I tried to stay in bed as long as I could and was the last one to go down for a shower. For breakfast we had some bread and jam, a milky coffee and biscuits. Hilly, the girl from Boston, opted for tea to try and combat an untimely bout of gastroenteritis that has been giving her grief the last couple of days. I like the spontaneity of many Americans and Hilly is no exception. She loves María cookies and, as we were having breakfast, she let us all know by turning very serious as she looked at one that she had already nibbled and exclaimed: “I want María cookies every day in my life!”.
I started the stage with her and we chatted for a good while. Hilly rocks, as Americans would say. In Rabanal del Camino, ten kilometres after leaving, we made our first rest stop. Still dehydrated due to the gastroenteritis, Hilly decided to stay on in the town a little while longer with Zach and Michael, and I headed off again on my own to face the hike to Foncebadón and the Cruz de Ferro (iron cross) which, according to the guidebooks, are two of the toughest climbs on the Camino de Santiago.
It’s certainly not my intention to detract from the degree of difficulty on this ascent, which is more due to its continuous nature than to the incline itself, but in my humble opinion these climbs are no big deal when your legs already have so many kilometres behind them. It’s no walk in the park, don’t get me wrong, but nor is it as bad as what it’s made out to be. I’m guessing the warnings are mainly directed at those who started their Camino in León as this would be the first sizeable steep incline that they would encounter.
I overtook Óscar along the way, the pilgrim the doctors said would never walk again, and gave him a ribbon from Our Lady of the Pillar, which I had wanted to give him since our previous encounter. He was taking a rest but told me not to worry and to go on as he’s going to take it easy on this stage.
A bit further ahead, I found a quiet spot beside some bushes where I could eat my banana in peace. There’s no reason why a man should deprive himself of this natural source of energy and vitamins, not to mention potassium, a miracle cure for hangovers. Nonetheless, I humbly believe that a banana should be eaten in the privacy of one’s own home or, if there’s no alternative, hidden in the shadows. It’s no fun for anyone to have to watch a big strapping man put a banana in his mouth as he chomps away at the mass, leaving traces at the corners of his mouth. Eating a banana is an act that a man should undertake with due diligence and the utmost discretion. And while the work is in progress, he is not to be disturbed. A pain in the neck from Bilbao, who I had already seen on other stages and nicknamed the “Tonetti” of the Camino as a tribute to the unforgettable Cantabrian clown, did just that, scaring me half to death as he stealthily came up by my side and, almost whispering, said: “Looks like you need some help there”…
A couple of kilometres before reaching the Cruz de Ferro, in keeping with tradition, I lifted a stone from the ground to leave on the mound formed by thousands of stones put there by so many other pilgrims before me. Arriving at the cross was moving, I can’t deny it. Asides from all those little stones symbolising the hopes and dreams of people from all over the world, there are also masses of photos of loved ones who have left us and countless mementos from so many different places. I complied with the ritual and tied a ribbon from Our Lady of the Pilar onto the cross next to a cachirulo (traditional Aragonese handkerchief) that was already there. Afterwards, I moved back a little to give way to other pilgrims and to rest a while.
As is usually the case, everything runs smoothly until some dickhead comes and screws it up. This time the dickhead came in the shape of a small pseudo-team of cyclists from La Mancha with no luggage and the mandatory support van, who sprinted up and climbed the mound, slipping and sliding all over the show, displacing stones that others had left as a mark of respect long before them. They then left the bikes lying up there and stayed for a good ten minutes taking pictures of each other, talking on their mobiles and generally talking drivel, very funny drivel it would seem given the loud laughter that ensued. Oh, and buggering the moment for the rest of us who had to take photos with them on the mound, as if they were on the podium on the Champs Elysees. I thought they were going to start giving out autographs next...
If you think that it’s only ascetics who come to do the Camino, you’re sorely mistaken. There are people from all walks of life here. And there’s one type of pilgrim, normally on two wheels, who I have pretty much sussed and who really breaks my balls; the Competitive Pilgrim. You really don’t have to be an expert to recognise him. But just in case you’re wondering, the Competitive Pilgrim doesn’t hide, he needs you to see him, so don’t worry as you won’t be able to get rid of him even if you want to.
The Competitive Pilgrim can’t manage the Tour de France, but he has the Camino de Santiago to show us he’s the dog’s bollocks and that he’s one of a kind. You won’t see him pedalling for more than a week (he has to be back in the office straightaway to bore the socks off the staff with his exploits), or talking with people or stopping to help someone who can’t take another step, nor will he give up his place in the pilgrim hostel to anyone worse off. The Competitive Pilgrim is here on a special mission and if he wasn’t above all this nonsense, he would run the risk of distracting himself from the most important objective in all of this: him. If you see the Competitive Pilgrim, get out of his way. If you’re not careful he’ll let out an almighty roar at you, worthless mortal, for not realising that your weary steps are getting in the way of this winged star on his unstoppable journey to Santiago. The Competitive Pilgrim is, let’s face it, a vile specimen and the only thing he’ll have learnt after a week on the Camino is what he already suspected: that the world goes round thanks to amazing guys like him…
After a few deep breaths to get my inner peace back and a brief chat with two fellow Aragonese countrymen, I started my descent into Manjarín, a deserted village where my guidebook says there is nothing but a small mountain shelter run by Knight Templars. As soon as I read Knight Templar, I knew Manjarín was a must-see. Yes, a little chitchat with some Templars in the middle of a remote mountain village in León sounds like just the ticket right now to reconcile with humankind.
I arrived about half an hour later and, as suspected, I wasn’t disappointed with what I found. Four half demolished stone houses and a couple of tidier looking houses at the roadside which also act as a shop-come-bar and shelter to sleep in. There taking shelter from the blistering heat, drinking beer and smoking, tobacco if you’re wondering, was a woman with no teeth, a young thirty-something guy with stubble wearing a t-shirt with the Templar cross, and an older man with a leather vest and cowboy hat. I concluded that the Harley parked outside was his. A cat and dog were playing in perfect harmony around the feet of these three characters. A bit further away stood a couple of pilgrim girls who seemed to be of Germanic origin, despite the fact they didn’t say boo to me. They seemed to be concentrating very hard but I’ve no idea on what and, at one point, I thought they were going to start levitating.
My dear Austrian friend, Günther, had already told me that this place formed part of the “Path of Energy”, which he isn’t missing any stop on. Germanic people really go for this esoteric energy thing and what have you. I’m honestly quite sceptical about these things. I remember when I visited Machu Picchu, in Peru, we were told to put our hands on a kind of rock that supposedly gives off a supernatural force. People around me were closing their eyes and it seemed as though one was going to start convulsing at any moment. My hand was shaking, I won’t deny it, but due to the hangover I had from all the piscos I’d drunk the night before. In other words, I didn’t feel a damn thing…
Despite the fact that before arriving I was toying with the idea of staying the night in the Templar shelter, as soon as the tenants informed me that there was no shower and that the toilet is a hole in the ground in the middle of that heap of stones I could see in front of me, I decided that I’d stay and chat with them for a bit and then be on my way. At the souvenir stall they have, I bought a handkerchief with the Templar cross and the name of the town printed on it to send to a friend of mine whose surname is Manjarín. I asked the young guy with stubble if he is a Knight Templar and he started to laugh and asked me if I really think you can just become a Templar like that. I really don’t know what the process is but what’s for sure is if you have to go a year without showering and squat in a hole in a field to take a crap in order to become a Knight Templar, I’ll sure as heck not be in the running. I couldn’t quite work out the role of the woman with no teeth; and the man with the vest and cowboy hat had already confirmed, with beer breath that reeked so badly it almost knocked me over, that he’s not a Knight Templar either. I asked them how it was possible for this to be a Templar shelter if there are no Knight Templars and they cleared up any doubts I had by talking about this Tomás guy, who is apparently the driving force of all of this and who just so happens to be away today. They also told me that there is a celebration, led by Tomás with the rest assisting him, every day at 11 in the morning where pilgrims commend themselves to their guardian angels.
I said a warm goodbye to the aspiring Knight Templars and wished them all the best in their endeavours as I made tracks again to get on with the seven kilometres to el Acebo which consist of a gentle ascent at first and then a tough descent after through gullies and rocky terrain, which left my legs shaking. I stopped off to get something to eat in el Acebo and to weigh up whether I should stay here or continue on to Molinaseca where Günther had finished today’s stage, as he told me via text message, and where he wanted us to meet for dinner. A German woman travelling with her daughter, who reminded me of the main character from the film Misery, greeted me with a sinister smile at the pilgrim hostel, which is when I decided I would try to get as far as Molinaseca.
Three kilometres after el Acebo I stopped off at a picnic area on the outskirts of Riego de Ambrós, as my strength was beginning to falter. I still had almost five kilometres to go, more or less an hour more at a light pace and so I considered that it might be more convenient to stay in that town, as even though it was seven o’clock in the evening, the sun was still beating down, I had already walked thirty kilometres mostly uphill and I was tired as it was. Granted it’s not very sensible to push yourself when there is no need, but the thought of the Madrilenian guy Óscar bravely climbing up to the Cruz de Ferro as well as seeing Günther and hearing his resonant laughter again, pushed me to go on.
In Molinaseca I looked for a hostel with a single room so that I could rest properly after an exhausting day. After a hot shower and the usual stretches, I went out to meet Günther in Casa Ramón, a gastronomic temple where I enjoyed a sumptuous dinner and a bottle of Bierzo courtesy of the Austrian. We were accompanied by Alexandra and Bruno, two Germans that Günther had met on the Camino. She’s a red head with plaits like Pippi Longstocking’s and he’s about sixty years old and small but sinewy. We shared the adventures of the last few days as we ordered a second bottle of wine. Bruno was telling us that a few days ago a Korean girl, who he’d never met, came up to him and asked him, with a smile on her face, if he was married. Bruno said no and so she asked him if he was homosexual. Quite intrigued by the turn of events, Bruno again said no and from that moment on she stuck to him like glue until he finally managed to shake her off and speed up ahead so as not to bump into her again. He told me to watch out if I come across her, to which I replied why should I, I’m heterosexual. They found the wisecrack so funny that the three of them almost fell off their seats. I’m sure the wine played its part but, my goodness, the humour in Germany is something else.
Günther asked me if I had stopped at the Templar shelter in Manjarín. The truth is I was wondering when that question would come. He asked me if I had noticed the energy in the place and I told him I had; the three characters I saw lying there swilling beer had enough energy to move the Himalayas. Günther told me that he got up at the crack of dawn today to arrive in time for the ceremony that they hold every morning at eleven but that he was disappointed to find the service had been called off because the master of ceremonies had had to go to Madrid. Günther must have asked those there if one of them could lead it and it would seem they said no as they’re not prepared and that the ceremony wouldn’t count without the Knight Templar anyway. A little confused due to his foreign status, Günther wanted to know my opinion on it and if I thought they’d told him the truth or if they just couldn’t be bothered to officiate and were fobbing him off with silly excuses. For peace of mind, I told Günther that if the ones he was talking to were the same ones I had met, he could rest assured that the only ritual they were prepared for was opening a tin of beer and downing it in one…
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