Not like me, I started today’s route at eight in the morning. The reason? I’ve decided to do a marathon on foot to be able to catch up with Kevin and his mother so that I can do the last route together with them before they go back to Dublin. As it’s the first time I’m going to walk this distance, I decided to contract the services of a company that transfers your luggage from one point of the Camino to another for a small fee. Old fogeys everywhere will be outraged by this but I’m the type of person who thinks that every one of us does the Camino our own way and my own common sense tells me that if I’m going to smash a whopping forty-three kilometres today then I’m going to do it without weight on my poor back.
It was quite cold as I left Burgos. I immediately left the urban trail behind and veered inwards on a rural path that runs parallel to the river Arlanzón. Eight kilometres later I whizzed past Villalbilla and managed to get as far as Tardajos before stopping for a rest. As I left the town I met Alyson, a nice Irish girl who was alone despite travelling with another four people: a good friend from America who she had arranged to do the Camino with and another three North Americans who she met along the first few routes. Alyson told me that each of them has a different pace and so they do the routes in their own way and then have dinner all together at the end of the day to share their experiences. She didn’t mind me excusing myself as I sped up my pace and left her behind, after all I had a long stretch ahead to get to Castrojeriz. In Hornillos del Camino, twenty-two kilometres from Burgos and the supposed end of my route for day according to the majority of guide books, I stopped off again to get my strength back in the form of Spanish omelette and salad.
Despite the fact I’m feeling quite light with no rucksack, the tiredness still takes hold of you and in Hornillos del Camino I was already beginning to feel that it would be a long day and perhaps too much to ask to arrive in Castrojeriz in one piece. In any case, I believe the effort is worth it. I became good friends with Kevin and I think his mother is a lovely person too. Yesterday as I was saying goodbye to them, I gave them both a ribbon from Our Lady of the Pillar and each of them kissed it and clasped it tightly in their hands before tying it to their rucksacks and thanking me for the gift. I have to admit that they really moved me with this gesture of theirs. It’s widely known that we Zaragozans are greatly devoted to Our Lady of the Pillar and I think, whether you’re a believer or not, it’s because we see a mother in that image of a woman with a child in her arms, a mother without whom we wouldn’t be here today. At least that’s how I want to interpret it, as someone who has been a bit short on religious beliefs for some time now.
I’ve really grown fond of the Irish ones and I don’t want to miss the opportunity to walk with them another day. Things are quite intense out here and after a couple of days walking with the same person, especially if that person is here for reasons similar to yours, you can become quite close which, under other circumstances, would take a lot longer. And Kevin does indeed have similar reasons to myself for being here. He’s an accountant in a firm in Dublin and, even though life is easy and he has no big complaints, he’d like a more fulfilling job and one where he could feel like he’s doing something for others. After talking with the people I’ve met along the Camino, especially those around my age, I realise that many of them are just as dissatisfied as Kevin.
Any affinity I have with Kevin is linked to my personal fondness of Ireland and its people. I imagine that it comes from my days in Belfast, one of the places I’ve lived in and very intensely at that. I’ve always felt a certain degree of admiration for the people there. I think they have suffered a lot but are still very happy and cheerful, despite all the hardships they have had to suffer. After a year studying in Stockholm and with no desire whatsoever to go back to Spain, I was curious to understand how there are people who can be happy or try to be in violent surroundings, which tend to incite the opposite. Maybe that’s what led me to move to Belfast and also to travel to other places after, such as Colombia, Lebanon and Palestine, places where life is worth very little and the people are aware that you could be here today but pushing up daisies tomorrow. And when I visit these places, the capacity of the human being to overcome adversity and enjoy each and every moment of their existence as if it was their last, never ceases to amaze me.
Kevin’s mother, Philomena, was deeply affected by the Northern Ireland conflict. While spending time with her, I realised that she doesn’t really like to talk about it. From my humble experience in the field and from my conversations with Kevin, who, in turn, does like to speak about it, I gather that someone quite close to Phil was more involved in the conflict than what she would have liked. As it happens, Philomena marched peacefully alongside her now husband and so many other Catholics along the streets of Derry the day that the British Army decided to randomly open fire on the protesters. A fateful day that would become known as Bloody Sunday; a turning point for many Catholic families in Northern Ireland. That day Phil and her husband decided that they wouldn’t bring up their children in that Ireland and started the moving process like so many others. There were those who chose to stay and fight against what they saw as army occupation. The rest is history for others to judge. I just remember the many good friends I met during that time, both Catholics and Protestants, whose only desire was to live together peacefully and enjoy every minute of their existence without having to think it could be their last.
After stopping for a snack in Hornillos del Camino, I continued on my way at a good pace. After Arroyo de San Bol I bumped into an old German man with a bushy white beard and a protruding belly who reminded me of Santa Claus. He told me he was resting for a while as he’s carrying quite a lot of weight on his back due to his rucksack and he asked me where mine was. Assuming from his age that he must have started from the previous town and would surely be walking to the next one, with a slightly offended tone I told him that I started from Burgos this morning and that I plan to do forty-three kilometres today which is why I sent my luggage on to Castrojeriz by van. The old German man couldn’t help but look disappointed as he told me that he also left Burgos this morning and he planned on stopping in Hontanas, the town just before Castrojeriz. Thirty-five kilometres for a seventy-something granddad. Santa fucking Claus, you would – I thought, not knowing where to look. Usually the old people I meet travel lightly and do short routes, and the one day I decide to walk without my rucksack is the day I had to meet this German guy who showed me up big time.
As if that wasn’t enough, before arriving in Hontanas I met another old man around eighty years old who was stumbling as he walked and could hardly see. It goes without saying that he was carrying the obligatory ten kilos on his hunched over back. He asked me where the hostel was and I told him not to worry as I would accompany him there and help him check in, as he doesn’t speak Spanish. The old Dutch man told me that he came to Spain more than twenty years ago to do the Camino de Santiago but he fell in Estella and broke his leg and so he had to call a halt to his pilgrimage and go back home. He told me that he doesn’t want to leave this world without finishing what he once set out to do, and thanked me for helping him. I told him he was very welcome as I walked by his side, more embarrassed than ever about not having the weight of my rucksack on my back.
Upon our arrival at the hostel we were given the bad news that there was no more room and the only thing available was a mattress on the floor of a barn. Far from complaining, the Dutch man replied, smiling from ear to ear, that that was all he needed. Just then Santa Claus arrived and hugged him. Santa Claus also said that sleeping on the floor wasn’t a problem for him and ordered two beers at the bar, the biggest they had. The very amusing waitress asked him if he would prefer her to serve them up in an ice bucket or if he would rather put his mouth directly under the tap and drink until he fell over. The two granddads burst out laughing in unison. Afterwards they made a toast and congratulated each other for having finished yet another route and being one step closer to Santiago. It’s very likely these two old men hated each other as children, without knowing each other, just because of their nationality. And not for nothing, their countries were at war after all. At least now, at the end of their days, they are celebrating being here and walking to Santiago together. Despite the greed and incompetence of a select few, it seems to me that Europe has progressed on some things and we’re not as bad as we think, or as some would have us believe.
Hontanas is in a bit of a hollow and so to get around it the Camino takes you on a bit of a hill climb. After this part, the rest of the path is more or less straight for the remaining nine kilometres to Castrojeriz. Four kilometres before my goal destination the path takes you through the ruins of San Antón, made up of a hospital and a convent which date back to the XIV Century. It was about this stage of the route when I started to suffer from cramp in my right calf which made me think I’d have to hitchhike to get to Castrojeriz. As on other routes, I found the motivation to give it all I had in something seemingly insignificant and continue to the end. This time I found it in the ruins, where dozens of pilgrims before me had left photographs of their missing loved ones along with various notes on a type of makeshift altar. On one of them, Daniel from California wished everyone a good trip and had faith he would find happiness on his return to the United States.
I also thought of the German and Dutch granddads to remind me not to give up and make it to Castrojeriz even if I have to drag my leg there, as has been the case for the last four never-ending kilometres. Nobody could have said anything if I’d have stopped a car or called a taxi. Along the Camino there are lots of temptations in the form of cards or stickers on lamp posts which tell you to stop being silly and do the last few kilometres on four wheels but, for me at least, it’s not so easy when you see people who, when faced with adversity, put their head down, grit their teeth and just get on with it.
It’s not the first time that I’ve wondered what the hell people like those granddads are doing here today, but I’m continually surprised by the number of people I see doing the Camino in a bad state. Meeting these people really gives those who decide to walk it with a minor complaint or two a boost, without doubt. However fucked up you might be, there’ll always be someone worse off than you and who doesn’t complain about it either. As serious as your problems might be or seem, it’s never too late to try and turn the situation on its head. You can be eighty years old, as blind as a bat, walk like you need a walking frame and still cover eight hundred kilometres on foot with a ten kilo rucksack on your back. Of course you can. What’s stopping you? More than likely the barriers that we create for ourselves time and time again.
As I said at the beginning of this chapter, I’m in favour of everyone doing the Camino as they see fit and if at any given moment you want to lighten your load and you can afford to, then I recommend doing so. I still uphold this even after my experience on today’s route. Nevertheless, as far as I’m concerned, you’ll not find me letting go of my rucksack again. Not while there are anonymous heroes by my side. Whatever happens from now on, my rucksack and I will arrive in Santiago together…
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