Last night I slept at my friend Miguelo’s house in Pamplona and he very kindly gave me a lift to Tiebas the next morning before going to work. If it’s true what they say about it being lucky to help a pilgrim, Miguelo should be in with a good chance of winning la Primitiva (the Spanish lottery) without me needing to rub the ticket on a hunchback (which apparently brings good luck in Spain). It was quite cold in Tiebas but it got warmer as the morning went on. On the first 10 kilometres I passed through Muruarte de Reta, Olcoz and Enériz, small stone house villages.
I would have been about a kilometre away from Enériz when a couple of dogs appeared on the path and began to bark rebelliously as they got closer to me. After my experience with the Rottweiler in part 2, I stood there waiting, ready to give them a good poke on the snout with my stick. I’ve always known that you shouldn’t run away from a dog as then you become their prey, even though sometimes it’s hard not to. The owner, not far behind, hit the roof and screamed at them to come back so he could put their lead on. Once they were under control, I went over to the man and we talked a good while after which I came to the conclusion that he must have been reported by other walkers: “there’s a lot of folk around here complaining that the dog bit them but you have to prove it, y’know” – he told me, not even batting an eyelid.
Today I’m saying goodbye to the Aragonese Way, as much as it pains me to do so. According to what I’ve been told, the Camino is completely different from Puente la Reina onwards as there’s a much higher number of people passing though. Dwarfed by the Pyrenees, the Altas Cinco Villas and Mountains of Navarre, I was able to enjoy the sights, the peacefulness of the walks and the people I met as I went along. With the obvious exception of the group of comedians from Barcelona who I met yesterday and who I had the misfortune of bumping into again at the Church of St. Mary of Eunate, a Romanesque building located on the point of convergence with the French Way.
All it took was for them to see me and the Comedy Club started again: “Well if it isn’t the maño” – the first one said; “I know that face” – added the second before the third went all out and exclaimed “if you were coming to see the Church, you’re screwed because it’s closed”. I didn’t even stop. I brushed these comedic geniuses off with a “See you later guys, I’m in a rush” and continued on my way. They are really the only exception up until now; I don’t have any complaints about the rest of the people I’ve met.
In Óbanos, the next village, I started to meet a lot of foreigners who were coming from Roncesvalles, and five kilometres later I reached Puente la Reina. The Padres Reparadores pilgrim hostel is just as you enter the village and, as there were only five minutes to go until it opened, I waited to get my pilgrim passport stamped. My funny friends arrived soon after. Despite the fact there was a few of us waiting, they went right up to the door so that they were the first ones to go in. One of them said to the monk who was serving the pilgrims that he only wanted the stamp and to have a shower as he was heading back to Barcelona now. The monk informed him that he would have to pay two euros for the shower and he turned around and left, exclaiming “this is a fucking joke, you have to pay for everything here” as he passed me. You can’t even begin to imagine my joy when I heard him say he was heading back, leaving me assured I wouldn’t bump into him again.
As I was leaving the village, I met a passer-by at the fountain beside the medieval bridge over the river Arga, who turned out to be from my neck of the woods, from Sos del Rey Católico to be exact. He told me that he’d been in the village for a few years now and that he lives in a squat and begs at the door of the Church. I asked him what he was called and, not wanting to give me his first name, he told me that he’s known as the Painter. Is that what you do, paint? – I wanted to ask. To leave no room for doubt, he explained that he might not be worth anything, whatever worth means, but he’s not at all bad at with a brush in his hand. In order to prove it, he told me that the young people in the village got him to do a painting for the txoko (a private Basque gastronomic society) and they were really happy with the result but the cheeky sods didn’t pay him a penny. So, with the local fiestas as an excuse, he marched over and got some payment in kind for his painting: “I went into the txoko as if I was going into my local supermarket: a couple of sprigs of grass here, a good bottle of wine there and some colourful pills for dessert” – he tells me as he looks at his watch and explains that he has to run on to the clinic for them to have a look at the hand that he burnt recently doing something or other that wasn’t very clear.
The last six kilometres to Mañeru were difficult enough with quite a hill climb but I’m starting to realise that the kilometres I’ve accumulated so far are giving me the necessary strength to climb, with a certain degree of efficiency, these short steep slopes of the Camino, which only a short time ago would have left me gasping for breath…
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