I started walking early this morning despite having one of the shorter routes on the cards for today. I stopped to have breakfast and take some photos of the narrow cobbled streets in the village of Cirauqui, not even three kilometres after setting off.
In Lorca, the next village, I met Antonio, a local who was filling up drums of water at the village fountain. It was him who told me that I’m just missing the local fiestas which are this weekend apparently. I asked him what was on and he told me the usual: a verbena (traditional street party), meals in the gastronomic societies and traditional Basque sports competitions. I wanted to know if he was going to take part in any aspect in particular and he told me he’d like to do the tree trunk cutting but that he wasn’t free this weekend and doesn’t know if he’ll be able to because he has a lot going on. I didn’t think Antonio looked like the type to hack at tree trunks but then again appearances can be deceiving. Yours truly here might look better built for it than him, but with an axe in my hand the most I could aspire to would be not slashing myself.
A short time later, a travelling greengrocer from Calahorra arrived with his van and I went over to see what he had. A couple of German pilgrims who seemed to be in a rush jumped in in front of me and, as I wasn’t in any hurry and was in ‘zen mode’ anyway, I didn’t want to cause a fuss. They’re so well off that they leave the greengrocer a one euro fifty tip, despite the fact he insists that it’s too much and not necessary. So, to compensate, he didn’t charge me for the two oranges I asked for. Sometimes in life it pays off to be patient, I thought to myself. “I hope you don’t mind that the Germans rescued you” – he said to me sarcastically. The truth is that they really didn’t bother me at all with their lack of manners. I thanked the greengrocer and started walking towards the next village.
Before arriving in Villatuerta, I met Lesley, a schoolteacher from New Zealand. As we entered the village some children asked us if they could take our photo for a school project they’re doing about pilgrims. We talked to them for a while and answered their questions about our experience on this pilgrimage. I also ran into Patricia, a Colombian from Valle de Cauca, who told me that she did the entire Camino de Santiago from Roncesvalles a few years ago. She said that her feet were wrecked but something pushed her to continue each day and that completing it was, without doubt, one of the best experiences in her life. As I cover more ground, I seem to be hearing plenty of similar stories from a significant number of people who have already previously walked the Camino.
After this brief conversation, I headed for a bar on the outskirts of Villatuerta where I had arranged to meet up with Nacho, a friend from Pamplona who works in a nearby business park. He looked in better shape than the last time I saw him. He has lost a lot of weight through his own sheer will power and he’s working on a lot of interesting new projects: theatre, photography… A couple of years ago he lost a very close friend who was full of life and doing all these things is his way of keeping her memory alive. I hugged him as I said goodbye and headed for the village of Estella, where I arrived 45 minutes later.
Once in Estella I stayed in the guesthouse owned by señora Miren, an old and very nervous lady. Her face lit up as she saw me come through the door and she asked me: “what’s with the txapela?” I told her it was my grandfather’s and his father’s before him. “Your grandfather’s, of course, that’s what I thought, of course…” - she replied, constantly moving. I left my things in my room and, after showering and stretching for a bit, I went down to the living room to write for a little while. You couldn’t see the reception from the living room but you could hear every word that was said there.
The show started when a few latecomer pilgrims arrived who couldn’t find any room in the hostels in town. Señora Miren, feigning her ability in the English language, filled the guesthouse in no time at all. The first to arrive were some French people asking about the availability who got the room prices given to them in reply. When they tried to verify, in English of course, if breakfast was included, señora Miren told them she did indeed have a washing machine but that she couldn’t guarantee that their clothes would be dry by the morning. Not even crossing her mind that there could be any sort of language misunderstanding in that conversation, the owner attributed the puzzled look on their faces to tiredness as she shooed them up the stairs: “come on now, up you go, I’m sure you’re knackered”…
Another group of French people came and before they could say a word, they were going into a room and unpacking their rucksacks. But the most surreal moment of the afternoon was when a young German guy, who had left his mother waiting outside, came up to ask if there were any rooms available. After hearing him being told that yes, there were rooms available, the German asked the price and was told that breakfast was not included but that there was a café nearby that she would recommend filling up in to start the next route with energy. The poor guy, who obviously didn’t understand a thing, repeated his original question about the price for the night and a serious señora Miren told him that yes, there was internet but that to get a good signal he would have to go down to “the wee room where that nice man is”, referring to me, despite the fact neither of them could see me. The German, not hearing numbers anywhere, which was seemingly the only thing he wanted to know, dusted off the old Spanish for dummies and mumbled “cuánto, yo y mama”. Asides from not having a bloody clue about English, señora Miren, who I think is a bit hard-of-hearing, took a step back and with the dramatic facial expression of a theatre actress exclaimed: “your mother, what’s happened to her! Don’t tell me that she’s twisted her ankle. Oh, this is terrible. Wait here a minute son”. A minute later she returned with a bag of ice and the young German explained that his mother was perfectly fine and that the only thing he wanted to know was if there was a room and what price it was, to which the owner replied that yes, he should put the bag of ice on her ankle and the swelling will soon go down. At this point the German gave up and left the guesthouse with a look of surrender on his face.
I went for dinner with my friend Miguelo at around 9pm, as he had once again come from Pamplona to keep me company. We enjoyed a cod salad and some delicious fresh asparagus. After saying goodbye to him, I went back to the guesthouse and sat in a chair near the lift, beside the door leading to señora Miren’s home, as she told me that that’s where the best internet signal is. As I was going through my emails, I was startled by the noise of the door from the owner’s house and also by her shouting, which was a bit loud for my liking at that time of the night: “Patxi, Patxi, are you there?” I was going to say good night to her so that she was aware of my presence and I wouldn’t frighten her but the sight of señora Miren in her night dress and with her hair as if she had just put her fingers into an electrical socket left me a bit speechless. She passed by me without noticing my presence and continued calling this Patxi. When she came back past me without noticing I was there, I started to suspect that we could have a case of sleepwalking, which is when I decided to hold my breath and not say a peep because, be it an urban legend or not, I’ve always heard that if you startle a sleepwalker you could give them a nasty shock. Señora Miren went half-way down the stairs and again began shouting “Patxi, Patxi” and as she passed by me for the last time, she said: “Patxi’s gone out again; when he comes back he’ll know all about it”.
I went up to my room doubting whether Patxi actually existed or not or if I had come all the way to Estella to see a paranormal phenomenon of communication with the afterlife. The only thing we can be sure of is that Patxi was nowhere to be seen and, given the state of the one waiting for him, I’m not surprised…
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