Last night I woke up several times with cramp in my right calf. As I woke up the pain continued and I started to wonder if it was a dreaded bout of tendonitis, the sort that forces quite a lot of pilgrims to abandon ship, according to the guide books. This remains to be seen in my case, as not even boiling water could shift me from here right now. How could I possibly tell Santa Claus, the German, that I’m going home because of a twinge in my calf after how much I upset him yesterday for not carrying my rucksack.
Yesterday Kevin and Philomena were really happy to see me and took me out for dinner. They told me that they met Eva, the Californian girl, and her father the day before in Hornillos del Camino. It seems they had a good time despite the fact that her legs were still very sore and she was quite pissed off with her father for not having kept his word about resting in Burgos for a day to rest and recuperate. I couldn’t help laughing my ass off when Kevin told me that they went for a drink after dinner and, at the bar, Dave asked him if he could get anything for his girl, referring to Kevin’s mother. Ah that Dave one, he cracks me up.
We started this route at around half nine this morning and it was quite cold. The weather forecast says that it might snow today in some part of the province of Burgos. In mid-May… that’s global warming for you. The start of this route was quite hard with quite a steep one kilometre climb to get to the top of Mostelares. It’s worth it once you’re there: a spectacular view of the Plateau of Castile in all its splendour. That view was to accompany us most of the way to León. I started out walking quite slowly to see how my right leg would respond. Even though I felt a slight bit of pain which wouldn’t go away, I was able to go on without any problems.
Kevin asked me what I did during my time in Belfast in 2002 and I told him that apart from having a great time, I worked as a master barista in an Italian restaurant on Botanic Avenue. I trust the sarcasm of master barista comes across. I really don’t know how they didn’t send me packing the first week. I figure it was partly because most of the customers had left their palates at home and partly because they didn’t have a bloody clue about the difference between a cappuccino, a latte and the dishwater that came from the coffee machine heading for their tables. As the days went by, the final product got better and better and I think I can safely say that my coffees were passable by the time I left Belfast. Belfast; cigarettes and alcohol, as the Oasis song says. And laughs. And that party where our neighbour knocked on the door of the house where my friend Tico and I lived at two in the morning to suggest that we turn down the music or she would put the matter into the hands of a “special association” they had in the neighbourhood. I already knew that this “special association” was made up of at least four thugs with no neck who patrolled the Protestant area where we lived in a Renault Clio and one night they stopped me to find out who I was, where I lived and what I was doing on the streets at this time of night. That “special association” had their own penal code and gave out kneecappings to lost sheep. Mine are still trembling at the thought…
I also told Kevin that I wrote for a Spanish newspaper in Belfast. I think that ever since my parents gave me my first Tintin book when I was a child, I’d always dreamt of going off travelling around the world and being a reporter. I was able to fulfil that dream in Belfast, despite the fact I didn’t have experience or a degree in journalism. I had to go abroad and find myself in a few tight spots in order to be a bit brazen and make the best of myself. In my humble opinion, to write for a newspaper you have to know how to write. You’re taught how to write when you’re a small child. And if you know what you’re talking about more or less, then good for you but you’ll also get that from years of professional practice and dedication, not five years at University crazily scribbling down notes dictated to you by any old Joe Bloggs, in many cases. Just the way you can start off in a bank as an errand runner or administrator and if you’re relatively bright and you want to work, you can get quite far without having set foot in a University classroom. It’s the same for so many other jobs that in Spain require I don’t know how many qualifications, which are not strictly necessary in my opinion. Yet another con for a whole generation of Spaniards that no one ever talks about.
I don’t even want to think what it would have been like to go to the editorial department of a newspaper in Spain and say that I like writing and that I’d like an opportunity to work with them. I’ll bet my big toe, the one where I have a blister the size of a horse, that the least they would have thought of me was; “what does this clown think he’s doing”. Or if I wasn’t careful, the most protective ones of the profession, who are usually also the most mediocre, would have threatened to report me for unauthorised practice of a profession. In Spain I wouldn’t even have thought about it to avoid getting a hard time, but that’s exactly what I did in Belfast. I phoned the head of the international department in Madrid of the only Spanish national newspaper that didn’t already have a correspondent in London to therefore cover Belfast, introduced myself and told him that after a lot of reading up and research, I more or less understood the Northern Ireland conflict and that I wanted to write for his newspaper. The person on the other end of the phone thanked me for my interest but, very politely, told me that the paper wasn’t looking for a permanent correspondent in a city like Belfast, especially if they didn’t have one in London. I understood very well what he meant, “we’re not going to pay you”, and so I proposed we do the following; any time anything of interest happened in Belfast, I would write an article for them and if he considered that he could publish it, then he could be my guest, and if not then no hard feelings. If that worked out, then we’d have time to talk about the terms and conditions. And that was how I began to write for La Razón from Belfast.
Now I had the reporter job I’d always dreamt of, but what was I going to do without an ID card, that document that, like so many others, seems vital in this society for others to think you are legit? In Belfast I learnt that you don’t need an accreditation as a journalist if you’re a bit cheeky and have a Spanish ID card, a document with a photo, name and two surnames, as anyone you show it to here doesn’t have the slightest clue what it means. So that was how I went into the city centre, marched towards the City Hall, showed my Spanish ID card to the lady on reception and told her, looking serious, that I was a Spanish correspondent and I wanted to interview Alex Maskey, the first ever Mayor from Sinn Fein in the history of Belfast. Far from laughing her head off, the friendly receptionist gave me an email address to send my questions through first and asked for my phone number. She then told me that they would pass my request on to the Mayor’s Office and phone me. I thought that it was a very polite way of brushing me off and I walked out of the building knowing that at least I tried. The very next day the Mayor’s communication office phoned me and two days later I was interviewing Alex Maskey in his office. What a pity that in a lot of cases we have to leave Spain to realise the potential and opportunities that we have. To believe in ourselves and see what we are capable of doing if given the chance which is denied to us in Spain or quite simply doesn’t exist. You have to be very shameless -a right bastard-, like many of our politicians are, to sit here telling a generation of Spaniards to leave and go abroad as the experience will do them good.
Not long before reaching the half-way point of this route, we went deeper into the province of Palencia, the real Plateau of Castile. A never-ending sea of fields that were green and thriving thanks to the rain. A sight for sore eyes. I don’t know how there are guide books that advise you to take a bus in Burgos and not look back until you get to León to avoid the supposed monotony of the fields of Castile. Big mistake in my opinion, the dramatic and breathtaking landscapes that you can take in while walking in this neck of the woods are a testament to this.
Six kilometres before today’s finish line we arrived in Boadilla del Camino in the pouring rain, as the black, threatening storm clouds above our heads had warned. We met the Californian girl, Eva, in the bar of the pilgrim hostel where we stopped to have a Cola Cao and get some warmth. Her father, needless to say, is lost in combat. Apparently they had a big fight last night and Dave left Hornillos del Camino this morning without saying goodbye to his daughter and without even telling her where they were going to sleep tonight. She thinks he’ll be in Frómista but she doesn’t know for sure. This whole saga about Eva and her father separating is becoming more predictable than the death of Kenny McCormick in an episode of South Park.
We walked to Frómista at Eva’s pace, which is normally slower than a snail’s pace. It’s Kevin’s last day on the Camino and he couldn’t leave without asking the Californian what she has learnt or concluded from this trip. As if she was expecting the question and without so much as a pause, Eva told us that she has learnt a lot but the most important things are how much she loves her country, the fact she can’t pack a rucksack and that she’ll not be going on holiday with her father again in a million years. Kevin and I celebrated her spontaneity by bursting into loud fits of laughter.
Eva is quite burnt out by both her father and the Camino itself, although I don’t know which one came first, the chicken or the egg. She told us that tomorrow she’s going to catch a bus in Frómista and go to León, a civilised place where she can rest. She’s fed up with walking and eating bread and cheese and pilgrim set menus, which until now is what her experience of the rich Spanish gastronomy has been limited to. She can’t wait to finish the Camino, go back to her country and then head off to Israel. Eva is half Jewish and she tells us that there are organised trips for young Jews from all over the world to visit the country and get to know the native land of their ancestors. She’s signed up to go on one of them. The girl that has never been out of the United States, apart from to their neighbouring Mexico, is going to do these two trips in little over a month. However little I may know her, I think these two trips are very important to Eva, as much as she might protest. I get the impression she’s trying to get to know her father as much as possible. I know that there came a time in the lives of other Jewish friends, who grew up in countries like England or the United States and who aren’t that religious, when they needed to go off in search of their roots and get to know themselves again. Eva is going to have a great time in Israel and I’m sure she’s really going to enjoy the experience. Personally, it’s one of the trips I have fondest memories of. I was thinking that if she tries out the club scene in Jerusalem, play clip below, it’ll blow her mind…
When we arrived in Frómista, Philomena, who is more worried about Eva than her own father, suggested that we look for Dave in the town’s hotels. He’ll surely have booked a nice place for his daughter to rest. Eva, who is in a bit of a bad mood and is dubious as to whether her father is here, once again unleashed her genuine spontaneity with us and told Philomena to stop kidding, her father is Jewish and she’s sure he’ll be in the cheapest pilgrim hostel in town, one where you only have to give a donation. No sooner had she said this when her father appeared shouting over at us from the bar on the other side of the road where he was having a drink. As if his ears were burning from the somewhat derogatory comments his daughter was making, he announced that he had booked them a room in a little guesthouse called San Pedro, like the town they’re from in California, so that she can have a hot shower and rest up. The nice gesture didn’t have the desired effect, as the women started laying into him from all angles. His daughter for having left without so much as a goodbye this morning and Philomena who told him that she’s going back to Ireland but that if she finds out that he has left his daughter on her own again, she’ll be on the first plane back over to whack him over the head with his walking stick.
All of the pilgrim hostels were full so I found
a room in a hostel opposite the Church of San Pedro. Kevin and Phil ordered a
taxi to take them to Burgos where they would then take a bus to Bilbao and go
back to Ireland from there. Before saying goodbye to them, Phil gave me a
rosary bead from Our Lady of Medjugorje in Bosnia, where she went on a
pilgrimage a few years back. I got the impression this rosary bead meant a lot
to Philomena so I accepted the gift feeling honoured and touched. I wished them
a safe trip and said goodbye feeling like I was going to miss them…
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