A little bit before Tosantos I met a pilgrim in his early forties who was walking very slowly, deep in thought. I asked him if everything was alright and he told me it was. He has a blister on his right foot which is a pain in the backside for him but apart from that everything else is fine. He also told me that he started the route very early and that he’s already starting to feel tired. Nevertheless, he recited a litany to me that I’ve heard many times before and which, according to him, was passed onto him by people of a certain age: “walk like an old man and you’ll arrive like a young one”. I don’t necessarily agree with this remark. In my opinion, if you’re young there’s no need to walk like an old man unless you’re keeping someone company. And if you’re old, you’ll walk like that because you’ve no other choice and, almost certainly like the rest of us mere mortals, you’ll arrive bloody knackered. But you’ll arrive and that’s the important thing.
Every one of us has their rhythm dictated by the Camino itself according to their age and physical condition and, to tell you the truth, I think these prefabricated phrases are all nonsense. I’ve already identified an extremely dangerous type of walker, “the Paulo Coelho pilgrim”, who just churns out vague philosophical phrases to any sap who approaches them and from whom I recommend fleeing like the plague, unless you want to find yourself repeating the same nonsense as you try to sound like an interesting person.
After stopping briefly for a snack in Villambistia and before arriving in Villafranca de Montes de Oca, I met the Californian girl, Eva, as I had already predicted. She had left a good bit earlier than me but the usual pains in her feet had already began and she just looked as if she’s had it with all of this. It goes without saying that there was no sign of her father. My guide book showed the climb to Montes de Oca as a sort of mountain climb so I decided to stop in Villafranca to rest for a while and eat something before taking on the climb. Eva, however, wanted to continue. It didn’t take me long to catch up with her again. She was sitting down with Philomena, an Irish woman, who was disinfecting the wounds on her feet before applying some dressings that she was carrying in her very full first-aid kit. Philomena is a nurse from Derry who is travelling with her son Kevin. I made a connection with them very quickly.
As soon as Eva was ready to get going again, we started to walk and took about four hours to do the twelve kilometres that were left until San Juan de Ortega, theoretically the end of the route and where Dave was supposedly waiting for his daughter. As we were climbing we came across a couple of Italians a few times who looked as if they had just walked straight out of the Ben-Hur galley scene after rowing while in combat. I know that you shouldn’t judge people by their appearance but these guys just didn’t give off good vibes. On one of the occasions when we met, I asked them where they were from and one of them told me that they were from the Veneto region, while the other gave me an unfriendly look and didn’t say a word. I thought that was a bit strange because their accent seemed to be from the south. I lived in Rome for a few months a few years back and travelled around Italy and I think I can tell a northern accent from a southern one. We waited on Eva and Phil who resolved my doubt about the Italians in an instant when they asked us if we had bumped into a couple of nice Sicilians. I told them I had and that I didn’t know for certain if they were from Veneto or Sicily but that I was sure they were very nice, especially with them.
We met Dave, Eva’s father, in San Juan de Ortega. He had been waiting for a long time and he didn’t seem in very good form. Phil, who doesn’t hold back, asked him directly how he could just leave his daughter out there alone, a comment which didn’t improve the Californian’s mood. To top it off, Eva ordered a beer in the first bar we found which only antagonised her father even more, as he told her to move her ass because the hostel he had booked for tonight was in Agés, about four kilometres away. Backed up by Phil, who was nodding so forcefully that I thought she was going to break her spine, Eva shouted that she’s twenty-three years old and that he should stop treating her like a child.
To my surprise, I had booked a bed in the same hostel in Agés as Dave and Eva, in a room about fifteen metres squared with bunk beds for ten people. The ideal place to rest after almost thirty kilometres’ slog. Dave seemed tired and was complaining about his right calf the whole time. He told me that Eva would be happy to hear we were in the same room and I asked for his discretion and told him to wait until she heard me snoring before being too glad about it. Dave took out four plastic bags from his rucksack with different coloured pills inside: white, blue, green and brown. I made an obvious joke and asked him if the blue ones were what I thought they were. He played along and answered: “do you want one?” –I hastened to tell him that I don’t need them yet thank God. “You’re lucky” – he remarked, with more than a hint of sarcasm.
I shared a table with Kevin, the Irish guy, and his mother over dinner which consisted of a much-needed mixed grill that went down a treat after an exhausting day. After dessert the Irish folk insisted on having a second bottle of wine, after which came a third. If I learnt anything from my time in Ireland, it’s that you can easily party with these people no matter where you are in the world and, believe me, you’ll never be bored.
As we were on the second bottle of wine, Leo, an Argentinian guy came and joined us. He’s alone here and I had seen him on other routes. Leo told me he’s sick and tired of his life in Buenos Aires, his job and the stress it brings. He also added the corruption to his list, which, according to him, is spreading filth throughout the entire country. He wants to go to Mendoza or to any other more peaceful city and live a quiet life doing what he really wants to do, which is something related to music. He thought that this trip would help him get his ideas together to make a decision one and for all when he goes back. After admitting that he is a fan of San Lorenzo, "just like the new Pope” – he reminds me, we talked about football in Argentina and how I had the chance to experience the atmosphere first-hand when, alongside young Luchito and his gang, I spent the craziest ninety minutes of my life in a football stadium, jumping and shouting with la Doce, Boca Juniors’ firm.
Leo shared a few anecdotes of his travels with me and strangely enough, he mentioned a French guy who smelt really bad and who he had the misfortune of having to sleep side by side with in a hostel a few days back: “Fucking hell, I thought the whole thing about French people not washing was just an urban legend, no shit; it was bloody freezing and I had to have the window open all night, I wanted to die, the fucker” – said Leo in his thick Argentinian accent, as I wondered if the aforementioned French guy was the same one that had tortured my dear Fiona with his smell a few days earlier.
No sooner had I started to think about Fiona when she appeared in the bar with a bottle of white wine firmly under her arm as if it was stuck there. As another couple of Irish people who Kevin and his mother had met on other routes had already joined our table, it didn’t take long for Fiona to come and sit with us, sensing that with four fellow countrymen together a knees-up was guaranteed. Without time to breathe, the Irish lady started to tell us how long and hard this route was for her, just the proof yours truly needed to conclude that Fiona, after sleeping off her hangover, took a taxi to the first bar she could find open in Agés, the town we were in.
While I was talking to Leo, I thought I heard Fiona introducing herself to Kevin and telling him that she never forgets a name. As I was beside Kevin, it was my turn and Fiona asked me what my name was. If she never forgets a name, I never forget a face and I reminded Fiona that we met last night. Yesterday’s revelry must have caused a severe lapse of memory because the face she put on to tell me that of course she remembered me seemed quite false. The fact that she then broke into some Irish songs in an attempt to change the subject quickly did nothing but confirm my well-founded suspicions.
Fiona needed to order another bottle of white wine and take several drags on her inseparable electronic cigarette that gives off water vapour to tell us, despite the fact we never asked, a story that apparently she doesn’t usually tell anyone. It’s a good job that she’s just met us all in these last twenty-four hours because if not, she wouldn’t be telling us. To set the scene, Fiona had to go back to the Ireland of the early nineties of last century. A small, inland, Catholic town where everyone knows everyone and cannot accept that a priest would hang up his robe for a young, whimsical University student and farmers’ daughter. As if she was the main character from the series “The Thorn Birds”, Fiona confessed the harsh reality to us that she has never been in love with anyone else the way she was with Michael, which was apparently the priest’s name. Holding back tears yet again, which seems to be the norm for the Irish lady after the second bottle of wine, she told us that Michael took her to class in his car every day of her four years at University but where she really wanted him to take her, which was up the aisle, was from the arms of another man who she never loved.
Fiona spent the night before her wedding in tears next to her mother who was trying to console her by insisting that she was marrying a good man who loved her. She didn’t doubt it but who she really loved was a man already married to God. The likelihood that Fiona was inventing the entire story was, in my opinion, quite high but there wasn’t anyone at that table who so much as breathed as Fiona narrated her unlucky love life. As she walked into the church, Fiona, in an instinctive gesture towards what she could never understand, turned her head and saw Michael, silently watching her walk up the aisle, keeping a discreet distance. I’d heard the rest before. A failed marriage, two children to bring up and some drink problems which may have already existed or just started then.
Neither Kevin nor myself could resist asking if anything ever happened between Michael and her, something which rather shocked the Irish guy’s mother who threatened to whack us with her bottle. Fiona told us that that’s her business and she’s not going to share it with anyone; but strangely what she did share with us was that once she went for an interview at a religious organisation in her town which works with troublesome youths and that the priest insinuated that there was a very easy way of securing the job and skipping the selection process. That was enough to horrify Philomena, who seems quite Catholic. She excused herself saying that she was tired, understandably so, and was heading to bed. The others at the table weren’t far behind her which was a good enough reason for me to tell Fiona that I was also retiring to my room. She asked me if I was sure I didn’t want to stay with her another while and I thought I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life. Nonetheless, I told her very politely that I was grateful for the invitation but that I was going to bed.
When I arrived at the hostel all the lights were off and the staff were in bed. I didn’t want to piss anyone off so I got undressed at the lockers in the hallway but I was interrupted by the noise of the front door and the creeks on the wooden stairs accompanied by the noise of high heels. I froze like a deer caught in the headlights, expecting the worst, looking ridiculous with only my ragged underpants after two weeks of walking separating me from my birthday suit. Fiona’s silhouette emerged zigzagging from the stairs and came towards me with a “oh it’s you, darling” which was accompanied by a little chuckle. Without even letting me say a word to confirm it was me, she came over as she took a drag on her electronic cigarette. The water vapour that she blew in my face was actually quite refreshing, given the circumstances. She gave me a gentle pat on my bare chest and said: “if you change your mind I’m in the room opposite, bed number 11”. I asked her to give me five minutes. I needed to knock back a whiskey…
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