that doesn't seem to mix well with the local water.
I compose an impressive symphony in my dreams, but can't remember it when I wake up.
Leaving a generous donation in the box of the hospice, I leave at around 10:00 in the morning. I am in no hurry.
After Hontanas, I follow couple a from Navarra onto the wrong trail, and end at a dead end on top of the hill. Way below, we can see pilgrims walking along a dirt track. Deciding the shortest route is straight across the fields, we make our way down the steep slope over loose rocks and through all sorts of prickly plants. Very unpleasant.
That evening at the hospice, a group of cyclists invitate me to share their dinner. The couple from Navarra I met earlier tell me they have been training daily the last two months with heavy backpacks in order to be able do the Camino in 19 days.
I set off before daybreak, in order to see catch the sunrise from the Mostelares heights. On top of the hill, I meet Antonio again. We end up walking together the next few days. He is doing the Camino for the third time and keeps a leasurly pace, knowing beforehand exactly under which tree or by which rock he wants to take his next cigarette break. From him, I come to understand the essence of the Camino. In our daily lives, we are always running - whenever we finish one thing, we always have a number of other things to still do. On the Camino, you only need to get from one place to another - you have the whole day to do it, and once you arrive, you have no further obligations. We admire the old pilgrim's hospital at Itero de la Vega, recently restored by a group of Italians, and have a hearty lunch in Boadilla del Camino. After a short siesta, the walk along the canal to Fromista is not as bucolic as we expected, the sun burning down on us mercilessly.
The Brazilian pilgrim I met in Burgos kisses me on the head as we arrive, happy to see me. The municipal hospice is big and a bit run-down, and only has one shower. It is also packed with pilgrims.
The Camino on this stretch is a narrow strip of sharp white gravel crossing the barren plain in an endless straight line with a row of very young trees planted alongside. There is no shade. Clearly it has not been laid out with bare feet in mind, but to my surprise, the spikey surface does not bother me much. A fellow pilgrim later told me he'd been driven almost mad passing the same little tree every six meters along the way.
Antonio and I reach the restaurant in Carrion just before it starts raining heavily. We don't mind the pathetically slow service, we have arrived.
A whole tent camp has been set up just outside town to recieve the hordes of pilgrims.
From Carrion to Calzadilla de la Cueva there are 17 km of nothing. The earthern road is stewn with loose rocks and patches of gravel and building debris. It presents far more difficulties for Antonio than for me. Fortunatelly it is cloudy, so there is no lack of shade. We take a break at the hospice in Calzadilla, where Victoria, the young custodian from Madrid offers us something to drink, and a pail of salt water with vinegar to soak our feet in. She wants to take a picture of me outside.
We have a good meal in the local bar, and continue to Ledigos. There we find accomodation in a privately run hospice in a very old adobe house for 800 Pesetas.
It is raining heavily when we get up. The proprietor lights a large fire in the traditional hearth that takes up most of the main wall of the sitting room. It stops raining by about 9:30, and we set off. Just outside the village, Antonio realizes he has forgotten his staff, and returns for it. An lone, elderly Japanese pilgrim who sees him go back asks me in halting Spanish what's wrong with my father. I guess we all look alike to him. A few hours later, Antonio and I meet a Spanish guide who has lost his Japanese client...
We reach Sahagun in time for lunch. The hospice is a modern steel and wood structure incorporated dramatically into a rehabilitated old church. Unfortunately the gas has run out, so there is no warm water. Sigh.
Between Calzada del Coto and Mansilla de las Mulas, we take the Camino Frances. Again a white gravel path with sapling trees every six meters. We later hear the alternative route over the Via Trajana was in a bad state and party flooded.
The hospice in El Burgo Ranero is a new adobe building, but has no caretaker and is rather dusty. I spend part of the afternoon washing clothes and sweeping the floors. Don't want to spend the night sneezing.
Except for the last few kilometers characterized by bad pavement and loose stones, nothing worth noting. Again we arrive at our destination in time for lunch. After settling in, I go out to walk along the curious town walls, largely preserved. The hospice has a nice patio where we can talk leasurely with other pilgrims.
Antonio will stay with some friends in Leon for a couple of days, so we part ways when we enter the city. I already miss his calm presence.
Passing through the main shopping street, I spot a couple of cheap black kung-fu shoes, and wonder if they might not be useful in case I want to go out some evening. It feels silly entering a shoeshop barefoot, but I put two plastic bags on my feet to try the mocassins for size. The shop owner doesn't understand why I pay 350 pesetas for one pair when I can take two for 500. I tuck them away in the bottom of my bag.
I am normally reluctant to enter a church, but the imposing gothic Cathedral is more than worth the visit. The walls are completely taken up by the stained glass windows, which bathe the interior in a bright rainbow of light. The smooth granite floors are almost sensuously cool underfoot.
Although there seems to be more than enough to see in the city of Leon, I'm not particularly interested in playing for tourist. After a short visit to the San Isidoro church I come to the conclusion that that's not what I'm there for.
The next part of the Camino follows mostly the main road and uninspiring patches of urban sprawl, so I decide to continue as far as I can go. Not far out, I come across the old German from Munich I saw in Roncesvalles. He is so happy to finally find someone he can communicate with, he can't stop talking.
The last few kilometers are difficult. I have gone past my limit again, and arrive at the hospice after sundown. The caretaker has been so kind as to leave fresh vegetables, so I prepare myself a salad. That night I meet Jonathan, an young Australian who walks on battered flip flops. Like me, he does not seem to be very interested in conversation.
I take my time with breakfast this morning to make sure the old German does not cling to me. A Spanish fellow pilgrim is very interested in how I'm doing on the Camino. He wants to know how I take care of my feet. I don't, really, though after yesterday's punishing asfalt I have stick some tape to a worn out patch on each foot.
After crossing the impressive medieval bridge of Hospital de Orbigo, I enter an open door to an inviting patio. It happens to be pilgrim's hospice and local parish home, an old building renovated by German volunteers not too long ago. The caretaker kindly offers me some wine and some salt water to soak my feet in.
The last few kilometers pass through quiet woods and fields of remarkable beauty, but I start to feel the fatigue take over again, and am glad to finally reach Astorga.
There is some sort of festivity in town, and after a refreshing shower, I put my new shoes on to go out and find something to eat, without having to worry what I look like. Just as well, as a fellow pilgrim I have passed on the road a couple of times invites me to have dinner with him in a rather posh restaurant.
As I have some breakfast at the hospice this morning, a group of Dutch cyclists sit down at the same table. One of them idly looks at the register on the counter. "Hey, there was another Dutchman here last night." he exclaims. "Yeah," one of his friends says, "It seems he's walking barefoot the whole way." "What an idiot," sneers another one, "next year on his hands I bet!". I have difficulty keeping a straight face. Don't know if they see my feet when I leave. Don't care.
Mid morning, two German girls I saw earlier, invite me to join them for a snack. The scenery reminds me of Mexico, the dry plain and the cacti seem incongruent here. Two Spainsh girls pass by on a forced march like a couple of gazelles. A little while later, I meet the only pilgrim I encounter walking back from Santiago. All the way to Belgium of all places.
At Santa Catalina de Somoza, one of the German girls takes off her shoes and joins me barefoot. The blisters are killing her. Unfortunatelly, she has to give up after a few minutes. She doesn't understand how I do it. When the old fellow from Munich shows up, I leave the girls in his care. Or the other way around.
The hospice in Rabanal del Camino is closed when I arrive, so I go to the local bar to find something to eat. It is full, so I have to wait for a table. Two Spanish couples I met last night, the Mafia from Murcia, invite me to join them for lunch. They're staying at a private hospice across the road, and I follow them afterwards. The sleeping quarters are in a large old hay loft.
After a warm shower, I find everyone else sleeping a siesta, so I decide to go to the other hospice to see if the German girls have arrived. They have'nt, but I do meet up with other familiar faces. Soon I find myself in a profound philosophical discussion with the French student Eric and the German professor Gunther. The last one is on a lightning marathon from Le Puy to Santiago - 1500 km in 6 weeks - and all that on worn out knees doctors told him would no longer allow him to walk. With an odd mixture of English, French, German, Spanish and a good bottle of wine we understand each other perfectly. After a good bowl of rice, Gunther proposes to continue our debate in the bar, but neither Eric or I, both barely half his age, feel up to it. So much for the energy of youth...
There is heavy fog on the way up to the Cruz de Ferro. Combined with an intermittent drizzle, it makes the stone ruins of the deserted villages along the way all the more spooky. I pass a whole group of professional-looking cyclists, who are clearly frustrated I make better time than they do on the slippery, rocky trail. Up on the mountain, it is cold. I don't carry a stone from home to add to the pile under the Iron Cross, but figure from the size of the mound few pilgrims actually do anyway.
As I pass the remains of Manjarin, the bearded caretaker of the hospice greets me by vigourously sounding a bronze bell, so I cannot ignore him. He invites me in for a cup of coffee. The primitive round hut is a junk collector's paradise, but it is nice and warm. Both the interior and the inhabitant seem to have remained in the 1960's. Only wrinkles and layers of dust attest to the passing of time since then. The caretaker continues to prepare a meal for a whole regiment, which I'm glad I won't have to share. His little cat Napoleon plays contentedly with my bag. I come out feeling warmer, grateful for not to have caught any unwanted guests on my clothes or in my hair.
The descent down the fields to El Acebo is steep and slippery. On the way, I am almost pushed aside by a group of men in expensive hiking gear, stomping down recklessly towards to a dark-blue backup car below, the last one talking busily into a mobile phone. Antonio told me if he ever saw a pilgrim with one of those he would quit the Camino. I'm glad he's not here to see it, though whatever high opinion these gentlemen may have of themselves, they are certainly no pilgrims.
In the next town I meet the sun again, and Gunther and Eric enjoying it on a terrace with a cold beer. I walk a short distance with them, but eventually drop behind to continue at my own pace. Three women working the fields come running when they see me. Surely whatever sins I may have commited don't warrant such sacrifice, they exclaim, horrified at my bare feet. They give me the two largest tomatoes I have ever seen and three paprikas, and wish me God's blessing.
The German girl who runs the hospice in Ponferrada looks up confused as I give my age for the registration. Another one who's judged me ten years younger. I make a salad with the vegetables I was given on the road and invite a hungry fellow traveller to join me.
Just out of the hospice, I am confronted with two yellow arrows pointing in opposite directions. Confused I get out my guidebook to see which one to follow. The German girl from the hospice comes running to me from the bar across the street, and happily explains that the right arrow is for bicycles and the left one for bare feet.
Whoever painted the yellow arrows across Ponferrada, must have done so after a good party, for they look slapped on rather drunkenly. At least they lead one through green parks and lanes in quiet and attractive residencial areas, which is unusual.
After Camponaraya, I seem to lose track of the markings, as I end up in the middle of a large building site. A friendly crane operator tells me how to continue.
A few hours later, just as the burning sun and sharp stones underfoot are starting to make me wonder if I'm going to make it much further, the first house of Villafranca del Bierzo unexpectedly appears around the corner. It is the new municipal hospice. I'm the first one to arrive, and the caretaker invites me to join him with a can of beans and a glass of wine for lunch. As we finish, Jonathan the Australian arrives, with his plastic slippers and a provisional walking stick, covered like an arab by a large towel.
In the afternoon, Jonathan and I meet Eric and the Deux Gazelles Espagnols in the town square. They are staying at El Jato's hospice, and invite us over for the evening to join in a Queimada. I'm curious to meet El Jato, rumoured to be some sort of mystic or magician, but by the time Jonathan and I get back to our own lodgings, we no longer have the energy to go out again.
I leave with Jonathan in the morning, but lose him in Trabadello. I want to reach O Cebreiro by lunchtime, so do not stop very often. The scenery varies at every turn, becomming magical as I climb the mountain. It is slightly foggy.
Wandering along the curious round huts of O Cebreiro, I find the local tourist office. As I enter and greet her, the poor girl behind the counter almost jumps out of her skin. She hadn't heard me comming. I tell her my shoes are quite noiseless, at which she gapes down at my feet in wonder. She gives me a folder with all the hospices in Galicia. I will come to find out they are usually new and very well kept, but often rather charmless and in the middle of nowhere.
I have an excellent meal in the crowded restaurant. As I continue down the road, I again meet the indefatigable German from Munich laden with grocery bags, going the other way. He's camping in O Cebreiro, and has just walked to the nearest supermarket 3 km downhill. Beats me how he does it.
There is only one other pilgrim in the hospice of Hospital da Condessa. I share what little supplies I have left with him for dinner, and we converse in Spanish until he tells his name is Nick and he's from England. Just then, Jonathan comes in. He's starving, but unfortunatelly we have nothing to offer him anymore.
In Tricastella, I ask if there is a bakery nearby. A man passing by in a car, offers to take me there as it is quite a way off. I say thanks but no thanks . He then insists in buying me breakfast in the bar across the street. Turns out he's a reporter for some local paper who specializes on the Camino. His niece at the tourist office in Cebreiro alerted him about me. I'm not too happy about the attention, but allow him to take my picture and agree to answer his questions. Nick is already sitting in the bar when we enter, and the whole scene seems to amuse him.
Though I told the reporter I'd go by way of Samos, I decide to take the shorter way through San Xil when I reach the crossing. I meet up with Jonathan in the afternoon, and we walk the last two kilometers together in silence. The band on his right slipper is broken, and he's replaced it with a piece of rope. I don't understand how he can walk on those things.
As we arrive in Calvor, there is an inviting menu posted by the door of the hospice. It's for a restaurant in Sarria, 4 km down the road. How anyone expects someone who has just walked the whole day to take another two hour detour for a bite to eat is beyond us. I manage to whip up some spaghettis with a little salt and olive oil from supplies left in the hospice kitchen.
Asking for a bakery in Sarria, I'm directed to the rundown ruins of an old factory. I enter sceptically, but they indeed make fresh bread there. The big round loaf I purchase tastes great and doesn't last long.
I reach Portomarin in time for a good meal. I take my time to look around in the village, built in the 1960's to replace the one lost beneath the waters of the dam. Unexpected, it has a pleasant atmosphere, and the completely rebuit romanic church is impressive.
The last few kilometers seem interminable. When I arrive in Gonzar, Jonathan is already there. After a shower, I manage to dislodge a small white thorn that has been bothering me from under the front of my right foot. I'm afraid I've discovered it a bit too late.
With difficulty, I reach Palas do Rei round lunchtime. Where I removed the thorn from my sole yesterday, there is a painful swelling. I have an uninspired lunch on the town square. The wine tastes like petrol. As the local hospice doesn't open till 16:00, I decide to make my way to Casanova. Once there I feel much better. I ask the lady next door who keeps the keys of the hospice, if I may use the facilities to wash my clothes. My things dry quickly in the afternoon sun, and I enjoy the warmth myself as I lie down on a wooden bench nearby. When I return the keys, the lady has a pair of sandals ready for me, and can't understand why I wouldn't want them.
It is already getting dark when I come to Melide. The hospice is packed with pilgrims for a change. And the last of the hot water has just been used... I meet a German priest from Kerkrade who is walking the Camino together with his sister.
The swelling under my foot is still very painfull whenever I step on something sharp, which is way too often. I try to walk a while on my kung-fu shoes, but it makes no difference. I stop at a stream near the renovated pilgrim's hospital in Ribadiso de Baixo to soak my feet in the icy water. A newborn lamb comes over hesitantly to sniff at me.
The scenery is of a melancholy beauty, but the agony of walking doesn't give me much reprieve. I have lunch in Arzua, and arrive in Santa Irene after sunset. The German priest and his sister are the only other guests. Barely 20 km from Santiago, I have doubts I am going to make it. Soaking my feet in salty warm water doesn't help much.
I soak my feet in very salt water again before setting off, which seems to help this time. The pharmacy scales in Pedrouzo tell me I weigh as much with my backpack as I did before leaving without. Near Arca I lose the markings of the trail and end up on the road to Amenal, where I catch up with them again. I stop by the icy cold water of Labacolla and later on the Mount of Joy. It is aptly named, for the swelling under my foot has disappeared. For some reason I don't manage to see Santiago from here.
The entrance to Santiago is a maze of grimy building and niosy intersections. I don't see the Cathedral towers until I am almost under them. In a daze, I enter the church through the front, reverently touch the central column on the Portal of Glory, and join the line of pilgrims to embrace the efigie of the apostol. I feel nothing.
I obtain the last stamp on my pass at the pilgrim's office next door - it is now full. The lady behind the counter takes a piece of paper from a large pile, fills in my name and hands it over looking bored. My Compostella, proof that I have made the journey.
At the seminary just outside the center of town, I'm informed I can stay up to three days. After a shower, I meet Jonathan who arrived earlier. I join him for a walk around town. It feels strange to wear shoes, but it is nice not to have anyone stare at me. Jonathan himself is able to get a new pair of sneakers that fir his large size. The salesman neatly packs his battered flipflops.
We have drinks and dinner in Casa Manolo with a couple of German girls Jonathan has befriended to celebrate his birthday. From them I hear Guillermo has just left Santiago today. He managed to walk all the way to Finisterre as he had planned. A pity I missed him. The food and wine are abundant, and before we know it, we have to hurry back to the seminary befor it closes at 24:00. A friendly question from the waiter delays me a little, and I lose my companions in the narrow streets. I accidentaly take the long way to the seminary, and hear the bells toll midnight a minute before I get there. The doors are already closed. Shit.
There seems to be little nightlife in Santiago on a monday. I end up in a central hotel, which is just as well, as I am sick as dog all night.
Eventually I fall asleep. I take a long shower when I wake up. It is already 11:30 as I come down. I've missed breakfast, but don't really care. Arriving in time to attend the 12:00 mass in the Cathedral, I sit down among the other pilgrims and faithful. The mass is long and rather dreary. Tourists rudely file in and out with their camaras, oblivious to the service. I'm still dizzy, and am wondering how to get out when I notice some unusual activity in front of the altar. "Some of us came to attend mass today," intones the priest sarcastically, "others just came to see the Botafumeiro. Such is life." A bus load of Americans has paid for the priviledge. The organ thunders in full accords as eight men enter bearing the huge silver incensor. As it is swings through the transcept, I feel tears stream down my cheeks. I have arrived.
After the mass, I find a lot of old friends on the plaza outside, the Mafia from Murcia, les deux Gazelles Espagnols,... The old German from Munich gives me the newspaper article he saved about me. I read it amused and hand it back to him. It means nothing to me. I have no more obligations for the day...