Part 27: El Ganso - Molinaseca (35 kilometres)

You can’t have it all in life; the attic where we slept may have meant that we were spared the noise of a dozen people snoring in unison, but its position right above the living room where breakfast is served managed to considerably reduce our hours of slumber. Primarily to blame is a rare specimen that lives on the other side of the Pyrenees and has the strange habit of waking up before the roosters themselves. No wonder the animal in question is one of their most beloved national symbols. There’s a tough stage and plenty of heat in store for us today so it’s better not to stay hugging the bed sheets for too long, but those guys and gals just take the biscuit.

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 is the same idiot who gets into the metro carriage before you’ve even got out. The brute who’s behind you and won’t even look at you as you hold the door for him so that it doesn’t go flying into his face. The git who doesn’t bother replying when you say hello to him. He’s the prat beside you on the train speaking loudly on the phone, sharing that deal that’s about to be closed because of him with the world and his wife, or that really funny thing he did ages ago that none of us give a flying monkeys about. He’s that twat of a boss who gives himself a pat on the back when everything goes well, “it’s a good job I’m here”, yet it doesn’t take him long to point the finger when things go wrong; or that mediocre work colleague who doesn’t have the balls to accept responsibility but who waits there like a scavenger bird ready to pounce on those who make a mistake. He’s the smartass who tries to jump in front of you in the queue  as if you were born yesterday or asks you to keep his space while he goes to get a few other things; the moron who accelerates so as not to have to stop at the zebra crossing, as he shows you the palm of his hand without looking at you, “you and your mundane things can wait, I can’t”; he who gave you financial lessons when things were going really well and now it’s all everyone else’s fault, not his, as he’s a clever-clogs.

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…

 

Part 26: Hospital de Órbigo - El Ganso (32 kilómetros)

This morning I had breakfast in Hospital de Órbigo with David, who drove me from León to the little town where I finished yesterday’s stage. They’re organising some jousts and medieval street markets here which are quite famous in the region and will be taking place next week. After breakfast I said goodbye to him and thanked him for taking such good care of me as I passed through his city. I told him not to think twice about doing the Camino some day as I’m absolutely convinced that David is the type of person who would enjoy this experience no end.

As you leave Hospital de Órbigo and head towards Astorga, the Camino gives you a couple of alternative routes: a straight path that runs parallel to the national road or a detour which is a little longer and runs through old villages, wastelands, a woodland or two and extensive crop fields. It didn’t take me long to decide on the second option.

Between Santibáñez and Santo Toribio, on a promenade you reach after descending down some quite difficult stony ground, I met David, a Catalan from Barcelona who runs a street stall that he calls the “Casa de los Dioses” or House of the Gods. And let me tell you, if the real House of the Gods is like this one then I’m going to continue behaving badly on Earth. There’s nothing in the surrounding area apart from David’s street stall, an abandoned warehouse and a rickety old bed that he set up to rest in, and the scenery on this stretch of the Camino isn’t even all that great. I stood and chatted with him for a while and he told me that one day he decided to leave behind a wife, two kids and a good job in Barcelona to start walking, as he was sick of his unfulfilling life. From what I understand, the reason he went off on one was also partly to do with drugs, which he apparently binged on to be able to keep up with his pace of life and keep that fake smile ready for the neighbours. He has done the Camino several times and travelled around all of Spain. One day, as he was passing by this area, he felt that an inner force was telling him to stay here where we are now and start serving others by founding the House of the Gods and being its butler.

   

I’m not going to deny that I was a bit taken aback by David’s explanations. I looked around me and, seeing that dry plain, I thought something really bad must have happened in his previous life for the Gods to be telling him to set up a stall here and not on Copacabana beach. The Catalan seems like a clever guy but there are things that he’s telling me that I just don’t buy. Everything he’s offering in his mobile stall is free and he makes sure he emphasizes this to all the pilgrims that ask, but strangely enough he makes some snide comments to those that walk by without stopping or who take something without paying: “have a nice life”; “go on with your Camino, I don’t want to hold you up”, and as he makes these comments he also rings a little bell. It’s karma yes, but with conditions. Just like his plan to buy the abandoned warehouse but with other people’s money. A cool 20,000 euros to be precise. And the best part is he tells you this after saying that you have to free yourself from material things and from all the chains that tie you to this consumer society in order to be happy. I didn’t want to argue with David but I naturally thought if it’s help to buy that dilapidated old warehouse he wants, I’d rather set up the beach bar in Copacabana myself, and quickly at that, as I don’t want the Gods playing the same dirty trick on me and telling me to stay in this hole.

There was a blonde guy with dreadlocks who looked like quite stoned. David told me that he’s a Danish guy who decided to stay here to reflect for a while, as apparently he’s a bit confused and needs time in this "peaceful backwater". With a bit of tongue in cheek, I asked him what happens if he becomes all invigorated and then he can’t get rid of him for love nor money but he told me that it’s not up to him to decide if he can stay or not or for how long. He’s only the butler of the House of the Gods. I didn’t want to say anything but I was thinking that if I were God he wouldn’t last too long as butler, looking the way he does; and let’s not even go there about the Danish guy being in my house, he looks like he’s just rolled out of a cave. Despite the cheery vibes David gives off, I think the mere mention of the Danish guy unsettles him a little and I get the distinct impression that as soon as all the pilgrims here leave, he’s going to run him out of town and send him back to Christiania, Copenhagen.

   

I have to admit that I thought David was a nice guy after spending a bit of time with him. I have a soft spot for cheeky so and sos with a bit of charm. I find it hard to believe that a supernatural being asked him to be here and I personally think that he’s here because he bloody well feels like it. Here he’s at peace, physically and mentally better and far from his fears, those same ones that he says many pilgrims carry with them. “The more weight you have in your rucksack, the more fears you carry with you; he who has no fears, travels light”. All the while he enjoys conversations with pilgrims from all other the world who make him feel important, not to mention how well fed he is from the donations the majority of people give him. There’s a plentiful supply of fresh fruit, soya milk, nuts and a wide variety of organic products. You don’t need to be a genius to realise that if you do a bit of marketing, with this donation business on the Camino de Santiago you can earn more money than you would by putting a price on things, not to mention what you can get if your customers are foreign, which is generally the case at this time of year.

I’m not going to judge whether this character should be given a certain amount of credit or not for being, as he says, brave enough to break certain ties and free himself. I’m also not so sure his children will applaud his decision any time soon, but that’s none of my business. However, he has some sort of plan for his future that he’s not letting on. He makes out like he distanced himself from the world to be happy by following his “calling”, but I just don’t get the impression he’s the same type of person as Tario, for example, the poet from Bilbao that I met in Carrión de los Condes. After speaking with him for a while about all this, David opened up and told me that he’s playing a role in this big circus full of actors, as we all are, and this is his role at the moment but he doesn’t know how long it’ll last. And he’s not wrong. I’m in this situation too to be honest, I’m choosing my role in life and, if possible, I’d like to play the lead. As nice as David seems, I think I’ve already heard his story before and I don’t really fancy being part of it.

There’s a lookout point about a hundred metres away from the “House of the Gods” where you can make out Astorga. I met the Lithuanian girl Ruta there and we walked down to the town in Leon together. Some locals told us not to go near the tourist area in the plaza del Ayuntamiento (Town Hall square) and recommended a good and reasonably priced tapas and raciones bar in one of the side streets off the plaza. After having lunch, Ruta and I went our separate ways as she wanted to wait for the Cathedral to open to have a look inside and I wanted to continue. I sent a message to the Amercians Zach, Hilly and Michael and the Hungarian girl Szilvia, telling them that we should all meet up in el Ganso, a little village with only four houses where my Camino guidebook says there is a quirky bar called the Cowboy, run by an ex-legionnaire who is a real character. I didn’t think twice about choosing this place to end today’s stage as, if he was anything like the Elvis of the Camino who we met in Reliegos, and I suspected he might be, then we were in for a treat.

The last stretch wasn’t anything too hard in terms of the difficulty of the terrain, but it felt really long to me due to the number of kilometres we’d already covered and the prevailing heat. The heat really has been quite good to me and, with the exception of a few occasions, the temperatures on the Camino have been quite moderate. I don’t even want to imagine what some stages are like during July and August, especially in the plateau of Castile. Forty degrees and nowhere to run for shade. An absolute killer.

As I entered Santa Catalina de Somoza, four kilometres from my destination, I met an old man with a walking stick who asked me if I was spending the night in the town. I told him I wasn’t and he said that was a pity as the second hostel along the main street is his son’s and it’s really nice. The old man also let on that he’s at the entrance of the town as everyone goes straight to the first hostel by default and his son has no customers. Apparently this simple marketing ploy has already gotten him reported by the first hostel and landed him a fine of one thousand euros. I told him that that doesn’t make any sense, the street belongs to everyone and it’s not a crime for him to be there suggesting that pilgrims go to this or that hostel. The old man said I was right and that he was really reported for throwing a stone at someone’s head and the judge fell for it. “Can you really see me throwing a stone at someone’s head?” – said the old man with a smirk.

Just then a little man about 60 years old arrived. He’s bald with a big nose and seems a little all over the place. He asked to borrow the old man’s bicycle so that he could go home for a moment and the old man asked if he’d learnt how to ride a bike yet and told him to do whatever he wants but he has to be back in fifteen minutes as he needs to go home too. The little man, whose feet didn’t touch the ground as he was in the seat, set off looking like he was in for a fall in the first hundred metres but he soon found his rhythm and we watched him disappear off into the streets of the town. The old man told me that the little man is a relation of his. We’re in the Maragatería, the region between León and Galicia, which is made up of small towns and endogamous societies where the people haven’t left much, so it doesn’t surprise me that they’re family. I’m sure all those who live in the town are related in one way or another. The old man also told me, as cool as you like, that the little man is quite dim and that he was put in a psychiatric hospital for a while because he said he saw the Virgin Mary. I asked the old man would it not have been better if they took advantage of the situation and turned the town into a place of worship rather than locking him up in the mental hospital. He thought my suggestion was quite funny but told me no, the little man is “very dim, very dim” and nobody would have believed him…

I arrived in el Ganso about half seven in the evening. I looked for the hostel where I’d booked a bed for myself and for Zach, Hilly, Michael, Szilvia and Ruta. Luckily, the owner put us all together in a type of attic space where we wouldn’t have to share with anyone else, which means we might actually be able to sleep without continuously waking up due to other people’s snores. After a shower, I headed for the Cowboy Bar to have a beer and wait for the rest to arrive. The bar was empty and the waiter, who I immediately identified as the ex-legionnaire that my guidebook mentioned, didn’t seem to be in very good form. He served me without paying much attention, gave me one-word answers and started to watch TV. What a let-down. This guy didn’t have a pick on the Elvis of the Camino so I decided to go and drink my beer out on the terrace.

Ten minutes later a pilgrim arrived and as he saw me outside on my own, he waved over and came and sat beside me. I thought I noticed that his left hand is a little contracted and that he walks a bit funny. He ate a piece of empanada gallega washed down with a Coke, and he asked me where I had started my pilgrimage from. I said from Canfranc Station and returned the question. "From my front door", he replied. My next question was practically immediate and he told me he is from Alcobenda in Madrid. As far as I know, Madrid is not on any of the main routes of the Camino de Santiago, and despite the fact that a real pilgrimage, if we respect the tradition, should be done from one’s own front door, as this guy Óscar is doing, I couldn’t help but enquire further about the reasons he decided to start from there and not from Roncesvalles, like most of the rest of the mere mortals around us. I was stunned by his answer: “twelve years ago I promised myself that if I could ever walk again, I’d do the Camino de Santiago right from my front door”.

Twelve years ago Óscar was a successful businessman. He had four hairdressers in Madrid which were doing brilliantly, a partner he loved and he used to travel all over every day trying to expand the business. At 27 years of age he had everything that many people his age would want in order to be happy. However, one day as he was talking to one of his clients, who fortunately was a doctor and realised what was happening, he suffered a stroke, caused by a congenital defect left undetected by doctors, even though two months before he had already gone to a specialist as he couldn’t breathe while climbing some stairs and he knew something wasn’t right. They operated on his heart and head three times in total, he was in a coma for several months and he spent over a year in a wheelchair until he could stand again. He forgot the names of things and had to learn how to talk and remember the past. Even keeping his eyes focused on the person he was talking to was a battle at the beginning. In his own words, a virus got into his brain and, as if he were a computer, everything had to be reset and programmed again right from the very beginning.

   

The doctors told Óscar that he would never walk again, he’d spend the rest of his life stuck in a wheelchair and that he’d need help from third parties. His eyes glazed over a little as he told me it was him that had to console his mother, who was grief-stricken and couldn’t stop crying, telling her that what the doctors said remains to be seen and that he wasn’t willing to give up the fight. His girlfriend couldn’t assimilate all that happened and one day, Óscar told her it was over as he needed someone who would 100% support him and he didn’t think she could. He never saw or heard from her again. Óscar doesn’t blame her or bear any grudges. As he started his rehabilitation, one of the doctors who treated him told him that he now formed part of a new category of people. At that time he didn’t really understand what that doctor meant. Now he does. Óscar is a person without problems, as he says. His main concern in life is being happy by making those around him happy. Life for him is a gift and he’s really angry that this had to happen for him to realise what is really important in life and to form part of that other category of people that the doctor spoke about. Óscar is convinced that if he wasn’t as stressed as he was when this happened and had a different attitude to things, then none of this would have happened.

Óscar told me that he has a lot of faith in God and that he promised himself that if one day he could walk again and manage by himself without the help of others, he would do the Camino de Santiago right from his front door. He hasn’t got far to go now. He says he hasn’t totally recovered all mobility though and when he gets back to Madrid, he’s going to make every effort to regain the use of his left hand, the last thing on the list. Having said that, he’s in no rush. The key to his recovery can be summed up in three words, according to him: “time, hard work and determination” and he’s going to continue fighting using this method that has given him such good results already. Óscar was smoking a purito as he was telling me all of this. I said I’m sure the doctors would advise him not to smoke and it would probably also seem like utter madness to them that he’s taking on this heavy slog of a walk, and he flashed me a smile and turned my attention to the purito he was smoking before exclaiming: “it’s a cigar I’m smoking!” “As you’ll understand, after they told me I wouldn’t walk again, I tend to take what they say with a big fucking pinch of salt” – the brave Madrilenian concluded. I can’t thank him enough for the conversation and I don’t know how to express in words just how important it was for me to meet him here today and listen to his experience first-hand.

   

Óscar left to go and rest pretty much just as Zach, Hilly and Michael arrived in town, absolutely shattered after an exhausting day for them. I thanked them for the effort they made to meet up with us and all have dinner together by treating them to a few bottles of wine and some Spanish Omelette and empanada that I had bought. After eating, they all headed back to their rooms, exhausted as they were, and I stayed up talking with Zach as we polished off the rest of the wine. Meeting Óscar and hearing his story turned out to be quite emotional for me and I needed to share it with someone. I think Zach was grateful given that he’d already told me that it was in fact a minor, fortunately for him, health problem likely caused by stress that brought him here…

Part 25: León - Hospital de Órbigo (34 kilómetros)

Today’s stage was really monotonous. The path as you leave León is really drawn out and you go through too many urban centres to feel like you’re in the great outdoors or in the middle of nowhere. The last stretch between San Martín del Camino and Hospital de Órbigo provided some light relief as the first few kilometres are on a tree-lined path. There are days on the Camino that we would gladly cut out given half the chance, no different to our everyday lives, but we have no choice but to get through them to reach our final goal. At this stage you’re thankful for having reached a certain degree of physical fitness because you eat up the kilometres without even realising. In the first week thirty-four of them would have been lethal, and even more so if they were anything like these ones. However, once you’ve been walking non-stop for almost a month, you become confident that there isn’t much that can take your mind off the end goal, which is none other than reaching Santiago de Compostela.

I walked the majority of this stage alone. I didn’t run into any familiar faces but as my idea was to go back to León once I finished the stage to take advantage of David’s hospitality for one more night, I didn’t hang around talking to other pilgrims for too long anyway, a bit unlike me. As I mentioned before, I met David in Sweden, a few years back now. That year was fundamental in my life. Sick of a life without many motivations as I dragged myself to class in the Faculty of Economics in Zaragoza without much success, I decided to go off and study abroad. I was pretty low in the rankings to get a placement so I wasn’t too hopeful that I would get one to go and study English abroad, which is what I really wanted to do to learn the language properly. Against all odds, and despite the fact that Stockholm had been one of the most popular destinations in previous years, I was lucky enough to get a place studying there. I’ve often wondered if that was destiny at work. What’s certain is that thanks to that experience abroad, I learnt English and passed the whole year. If I hadn’t have been so brave as to apply for a loan and head off to Sweden, I very much doubt I would have gone to Belfast with no job or money after and then to London in the same condition. If I did it, it’s because I’d already done it before and that experience taught me that with a lot of determination and some wit, any ordinary man can go quite far if they put their mind to it.

 

Of course the beginning wasn’t easy. It never is. My father didn’t support me on this project which he considered to be the umpteenth bright idea from a scatterbrain. When I told him that I wanted to go to Sweden to continue my studies, with that brutal honesty that only us Aragonese can brandish, dad said: “let’s see now dimwit, if you can’t pass when you’re studying in your own language, how do you expect me to believe that you’ll pass in a foreign language, and one you don’t speak at that”. I really couldn’t refute my father’s overwhelming logic as my past record of failures and my lack of knowledge of English, the language of all subjects on the University of Stockholm’s international programme, pointed towards a plummet into Baltic waters with no life jacket. I composed myself as best I could after that dressing down and told him, very calmly,  that the decision was already made and that, if needs be, I’d take out a loan or get a job there and that he was not to worry about anything, as under no circumstances would my decision compromise the family finances.

I told my father not to worry but the truth is I was worried. I was bricking it. Nonetheless, the fear of staying in Zaragoza and not being able to fight for what I thought was best for me, was greater than the wind that was put up me for leaving home, against my father’s will, and going to Sweden to fend for myself. So I applied for a loan and headed off on an adventure without which I’d never have gotten my last job, or the one before it, or the first one, nor would I have written for a newspaper or been able to speak English, nor would I have met David or so many others and I likely wouldn’t be writing these lines now, or if I was, many of you who are reading them and who I appreciate, wouldn’t be doing so. Things happen in life when you get up and move, when you walk. It doesn’t matter if your steps seem erratic or you go the wrong way or you trip up. What’s important is to keep walking. If you choose to complain or throw in the towel, all that happens is you fall deeper and deeper into the mud as each day goes by, just like I did before deciding to go to Sweden.

   

During my first three months in Stockholm, my level of English was so bad that I didn’t understand a thing. In the social circles that formed with other European students, I’d be laughing at the first joke when they were already telling the third. I remember that the University offered us a mentor when we first arrived, a Swedish student who would help me with all the initial steps such as finding accommodation and enrolling for the subjects I’d be studying. The student you were assigned to usually spoke your own language too so that you could do a language exchange with them. I thought that was a really good idea given that I could practise my English with the person as they took me through all the tedious bureaucratic processes. Jonas, who was the Swedish guy I was lucky enough to be assigned to, didn’t turn up any of the times when I actually could have really done with his help.  It’s a good job my great friend Erik, who I had met while he was on his Erasmus in Zaragoza, looked out for me and dealt with everything for me, as otherwise I think I’d have ended up sleeping under a bridge for the first few days. Jonas had spent the previous semester in Granada and I immediately twigged: he wanted a free Spanish teacher. It’s a good job that it’s us southern Europeans who are the cheeky ones. I met up with him a few times and despite the fact I suggested that we speak in Spanish for half an hour and the other half an hour in English, he always spoke Spanish and obviously so did I, as I wasn’t able to speak anything else back then.

The third time that Jonas suggested we meet up, my dear friend Luiso was with me in Stockholm as he had come to visit me during his summer holidays. I told him about this guy and together we decided to give him a Spanish lesson that he’d never forget; a master class in pure Castilian Spanish that would put him right up there with Cervantes. Inspired by our acclaimed comedian Ozores, we agreed that we would speak completely unintelligible Spanish so that the cheeky git wouldn’t want to continue practising, at least not with us. The dialogue we had with him went more or less like the equivalent of this:

- Me: Jonas, I hereby present to thee Luis, great friend from Zaragoza.

- Jonas (with a cheesy wink): Nice to meet you Luis, I’m Jonas.

- Luis: How now Jonas, Javier sayeth me that he very much longeth to haveth a conversation in Spanish with thee.

- Jonas (with a bit of a forced smile): Yea, yea, conversation...

- Me: Luis, as thee here seeth Jonas, doth be an excellent teacher and master of all grammar and pray great help with thy learning.

- Jonas (at this point the Swede had a ridiculous smile on his face, like that of the Private Pyle in “Full Metal Jacket”)

- Luis: In Granada I pray thou hast learnt that some words in Spanish origins in Arabic haveth, right, Jonas?

And we continued like that for a while until our Swedish friend excused himself saying that he had something really important to do.


 

I’m sure it goes without saying that I never saw that dickhead Jonas again. It was really my friend Pete who I learnt English from. Pete is a Scottish guy from Glasgow with a very thick accent. We both had problems communicating with the other students; me because I didn’t have a bloody clue about English and Pete because, despite the fact he was practically the only native English speaking student, there wasn’t a single soul who could understand his accent.

 

I remember that I’d already seen Pete at some University parties. Coming from the British Isles, he was in the ‘Champions League’ of boozing and would get well and truly sloshed. One time, my friend Bosco ran into him as he was returning home barefoot and zigzagging all over the snow, and without any hesitation put him on his shoulders and took him to his room as if Pete was an injured soldier. There’s no doubt that for us small-town rookie drinkers, he was a total hero.

The first time I spoke with Pete was at a party organised by one of the floors in the University halls where we lived. Pete was sitting on the sofa dozing off due to his drunken state so, in an attempt to rescue him from drunken stupor, I told him, and truthfully at that, that I really liked the Scottish national anthem and asked him to sing it. Pete looked at me, closing his eyes tightly and reopening them to see if this was real or just a figment of his imagination, and then began to sing at the top of his lungs, stretching out his arms in an X-shaped cross as if he was William Wallace before being disembowelled by his executioner: "Flower of Scotland, when we will see your like again....", just then Pete’s arms fell back down, as if his breathing apparatus had just been switched off, and he nodded off. I gave him a gentle nudge to wake him up and reminded him that he was singing his national anthem. He apologised and started over again, but this time he only got as far as “Flower” before falling into a deep slumber. It was mostly thanks to Pete that I learnt English that year. He had the patience to make himself understood, explain certain terms to me that I didn’t know and find synonyms until I managed to understand what he meant. Anyone else would have shunned me like a leper, but Pete showed me a sense of friendship which is still going strong.

   

As I was arriving in San Martín del Camino I met Jesús, one of “Kelly’s Heroes” from Barcelona and we did the last eight kilometres to Hospital de Órbigo together. Jesús was telling me that the rest of “Kelly’s Heroes” chose to do a different route and will finish the stage in Villar de Mazarife. I left him at a pilgrim hostel in Hospital de Órbigo that he already knew from the two other times he’d done the Camino, and I took the bus back to León, where, after resting for a while in David’s house, I met up with him and the Korean girl Kim in The Wall.

In The Wall Johny served us beers and a glass of white wine for Kim, who confessed that in Korea she had never actually finished a whole glass of wine. A barmaid called Nadia sometimes works with Johny. David already knew her and wanted to introduce her to Kim. She leaned forward towards the Korean to give her two kisses and Kim almost fell off her stool as she pulled back and put her arms up to try and stop the attack, convinced, as I think she was, that Nadia was going to throw out a few punches. Asians really don’t cope well with this invasion of their personal space. Introductions for them are very formal and a certain distance is kept. I’m starting to think that Kim’s nearest and dearest aren’t going to recognise her when she goes back to Korea, drinking wine and dishing out kisses left, right and centre. I don’t know if there are punks in Korea but I think that when she gets back, Kim is going to seem to them like the nearest thing to one …

Part 24: León

For the second time on this trip, I’ve decided to take a day of rest. In this case, it was almost mandatory after last night’s revelry in The Wall, a pub in the Barrio Húmedo run by Johny, a friend of David’s who I had already had the pleasure of meeting in Stockholm. David and I both spent a year studying in the Swedish capital. When I say studying, it’s really just a figure of speech. David is the life and soul of every party. A party without him is like a garden without flowers. He is a real people person and lots of friends came out to visit him during our time in Stockholm, amongst whom his brother Óscar and this guy Johny who I struck up a bit of a friendship with. They had such a good time that they ended up staying with us for a month. I remember a few funny anecdotes from those weeks. Johny is a little guy but definitely not backward about coming forward and we had to ask him to cool it on a couple of occasions, like for example when he shouted over at a couple of Finnish girls, who were commonly known as ‘the praying mantises’, that he was “going to ravage both of them”. The ‘mantises’, who were a little bulky to put it kindly and got their nickname for their ability to trap unsuspecting students at University parties, looked at Johny and smirked as they began to seductively outline their radiant bodies while screeching the chorus made famous by the curvy Italian singer Sabrina at the end of the eighties: "boys, boys, boys!!!"

We arrived at The Wall around half eight in the evening and left at half four in the morning, and not in a great state I might add. We had a good time, it has to be said. Johny was an excellent host and David really got the party going, so much so that 24 hours after meeting him, Zach, Ruta, Szilvia and company were treating him as if they had been walking with him from Roncesvalles. The party was good to get to know my new friends a bit better. Zach levelled with me and told me that last January he had a health problem due to stress from his job and lifestyle. I connected with the guy from Kentucky quite quickly. We’re the same age and have quite a few things in common, even though we were born and grew up on the other side of the world to each other. In the end you realise that your problems, whatever they may be, aren’t that different to those of people in other places. As much as we’re made to feel like we’re poles apart, we human beings really aren’t that different from each other. The differences only amount to being born in one place or another and having our basic needs covered or not. I don’t think we need a psychologist to tell us that stress caused by a certain type of lifestyle or the quest for happiness, such a recurrent theme, are nothing more than problems caused by abundance, in all senses. There’ll be those who say it’s to do with the crisis but deep down we’ve actually got it pretty damn good, much better than millions of people around us. What’s more, to be in a position where your future depends on your own decisions while exercising your freedom of choice, is a privileged position to be in which not everyone has the luxury of.

Alyson and Hilly headed back quite early as they were staying in a nuns’ hostel, only for females. They excused themselves to the rest of the guys they are walking with and justified the harsh nocturnal ‘apartheid’ with the hypothetical madness that would quickly ensue if they had to spend one more night listening to men snoring. I wished them all the best and as I said goodbye, I told them that as they get older they’ll learn that snoring isn’t exclusively a male thing. The Israeli guy Gahl, the American guy Tim from Kansas City and the Danish guy Thomas also left at this stage as they are all in hostels with a curfew. Günther, Zach and Michael had more sense and were staying in hostels where they can come and go as they please. Ruta and Szilvia gladly accepted David’s invitation to stay at his house and so it was the starting line-up that lasted until closing time.

At lunchtime, when we were feeling human again, we met up with David, who had gone to do his bit for the country like a true hero, and his brother Óscar who I hadn’t seen for a little while. Óscar was doing a job similar to mine before I ventured off to do the Camino, although it was more oriented towards the world of business and public institutions. One day he decided to put a halt to that and work in something more related to fair trade and international cooperation and, with his grain of sand from his hometown of León, attempt to make the society we live in a fairer place. “You don’t have to go very far to help others and if we want things to change, why not start with ourselves and our immediate field of action?” Óscar said, leading by his own example. He was telling us that he’s one of the patrons and contributors of the Ethical World Festival being held in León this weekend and he went on to explain the various activities that will be taking place to try and get as many people as possible involved; from concerts to film discussions to various workshops and activities for the young ones. After lunch, David and Óscar got back to work and the rest of us to whatever it was we had on the cards. In my case, it was resting for a while and then contacting Kim, who I’d received a message from to tell me she’d arrived in León, to tell her to meet in The Wall at around half eight.

Kim was really happy to see David and myself in Johny’s pub. She gave us each a gift to thank us for our help during the rescue operation in Reliegos. Mine was a little pin with the yellow arrow that guides all pilgrims on the Camino de Santiago, and David’s was a feather. I wasn’t going to start to weigh up the emotional value of both gifts, but I think the size of David’s has something to do with his car appearing in the equation, without which, no matter how much good will I showed, there was no way in hell we were getting out of that jam. Johny served Kim a glass of white wine and us each a beer. The Korean girl confessed that we are her first non-Korean friends and she recorded a video of each of us introducing ourselves, which she later posted on Facebook to the delight of her friends. As if there weren’t reliable translators of all languages nowadays, one of her friends didn’t have any qualms about leaving a comment with some advice for Kim below the video: “he’s too old for you”.

I’m sure that, with these videos, David and I are the trending topic in Korea by now. Just in case there was any room for doubt, we ordered Japanese food for dinner and Kim took a photo of me holding my chopsticks. The way I’m holding them must be to her like a Korean holding a fork by its teeth to me. She found it really funny and it didn’t take her long to post it on Facebook for the amusement of her followers, who would likely be jumping for joy at the double helping of European eccentricities that Kim is giving them today. I’m really not that surprised that we’re her first non-Korean friends as with the language barrier and their natural shyness, it’s not usually easy to strike up a friendship with them. Having said that, once you make an effort to gain their trust and you forget about the unpleasant sound they make as they slurp their noodles, the reward is worth it as you discover people who are generally very pleasant and have an innocence about them, in the positive sense of the word, that you don’t come across very often nowadays. I wasn’t the biggest fan of the Koreans after our unfair elimination from the World Cup in Japan and Korea in 2002 and the more recent appearance of Gangnam style, but it seems as though I’m going to have to back down once again on this Camino.

Part 23: Reliegos - León (25 kilometres)

My Camino de Santiago guidebook doesn’t give Elvis much of a write-up, which is yet more proof that the most important guide is the personal one that each and every one of us compiles along the way according to our own tastes and ways of seeing things and that it’s not always a good idea to believe or religiously follow what others have written before us. As far as I’m concerned, you shouldn’t be given a Compostela pilgrim certificate at the end of the Camino if you haven’t visited the Elvis Bar, but that’s just my own personal opinion. Other people will take it or leave it. What it does say about it in my guidebook is that breakfast is served from half seven. David, my friend from León and yours truly here thought this information was a little strange, especially given the piss-up Elvis was left with when we headed on to León just before midnight, but we still came back to the bar in Reliegos with the eagerness of a schoolboy on his first day of class, thinking that Elvis would be there to brighten up our morning, even if this time it was with coffee instead of beer.

As we turned the door handle a few times only to find that the entrance was locked and bolted, I couldn’t help but smile to myself. It was the same thing as when the Parisian guy of Maghrebi origin that I used to live with in my first year in London, and who always managed to find a way out of paying the bills, was leaving to go back to France. The night before, after doing the usual goodbye ritual of hugs and best wishes, I reminded him that he owed us fifteen pounds for last month’s electric bill. Actually he owed us a lot more months’ worth but I thought that just by having him pay his part of the last bill, he could leave the house on a high note. He told me very seriously that I needn’t worry as he wouldn’t leave London without squaring me up and that he’d leave an envelope with the money in the kitchen before leaving. I went to bed wishing him all the best, convinced that there was no way on this earth we were going to get that money. Imagine my surprise when, the next morning, I came down to find a sealed envelope with my name on it in the kitchen, and imagine my even bigger surprise when I opened it with the eagerness of a schoolboy on his first day of class only to discover that inside there was nothing more than a piece of paper with a smiley face and a speech bubble beside it which read "bye, bye, Javier!"…

We had a coffee in another café in the town and David went on to work after as I started to walk, a little earlier than usual. This, coupled with the fact that the majority of people finished yesterday’s stage in El Burgo Ranero, meant that I hardly bumped into anyone on the first few kilometres. Before I reached Villamoros de Mansilla, a town that lies about four and a half kilometres from Reliegos, something quite remarkable happened: after twenty-three days of pilgrimage, I said my first "Buen Camino" to someone.

Before I started this trip, one of my sisters who had done the Camino before, explained that this expression was the normal way to greet fellow pilgrims. I hadn’t a clue about this type of secret code and it sounded to me like a members-only expression from some sort of special group, like a type of greeting between two bearded bikers from the “Hell’s Angels”, albeit a cringe-worthy one, and so I told my sister that under no circumstances would I be wishing anyone "Buen Camino". If I hadn’t succumbed to calling cerveza (beer) by the abbreviation ‘cerve’, no matter how popular the term might have become, I wasn’t going to stoop to this level either and I would be wishing people "buen viaje” (a good trip), which is what we’ve always said in correct Spanish.

My sister, who knows me well, told me matter-of-factly that I shouldn’t try to fight the power of the Camino, as I’d be wishing "Buen Camino" to the cows before I knew it. She continued that I’d surprise myself when walking alone by rehearsing my next greeting to the next pilgrim I come across. She told me that if I wasn’t careful, I’d end up repeating it in my sleep. I told her that she’d have to eat her words when I came back. I lasted twenty-three days until today when, walking at a light pace, I overtook a German about the same height as me weighing around one hundred and fifty kilos, with his face so congested that I thought he was going to explode at any second. As I passed by, I greeted him with a nod of the head without stopping and, as I turned back around and continued on my way, I heard the long-suffering walker with his voice faltering, as if he was struggling to breathe and was about to ask for help, say: "Bu-en Ca-mi-mi-no!". As if we didn’t have enough on our plates with Merkel and after the dressing down I got from Santa Claus for not having my rucksack on my back a few days ago, it has to be another German who puts me in my place. After a few seconds, I turned back around and with a remorseful look, wished him the same.  At that moment, as ridiculous as it may sound, I felt as if a weight had been lifted along with the prejudices that very often take hold of us, and from that moment on, I was a bit more open to enjoying that experience and empathising with those around me who, without knowing me from Adam, were wishing me all the best in life with that simple "Buen Camino", all the best with whatever I undertook and wherever I wanted my path to lead. How could I not wish them the same…

A bit further ahead, I met Antonio who was walking in the opposite direction and trying to sell four-leaf clovers in small plastic bags to pilgrims. He asked me for a donation and I asked him if he had change, as no matter how much luck they bring, it’s not exactly the time to be giving out twenty euro donations for a clover that I think he stuck the fourth leaf on to himself.  As he opened his wallet to give me the change, I couldn’t help but notice an old photo of a woman he resembled. I asked Antonio if it was his wife and he told me it was his mother who had passed away. I thought he was about to start crying when he told me she’s all he has in this life and if he continues fighting to go on it’s because she gives him the strength to do so from wherever she is. “I do everything for her”, he confessed. I wanted to know where Antonio from Barcelona was headed and he told me he doesn’t have any fixed plans. He’s on his way back from Santiago, he doesn’t have a job or benefits and he’s going to try and get to Navarre, where he knows people from his time doing military service and he’ll see if they have any work to give him.

Antonio did his military service in the Mountain Brigade and was posted to Estella (Navarre). He has very fond memories of his time there, despite all the hidings they were given, according to him. He tells me that the situation got so bad that the troops rebelled against some of the NCOs and the officers had to take the matter into their own hands, and from then on the living conditions in the Regiment started to improve. Antonio had to renounce the love of the niece of one of the Sergeant Majors for the sake of a quiet life during military service. Someone blew the whistle to the Sergeant Major that Antonio was partying with her and he sent for him to tell him to forget about his niece, which was asking a lot, and that if he saw him out in town with her again he would beat him up so badly that he wouldn’t want to go anywhere near her ever again. I gave Antonio back the change from the twenty euros that he had given me, telling him that he needed it more than I did and I wished him a “Buen Camino” as I said goodbye and wondered what his life would have been like if his relationship with the Sergeant Major’s niece in Estella had flourished...

After briefly stopping in Mansilla de las Mulas to buy some fruit in a street market and get something to drink, I continued walking. I met Ruta and Szilvia only to leave them behind soon after as my pace today is a bit faster than theirs. On the last five kilometre stretch I caught up with Zach from Kentucky, who is walking with another American guy. If I thought Zach was 18 yesterday, despite the fact he’s actually my age, then the guy he’s walking with, who is called Michael apparently, couldn’t even have had his first communion yet. I say that he’s apparently called Michael because he’s not uttering a single word. In the beginning I thought he was shy but I then quickly started to consider the possibility that he’s actually just a bit of a dick. Zach must have noticed because then he explained that his fellow walker had actually gotten together with a female pilgrim a couple of days ago and caught a throat infection which had left him without a voice. I got the impression that Michael wanted to say something but, as he can’t speak, he didn’t say a word. Right then Zach started to piss himself laughing and told me that it was a joke and that the truth is that it’s a bet he made with Hilly, the American girl that I met in the pharmacy in Carrión de los Condes a few days ago. The bet is that neither of them can talk until they touch the Cathedral in León. I really didn’t know which explanation was better, the bet or the story that Zach invented in the first place to justify Michael’s silence.

Zach and I chatted about our respective Jobs and the reasons for each of us being here until we got to León. I told him that I’ve decided to put the brakes on in my life after ten years working in banking to give other interests a shot, such as travelling and writing, which have been niggling away at me for some time now. He told me that his reasons are similar and despite the fact he still doesn’t know what he wants to do, he’s here to think about his future as there are things in his life that need to change. This seems to be a recurrent theme amongst people from my generation. I’m constantly meeting people who should be enjoying the evident happiness in their lives as they have everything that, according to what we’re told, supposedly brings you happiness and yet they still show a certain degree of dissatisfaction with their existence and the path they are on.  Even though he can’t talk, Michael intervened in a timely fashion to show us a photo he took with his mobile phone on an earlier stage which, as I understood it, is the antidote to mine and Zach’s condition, and that of so many others: "first find out what makes you happy; then find out how to make money with it”…

When we arrived at the Cathedral in León, Michael was a bit annoyed at something that made us all laugh: the Cathedral was closed and didn’t open until four. I was given another reason to smile when I bumped into Günther, who I hadn’t seen since Santo Domingo de la Calzada. Luckily my back is now completely better and I didn’t suffer too much with the bear hug the Austrian gave me. Günther was telling us that he arrived in León on Sunday and has taken two rest days. His wife has already started the Camino Primitivo in Oviedo and they hope to meet up in Melide in one week’s time. The Austrian is so happy that, reminiscent of old times, he danced a waltz with Szilvia right in the middle of the plaza as if they were in one of those big Viennese ballrooms at the beginning of the last century, and got some strange looks from passers-by to go with it. Zach, Michael, Ruta, Szilvia, Günther and myself went to the Barrio Húmedo area in search of a place for lunch that David had recommended to me but, as luck would have it, it was closed.  There was an asador beside it that we ended up going into which didn’t disappoint. After lunch we all went over to the Cathedral together to watch Michael touch it and be able to talk again. Afterwards, the first thing he did was come over to me to apologise if he had seemed rude and to thank me for paying the bill at lunch; I’d wanted to treat them and also to thank them for visiting my country. Michael’s a good guy. Between his adolescent bet with Hilly and what he said to me when he could speak again, he won me over. I don’t know if I’m getting soft with age or if it’s this Camino business that has me with my guard down but I’ll have to look into it if the symptoms persist…

Part 22: Sahagún - Reliegos (31 kilometres)

I woke up absolutely knackered this morning. Yesterday’s forty kilometres have taken their toll and it really was tough to tear myself away from the sheets. There are a lot of days like that when you just don’t want to get up. That’s life. But you do get up, shower and have breakfast, and then you start to walk and soon forget how tired you are. You have to walk to reach a certain destination and so you do. My back isn’t hurting as much as last week and I think I’ve lost a bit of weight, which helps with the walking. I’m feeling in better and better shape.

I left late at around ten this morning, which is why I got stuck in at a good pace for the first few kilometres. I stopped off at one of the picnic areas along the way to have a drink of water and read some sentences and reflections that other pilgrims had left on a wooden post. Some were interesting and serve as proof that a lot of people do this Camino for a profound reason, existential many times, and not only to eat up so many kilometres. I also notice this in the conversations I have with people. On the first couple of days the majority give you some bizarre excuses to explain their presence here but, as we progress, these same people level with you and you almost always find out the real reason.

My case is quite similar. A lot of people ask me why I’m here and I haven’t divulged the truth to anyone as of yet. I consider my reasons too personal to go telling any Tom, Dick or Harry. I suppose that it’s the same for lots of other people when I’m possibly the one asking. In my case, I usually say that it’s a trip I’ve been wanting to do for many years now but that I’d never had the opportunity to do it before, on some occasions because I didn’t have the money, like when I was younger, and on others because I didn’t have the time, like when I started to work. And that’s no word of a lie. When I was eighteen years old and about to start University, three of my best friends decided to do the Camino de Santiago, which wasn’t as popular at that time as it is now and there weren’t as many hostels and provisioning places. One of these friends, Alberto, also affectionately known as "Pasi", asked me to come with them. He thought the experience would help us face the important new chapter we were starting and that it would be a trip that we would never forget. At that time I didn’t have the money to go off gallivanting here and there for a month so, as sorry as I was, I had to say no. So that trip was still pending and today, almost nineteen years later and just as I’m facing another new chapter in my life, I feel very fortunate to be here today walking this Camino that my dear friends "Pasi", Miguelo and Joaquín walked all those years ago.

At about eleven kilometres from Sahagún in Bercianos del Real Camino, I stopped for a rest and met Ruta and Szilvia who were finishing their lunch. I had already briefly met the Lithuanian girl, Ruta, as the Irish guy Kevin and his mother Phil had introduced me to her when they were still on the Camino. I only met Szilvia, who is from Hungary, today. After briefly saying hello, they continued on their way as I stayed in the café where they were to rehydrate myself a bit and stretch my legs. As I was about eight kilometres from El Burgo Ranero, I caught up with them again and we stopped off in the town together for a bite to eat.

In El Burgo Ranero I was absolutely delighted to run into “Kelly’s Heroes”, who I hadn’t seen since Izco, Navarra, about two weeks ago. Delighted despite the fact they gave me the bad news that Diego, Oddball’s brother, had had enough by the time they got to Burgos and went back to Barcelona because he couldn’t take any more. What a pity. Oddball told me that just before reaching Burgos he got tendonitis in his leg which left him unable to walk and he had to go to A&E. They prescribed him some rather strong painkillers which he had an allergic reaction to so he had to go running, tendonitis and all, back to A&E at the hospital. Anyway, he tells me that he’s alright now and is raring to go to get to Santiago and deal with whatever is thrown at him. He’s as hard as a rock this Oddball one. I have to remind the reader that these guys have walked all the way from Montserrat in the province of Barcelona. The rest of his gang are well, David’s beard has grown almost as much as mine and Jesús can now tie his hair back in a ponytail it’s got that long. They met a couple of Argentinian girls who they were talking to at the entrance of the hostel and Oddball introduced me to his girlfriend who came from Barcelona to do the last stretch of the Camino with him.

Ruta and Szilvia excused themselves and told me they were going to set off again to get to Reliegos as soon as possible. I, on the other hand, stayed a little while longer with “kelly’s Heroes” as we had quite a lot to catch up on from the last two weeks’ adventures. After chatting for an hour, I got ready to face the last thirteen kilometres of the day, the distance between me and Reliegos, but not before saying a quick hello to Santa Claus. The German is really proud of the hard graft I’m putting in with my rucksack firmly attached to my back, especially given how disappointed he was on the stage following Burgos when I told him I’d sent my luggage on to Castrojeriz by van.

On the way to Reliegos I met Kim, a Korean girl who could hardly walk and told me that she’s a little worried because she can’t find accommodation anywhere , she doesn’t speak Spanish and she’s scared it’s going to be dark soon at the pace she’s walking at. I tried to calm her down and reassured her that I wouldn’t leave her on her own and we would arrive in Reliegos together, and if we didn’t find room in the pilgrim hostel my friend David was going to come from León to pick me up and take me to his place where I was going to stay the night and so she needn’t worry as she could come with us too. Kim’s English is somewhat limited so I don’t know if she understood me completely or maybe what I said sounded too good to be true, coming from someone she’d just met. With only three kilometres to go until Reliegos, the Korean girl couldn’t take another step so I asked her to sit down at a picnic table beside us while I phoned my friend David, who was already waiting at a bar in the town, to ask him to come and pick her up. She seemed a little nervous but five minutes later when David appeared, her face lit up. We helped her into the car and I told them I’d see them in Reliegos, as I wanted to do all the kilometres of my pilgrimage on foot.

They managed to find room in the pilgrim hostel in Reliegos so Kim and David went to the Elvis Bar as they waited on me. You could tell from the bar’s exterior that it wasn’t going to let us down. I also met the Lithuanian girl Ruta, the Hungarian girl Szilvia and Alyson and Hilly inside and assumed this was the start of some kind of improvised party. I wasn’t far wrong but we had to cut it short at one point because David and I still had to drive to León and we wanted to get there in one piece if possible. After giving us a demonstration of some Irish dancing, Alyson and Hilly went back to their room to rest  and Zach, an American guy from Kentucky who they met at the beginning of the Camino and who has travelled with them ever since, stayed with us. I had a beer with him and we chatted for a while, during which I couldn’t help but make reference to Kentucky fried chicken. I’m sure the inhabitants of that State must have had it up to here with that joke every time they travel somewhere. Zach took my piss-taking in good humour and I thought he was a really nice guy. He challenged me to guess his age and I said I could be his father and I wouldn’t give him any more than eighteen. To my surprise, he told me he was born the same year as I was and when I asked him what his secret to eternal youth was, he told me, with a good dollop of humour, it was fried chicken…

The owner of the bar, who everyone knows as the “Elvis of the Camino”, ended up being the greatest character I’ve met to date. Beers started to flow to the untamed rhythm of Elvis’ hips, which were moving to the beat of the songs playing. The “Elvis of the Camino” danced, let us take photos with him and gave us one of the best and most fun nights since we started this journey. A real gem of a barman and of a person, working away every day for the enjoyment of the pilgrim. Keeping with the theme of real gems, we had front row seats to a blister-bursting master class led by Doctor Kim. She was now relaxed after the stress from earlier and when she saw how dilapidated the place was, she didn’t have any qualms about bursting them at the bar as David and yours truly looked on in disbelief…

Part 21: Carrión de los Condes - Sahagún (40 kilometres)

This morning I got up early so as I could make an early start on the forty kilometres I have ahead of me today to get to the province of León, the last one before reaching the province of Galicia. When I say I got up early, I mean I was on the road at half eight in the morning. I don’t want anyone falling off their seats. The first eighteen kilometres were unsuitable for agoraphobics: a never-ending straight road through the Plateau of Castile with hardly any trees. A magician would have been in his element: “nothing here, nothing there”. Literally nothing, zilch. Every now and again the bare landscape presented me with shocking scenes such as that of a French guy doing a number two in the ditch at the side of the road as if it was the most natural thing ever. I hadn’t even walked five kilometres when I thought the never-ending plateau was giving me my first dose of hallucinations as I found myself walking beside Michael Jackson. After a few seconds of doubt, I breathed a sigh of relief when just ahead of the figure with the white hat, sunglasses and a mask covering the mouth and nose, I saw the Korean guy who a few routes back asked me if the flat cap I was wearing is Basque. Michael Jackson was none other than his wife…

All of the stages give you time to think but the beginning of this one today gave me more than I bargained for: a monotonous path through endless fields which test your patience and gusts of wind that roam freely and mercilessly wallops you in the face. Today wasn’t the first day I had thought about the start of my career. I’m going through a period of change and going back over these first steps helps me to contemplate my next ones. Weighing up all I’ve achieved over these last ten years on both a personal and professional level, gives me the strength to continue fighting for another ten. We all get our motivation from wherever we can. Thinking about the start of my professional career means remembering my first few years in London and Gavin, my Scottish boss in BBVA. Apart from a few exceptions, I’ve been very lucky with my bosses. But it’s one thing to be lucky and another thing to have a boss like Gavin. He taught me with the patience of a teacher and gave me the self-confidence I needed, he stuck up for me like a good friend and corrected me like a father. And as if that wasn’t enough, working with him was an absolute blast. Who wouldn’t put in the hard work for a boss like that?

I remember that in my first few months working for BBVA, a certain type of commemorative plaque that all the corporate and investment bankers had on their desks really caught my eye. They were pieces of serigraphic glass that the English called ‘tombstones’, which displays the details of the deal being commemorated and shows what banks participated and in what capacity. A bit like the medals on the jacket of a soldier, which the majority of my colleagues and bosses proudly showed off. There weren’t any on Gavin’s desk and so one day I asked him what a tombstone was for and why he didn’t have any on his desk. I couldn’t believe that someone so capable hadn’t been ‘decorated’ in that ‘war’. He looked me in the eye and, as if he was about to reveal the Coca-Cola recipe to me, he asked me: do you really want to know what a tombstone is for?” I told him I did and so he opened the bottom drawer of his desk, took one out of a round box, got up and moved over to the aisle between the desks on our floor, took a run-up and flung the tombstone, as if he was in a bowling alley, aiming in the direction of those big metal filing cabinets that you find in offices. It couldn’t have been long after ten am because the office was still relatively quiet, as it usually was first thing in the morning. And it goes without saying that if anyone wasn’t awake before, the bang of the tombstone hitting the metal filing cabinet would have seen to that. As people were recovering from the shock, Gavin went over to pick up the device and, as he walked back over to where I was stood motionless, he said, smiling: “that’s what a tombstone is for; is there anything else you want to know?”

I don’t know why Gavin came into my head today. It’s likely because he was one of the first people I told about the plan B in my head and that I wanted to do something different, for at least a while, to what I’d done the last ten years. He knows me well and, what's more, he’s one of those guys that always says what he thinks even if it’s not exactly what you want to hear, which is why I wanted to hear his opinion and have him tell me if I had gone stark raving mad. He told me he didn’t think I was any madder than what he’d always thought and encouraged me to follow my instincts if that was what I felt I needed to do. He added that I’m not losing anything by trying and in this life it’s usually the decisions we don’t make that we regret. How great is it that we meet bosses like Gavin along the way and what a pity that in many companies it’s usually the person that best fits in with the “company policy” or the best connected or the brightest -the most docile in a word- that gets the managerial positions, and not necessarily the most deserving or the leader that we’d all do anything for.

I never thought I’d be so glad to get to a town called Calzadilla de la Cueza, but that’s how it was. I looked for the first open café in the town and sat down to have a bite to eat and take my shoes off, as my feet were absolutely wrecked. I didn’t stay long given that I still had another 23 kilometres to go to get to Sahagún. The last bit was hard due to the monotonous path and the fact that there was nowhere to stop along the way, and this next part was hard because many of those kilometres run alongside the dual carriageway. That wasn’t the case on the path between Terradillos de los Templarios and Moratinos, where some big black clouds let loose with sizeable hail stones that gave me a good battering.

Before reaching Moratinos I caught up with the Irish and American girls, Alyson and Hilly. We laughed a lot as we recalled our encounter yesterday with the pharmacist in Carrión and how he seemed like a real exhibitionist as, in an attempt to show them how to apply the lotion for chafings, he stood rubbing his lunchbox area right there in front of them. Alyson and Hilly are very friendly and natural and I had a good time with them. I stopped to have something to eat in Moratinos and they continued on their way as they want to arrive in Sahagún before it gets too late. This concept of “getting late” obviously varies greatly between the Anglo-Saxon and Mediterranean mindsets. At the bar of one of the pilgrim hostels in Moratinos I was served by a waiter who looked like he’d been plucked straight from La Hora Chanante (a Spanish comedy television show). I ordered some gazpacho, thinking that he would already have it made and it would be quick, and he had me waiting twenty minutes for him to make it from scratch. Meanwhile all I could hear was him sneezing from the kitchen which was worrying me a little as I didn’t know which was worse; that he was putting his hand over his mouth or that he wasn’t. The gazpacho finally appeared and I have to admit that it was quite good. I don’t know if he added any special ingredient or not and I really don’t want to know. As I left the bar I ran into the German granddad, Santa Claus, again who was glad to see me with my rucksack on my back.

The remaining ten kilometres were endless for various reasons: one because, yet again, the path runs parallel to the dual carriageway, two because it began to hail, three because the rain continued until the end of the route and four I was starting to wane with the tiredness. I caught up with Alyson and Hilly again on the way and we walked to Sahagún together. We went our separate ways as we entered the town as we were going to different hostels. After leaving my things off and having a hot shower, I went out for dinner in the town and to watch Real Zaragoza be defeated by Athletic de Bilbao on home turf, a defeat which could mean relegation. Not the best way to end the day, an understatement if ever, but as the Spanish saying goes, hope is the last thing we’ll ever lose…