Part 32: Lugo Hospital

In the end I spent the night in Hotel España, just in front of the wall. A very well-located place and a great price too. I had a craving for pizza last night so I went to an Italian restaurant. After dinner I went for a walk around the old town of Lugo. It was just what I needed to get a feel for the city, which pleasantly surprised me, and to wind down a bit after the stress of the day. I soon headed for bed and slept like a king.

I was at the hospital for half eight in the morning without fail. Zach was still sleeping so I decided to go down to the cafeteria for breakfast. When I came back, the American was awake and I asked him how last night was. He told me if I was referring to whether he had slept well, then yes he had, but it seems there’s no news with regards to anything else and I didn’t really want to push it any further.  At around ten, the surgeon on duty drew back the curtains around his bed as if she were a magician coming to give us a surprise. I’m sure I don’t need to clarify that rather than seeing it as a pleasant surprise, Zach was scared shitless, if you’ll excuse the unfortunate pun. A rather attractive female internist came in behind the surgeon. Much to Zach’s disappointment, it was the surgeon and not her who dealt with the required examination. I had to stay, even during the more scatological scenes, so as to translate the doctors’ questions and the American’s answers. If I hadn’t already earned it, I think the Compostela is definitely mine now, even if I do what’s left of the journey carried on the shoulders of half a dozen bearers.

The surgeon said that his abdomen is soft which means that, for the moment, there’s nothing to be too worried about but that he’ll continue to observe him throughout the day in case there are any complications. He also said that we’re going to forget about any tubes because by all indications, the turtle’s head is quite high up so we’re going to try ammunition of a higher calibre: an oral solution that is normally used in patients who are about to undergo a colonoscopy and whose bowels should, in theory, be ready to make some soup in about half an hour or so. The doctor also said that this treatment has to be administered very carefully so as not to perforate the bowel and cause peritonitis, a problem which you don’t have to be a doctor to realise is very serious and can summons you to another world.

I translated for Zach and told him that everything is fine and that it seems that the meteorite is still a long way from earth so they’re going to try and disintegrate it with some oral kryptonite so that when it comes to the surface he’s not left with a sieve-like crater. I think it reassures him every time I explain things to him, that’s what it should do anyway in my point of view, but he’s no idiot and even though he doesn’t speak Spanish, he can sense certain things. “The guy who examined me is a surgeon, right?” asked Zach. I told him that was right but that it was simply a protocol that he came to see him and not because they might be making hamburgers with what’s left of him after slicing him open to get rid of the depleted uranium that must be lodged in his gut by now. He told me it wasn’t a problem and that he’s only asking as it’s just his luck that the female doctor isn’t in charge of the touching part. The poor guy takes things in good humour but it’s clear that he’s freaked out. I get the impression that deep down he thinks he’s going to be made a scapegoat for all the mistakes made by American foreign policy in the world and that he won’t leave this hospital in one piece.

After the doctors on duty came round, they began to give Zach the medicine they promised but with very little results. At around three o’clock in the afternoon the surgeon said he’d give him another drip of the same medicine and stop any food, which wasn’t advisable anyway, until further notice. During this visit Zach wanted to let the doctor know that he’s been taking some anti-inflammatory painkillers for a few days now due to a bad pain in the arch of his left foot and he wanted to know if they would have any side effects when coupled with the new medication. As soon as the doctor saw him pointing to his instep, he took hold of Zach’s foot and began to examine it: “let’s see, where did you say it hurts, here? It seems like nothing but don’t worry, we’ll call the nurse and she’ll massage it, apply some cream and bandage it up for you. We’ll get you out of here looking your best, don’t you worry”. When the surgeon left, Zach asked me what he said and I told him it was nothing important but that he should focus on the matter at hand and stop distracting the doctors with new pains as he might end up leaving here not only without crapping, but without his left foot as well.

   

Five minutes later, I could hear the nurse from Gijón, the one we met yesterday, who had just started her shift. She started by coming to see the guy beside us, a man of around 45 dosed with some unspecified fever on whom they’re doing tests to try and find out exactly what it is he has. I couldn’t really hear what the patient said as he’s in a bad way and speaks very quietly, but the nurse, who has a higher tone of voice, said “well, God bless you because we don’t earn much in here” which brought a smile to my face. She then drew back our curtain. “Are you still here, son? she said as she saw Zach again. “What the hell are we going to have to do to get rid of whatever it is you have inside you? Just you sit tight, as before I go on holiday to the Norwegian Fjords, and I’m leaving tomorrow by the way, I’m going to leave you in perfect condition for going home to Kentucky. Yes, don’t give me that look; I’m taking charge of this case from now on. It’ll be a professional challenge. We can’t have you being the first constipated person to leave here without your bowels moving at the end of my career”, she added without so much as coming up for air.

I crack up every time the nurse from Gijón opens her mouth. Zach also laughs but only because he sees me laughing and suspects it’s something funny. Then he asks me to translate and we piss ourselves together. She massaged his ankle, applied an anti-inflammatory cream and bandaged it up for him. This nurse in particular, and all the staff in general who are looking after the American, are doing a fantastic job and he doesn’t know how to show his appreciation, which he asks me to pass on every time someone comes over to have a look at him or bring him something.

A little while later I heard the nurse from Gijón say to someone: “please put out the cigarette”, which left me a little bewildered as you don’t expect to hear that in A&E. A few minutes later there was a bit of commotion coming from the area where the nurse from Gijón had asked for the cigarette butt to be put out. The patient there had completely removed his drip which caused an almighty ruckus. One of the nurses that went in to calm him down left looking like she’d just been in a scene from Nightmare on Elm Street, with blood splashed all over her uniform. In the end, they called all available staff to come and help to tie him to the bed, which didn’t go as planned, so they called security. Three big idlers with no neck and shaved heads arrived straight away and, at the mere sight of them, the patient started to calm down as if they had injected an overdose of valium straight into his veins. I gathered that they were dealing with an alcoholic who, after 24 hours without a drink, was starting to get the first symptoms of delirium tremens, even though he was more punch-drunk than a groggy boxer.

Zach was a little alarmed by the commotion because he doesn’t understand anything about what’s going on, so he sat up and peered out into the corridor at where the action was taking place. It was a funny scene because, with the curtain closed, you could only see the legs of nine people around a bed: six with the trousers of a white nurse’s uniform and another three with trousers of a security guard’s uniform. Zach asked me if I knew what was going on and I couldn’t resist telling him that it was nothing, only a patient who was a little constipated who they were using an alternative therapy on as the conventional treatment had failed…

   

Given that there was no progress to Zach’s situation by late afternoon, the surgeon asked for him to be taken down for more X-rays on his abdomen. Every time he has to be moved, they put him in a wheelchair as he has the drips and everything else, and a porter pushes him. As we were waiting to be called to go to the X-ray room, a young gypsy appeared who was also in a wheelchair with a neck brace on and his arm in a plaster cast. Unlike Zach, who is wearing the hospital’s pyjamas as he is already admitted, the boy was still wearing his own street clothes which meant that the accident must have only happened a short time ago. Another porter was pushing his wheelchair and beside him was the boy’s father, who looked sullen and was cursing under his breath. The young gypsy was sad and a little freaked out. I don’t know if it’s because of the thrashing he’d already received or because of the one his father was going to give him for what he’d done when they got home. They took Zach in to do the X-rays and brought him back out within five minutes. We had to wait another five minutes as there were no porters free to take us back to A&E and, in theory, due to hospital protocol, I couldn’t push him along the corridors myself.

During that time, I watched as the father of the young gypsy couldn’t take his eyes off Zach, as he continued muttering things that I couldn’t make out. When the porter arrived to take us back, we passed by the father who couldn’t help but compose the very sorrowful expression of someone who is about to break into flamenco song, giving Zach a pat on the shoulder as he said: “chin up boy, it’ll get better”. He could have called him a son of a bitch and Zach would have still replied in the same way: gracias, one of the only words he knows in Spanish. I had to hold back the laughter as it’s naturally not a smart idea to laugh in front of a gypsy, and certainly not in that situation. The American asked me to translate what the good man had said and I explained that he must have thought that he’d severed his spinal cord and that he’d never walk again as he told him to keep his chin up and that he’d get through it. Zach laughed with gusto and asked me if this meant that he would indeed go to the bathroom again before departing this world. I assured him that he would, as gypsies can see the future and he would only have said that if he’d seen Zach sitting there on the throne, hard at work, through his crystal ball.

   

On our way back to Zach’s bed, he said he wanted to buy a little gift for the nurses, especially for the one from Gijón as she’s been treating him with extra care, so we grabbed the drip and went down to the ground floor where there’s a few newsagent type shops selling souvenirs. Zach suggested that we buy them a soft toy chicken so that they’ll remember the “Kentucky fried chicken” they had here with his extra-terrestrial bowels, owing to all the fried chicken he’s eaten in his life. I, of course gave my seal of approval to this excellent idea. One of the shops didn’t have much on offer; a small chicken that looked like it had polio and another feathered animal but I couldn’t even tell what it was. We found what we were looking for in the shop beside it. A battery-operated chicken that sings, dances and jumps around. There was no need to look any further and so we asked for it to be gift-wrapped.

We went back to A&E as Zach wanted to give it to the nurse from Gijón, along with some heartfelt words which he asked me to translate in order to express his gratitude to her, all her colleagues and to the group of doctors who were looking after him and treating him so well. Clearly not expecting all of this, she went bright red and didn’t really know what to say. She turned the chicken on and it started to cause an almighty racket right there in the middle of A&E. “Shit, how the hell do I stop it!” she exclaimed before disappearing off into the nurses’ room.

   

Given the lack of progress, I asked to speak to the doctors on duty around early evening time. They told me that the latest X-rays showed little bowel movement and a significant blockage in the ascending colon which isn’t budging one little bit, not even with all the dynamite they’ve already administered. They’ve diagnosed it as partial occlusion of the intestine so it seems he’ll have to be kept in, under surveillance and without food until it starts to budge.

I didn’t really know how to break the news to Zach. So I told him that everything is going to plan and that it’s just a question of waiting a little longer for the medicine to take effect, which is why he’ll be kept in for another night. I added that he should bear in mind that now that he’s here, the doctors want to ensure that he only leaves when the problem is resolved and that I’m sure it’s all just a matter of a few more hours. He told me that it was okay and that he’d pretty much resigned himself to having to stay in another night. Not only is he worried about what’s happening to his body, he’s also having to deal with the disappointment that with every day he spends in hospital, his chances of completing the Camino are reduced. I said goodbye to Zach and told him that I’d see him first thing tomorrow. “May the force be with you tonight” I said, even though we both knew that if force was the issue, the problem would be long gone.

I travelled back down to Lugo and stayed in the same hotel as yesterday. After a hot shower, I went for a walk around the wall and afterwards had some dinner in a restaurant in the Old Town. I went for another stroll after to walk off my dinner and to relax. It’s strange, I haven’t been walking the last two days and yet I feel more tired than on any of the days when I’ve put in an obscene amount of kilometres. I’m sure the stress of waiting and not knowing what’s wrong with Zach or how things are going to go is playing a big part. I went back up to my room where, by the light of my reading lamp, I started to jot down everything that had happened today in my notebook and how I’m finding it.

 

Part 31: Triascastela - Sarria (19 kilometres)

As I had promised Zach, I got up early this morning to leave early and get to Sarria as soon as possible, in anticipation that he would be sent to the hospital in Lugo. The American doesn’t speak a word of Spanish, he’s not in his own country and, moreover, he’s freaked out at the fact he hasn’t been to the loo for a month now. He’s not a doctor but he can sense, as anyone would, that something isn’t working as it should. I left Triacastela after having breakfast with a Korean and an Irishman, hoping that everything would be resolved by the time I got to Sarria and we wouldn’t have to go to Lugo.

The Camino offers a couple of alternative routes to Sarria; one, a little longer, takes you past the historical Monastery of Samos and the other passes through the town of San Xil as well as oak and chestnut forests. I chose the second route and the first part of the path was spectacular it has to be said, the fog covered everything and you couldn’t see more than ten metres ahead of you. On one of the steep uphill slopes towards one of the villages I came across on the way, I ran into Santa Claus, the German. I hadn’t seen him for a while and the first thing he did was check that I had my rucksack on me. He told me he had been struck down with a bad cold and that he was finding the walking tough so he didn’t think his feet would carry him much further than Sarria today, about fifteen kilometres from where we were. I’m amazed by this endearing old man and the outrageous number of kilometres he puts in despite his age. I excused myself and told him I was in a hurry to get to Sarria, wishing him all the best as well as a speedy recovery from his cold.

   

In Furela, ten kilometres after I left, I stopped off to have a hot Cola Cao and a bite to eat. The fog had given way to persistent rain which left me drenched to the bone so it was almost a mandatory stop-off. The place was tiny and there was hardly any room at the bar, but there was just enough space at one of the ends which I squeezed into to the annoyance of the guy to my left, as I apparently ruined his little moment of morning bliss given the look he threw my way. What can you do. Far from asking what the fuck was wrong with him, which would have been quite apt in my opinion, I smiled and said good morning. I’m in such a good mood that it’s sickening, I know. The pieces of the puzzle all fit together nicely after a conversation I overheard between our main man and the bartender. He’s a veteran. A Camino professional. “Yea, I’ve been here every year around this time for five years now. Don’t you remember me?” - he asked the bartender, who unconvincingly replied that now that he says it, his face does ring a bell. A classic…

Each and every person who does the Camino is themselves and their circumstances, but inevitably there are many that can be grouped into very specific types of personalities, easy to recognise in our everyday lives without the need to throw your rucksack on your back and come all the way out here. On other occasions I may have mentioned the competitive pilgrim or the professional comedian, you know the one who feels obliged to say something funny every time he opens his mouth, but the veteran pilgrim is also quite identifiable and no less boring.  And when I say veteran pilgrim, I’m not meaning to get at the countless number of people who do the Camino over and over, even every year, as a way of life or because they like it, it makes them feel good or because of a promise or for whatever reason. I’ve met a few of these people and the majority of them are still very curious on the first day every time they start a new Camino and have the same desire to meet new people to share the experience with and to learn from. I’m not talking about them.

I’m talking about the pain in the backside who comes here as if he were a veteran of the Vietnam war to boast about his achievements and show off his supposed decorations. “I’ve done the Camino five times now. Let me tell you…” No no, it’s best you don’t tell me, I’ve heard this one before and I think I fell asleep after five minutes. I’m referring to those who look down on the newbie, those who are annoyed by everything everyone else does because you have to do things their way. Those who tell you what’s right and what’s not acceptable. Those who assume the moral authority to tell others what they have to do and where they have to go. Those who remind you that experience is a plus, when they’ve likely spent all their life doing the same thing in the same way without taking any risks that could plunge them deep into anxiety, only moving a centimetre along the straight line that is their peaceful existence. There may be those reading these lines who think I’m some sort of manic sociopath who must be walking the Camino alone, but in my defence I’d say not at all; I’ve had some great company up to now and I think I’m making life-long friends. It’s definitely clear that a lot of the people I’m meeting here have things in common with me, even if it doesn’t seem like it!

   

After leaving Furela and our beloved veteran, I ran into Tim from Kentucky and Michael from Boston. I walked and chatted with them but I soon had to excuse myself as I sped up my pace to reach Sarria as quickly as possible. Before reaching the town I tried phoning Zach a few times but with no success. I wrote him a message but didn’t get a reply either, which made me think that maybe they were taking him to Lugo or he was already being seen at the hospital.

When I arrived in Sarria, I went straight to the health centre and asked for Zach, giving the details of his ailment. They mustn’t have had a lot of Americans come in with the same issue lately as they knew who I was talking about straight away and said they would call the doctor who dealt with the case to explain what had happened. She confirmed that the enema from last night hadn’t worked and that even if there weren’t any other symptoms to make her think it was something very serious, given the number of days without any progress, the best thing for him would be to go to the hospital and have some X-rays done to look at the area in more detail. So she told him to go to Lugo first thing in the morning and, as she understood it, that’s where he would be.

I took a taxi outside the health centre after negotiating the price of the journey and we set off for Lugo. Just as we were leaving Sarria, I got a message from Zach telling me that he was in the town, along with his exact  coordinates, and that he didn’t want to go to Lugo until I arrived. I asked Suso, the taxi driver, to turn back and off we went to pick up Zach. As we arrived at the hotel where he was staying, he looked a little scared. He asked me if I think it’s a good idea to go to the hospital or if it would be better to continue the Camino and gave his lazy guts some more time to work. I told him that it would be best to go to the hospital if that’s what they had recommended in the health centre and that I was sure it would all be for nothing but they were best-placed to tell us that in Lugo.

We arrived at the hospital in Lugo at around three in the afternoon. Suso left us his business card in case everything was over quickly and we wanted to go back to Sarria to continue the stage or to spend the night there and start the Camino again tomorrow. We went straight to A&E and I explained the problem to the receptionists, as apart from Galician and Spanish, they naturally didn’t speak any other language there. They asked for Zach’s passport and American health card and told us to take a seat until we were called over the tannoy. It crossed my mind that we’d need to pay close attention if we wanted to understand when they were requesting our presence. Thank God the American’s name isn’t too long or complicated to pronounce because if we were meant to take the hint by how they pronounced Berkshire, Zach would be left dying in the waiting room without any medical assistance.

A very nice nurse took us into a small room where she asked us what the problem was. I repeated everything again and translated some of the questions that the nurse asked Zach. After that she asked us again to wait for the doctor on duty to call us. There were people with all types of ailments in the new waiting room, some of them pretty bad. I don’t like hospitals at all. Pretty much like everyone I suppose. As soon as I see a doctor in uniform, I get all worked up and feel ill. Almost everyone in my family works in a hospital and I think the fact that, for years, all sorts of disasters have been discussed over meals as if it were the most natural thing, might have had something to do with it. Zach wasn’t exactly beaming either so we started to chat and joke around to try to lighten the situation. At one point they called Mr. Nicasio Díaz and Zach asked me if they’d said ‘quesadilla’ on the tannoy or if it was just him. The poor guy has survived on fruit juices the last four days and hasn’t eaten anything solid so as not to exacerbate the situation but now he’s seeing and hearing things. I told him that if he’s a good boy and keeps his part of the deal then they’ll give him quesadillas for dinner.

After waiting for half an hour they called Zach over the tannoy, or that’s what we understood anyway, and we went into a consultation room where the doctor on duty examined the American and asked him a series of questions that I translated. The doctor filled out his medical record after but for now she prescribed a new enema with a longer tube than the one before. Turning to me, in the capacity of translator, she added that it didn’t seem like anything serious but that it’s obviously been a while since anything happened and they’d need to keep an eye on him.

From then on a couple of very nice nurses, one from Gijon and the other of Aragonese origin, were in charge of the operation. The Aragonese nurse discreetly asked him how it was possible that he’d overlooked the problem for so many days. The Asturian nurse, more direct, asked how he could go so many days without crapping. “But don’t worry, you’re in good hands. There isn’t a patient who can resist my enemas. I’ll be finished with you in fifteen minutes” – she said as she handled the solution that would supposedly put an end to the Kentucky guy’s worries. I couldn’t stop laughing, partly because of what the nurse said and partly because of Zach’s terrified look, as he didn’t understand a word of what was being said and all he could see was a nurse talking a foreign language with a higher tone of voice than normal who was preparing a Satanic liquid in a bag with a tube of a certain length hanging from it, which was inevitably going to end up inside him.

The nurses asked me to leave the bathroom where we were, unless I wanted to witness the show. I gladly went for a walk around A&E, hoping that it would all be over as soon as possible. I returned to the bathroom where we were just as the nurse from Gijón came out and shouted to the rest of her colleagues: “Panic’s over girls, we’ve unclogged the United States!”. I couldn’t help but smile and go up to the nurse to ask her to verify the good news. She confirmed her words, saying that we had indeed got the best of him and that from now on it would be plain sailing. She asked me to give good old Zach ten minutes and then put my foot under the door to see if he was still breathing. I hesitated for a few seconds because if the miracle-cure had indeed worked, as the nurse said, I sensed that going inside would be like going into a sewer with no breathing apparatus. After giving him a few minutes, I half-opened the door and rather than seeing Zach sitting up with a beaming smile on his face, I went in to find him still in the operating theatre, looking annoyed. The Asturian nurse had declared victory too soon and it was actually nothing more than the solution itself that had been expelled.

At that moment, as I stood before that scene of helplessness where one is caught hiding his crown jewels, I knew that the friendship between myself and the American would be long-lasting, whether we liked it or not. Having lost all dignity and admitted defeat, my comrade-in-arms was, in that instant, pledging fraternal loyalty and if Zach had have been a Navajo Indian, he would have slit his wrists with a machete to seal the deal. The scene inevitably transported me to a time in the past when I walked in on one of my best friends in the bathroom in combat position. Stunned as I was, I asked a patently obvious question: “aren’t you taking a crap?” To which my friend replied matter-of-factly: “yea, what’s wrong?” I went to a fee-paying school and that didn’t seem one bit normal to me so, a little irate, I replied: “what do you mean what’s wrong, close the door for fuck sake!” To which my friend retorted, with the same calmness: “no, sure I’ll leave it open and then we can talk”. Despite the years of loyalty declared, it wasn’t until that moment that I realised that this was a real friendship. By opening those bathroom doors, the last stronghold of his privacy, my friend was opening the doors to his soul, letting it be known that we were equals and that with me there was no need to pretend or hide as we were cut from the same cloth and it was no use pretending we weren’t: our strength left us through the same hole after all…

Nothing more happened for the rest of the afternoon so the on-duty doctor decided to arrange some X-rays to try and see what’s going on in Zach’s lower belly, which isn’t looking good. Given the fact that it was early evening and that there had been no response to the shock treatment, the doctor told me that her idea is to keep the American in for at least tonight to see if there’s any progress. This latest news left the guy from Kentucky a bit downbeat. He’s aware that something isn’t right and even if this isn’t a new problem for him, especially not when travelling, the amount of time it’s taking on this occasion is exaggerated and not one bit normal. His plans can also be added to the list. We are around one hundred and twenty kilometres away from Santiago and if he has to spend tonight in hospital, tomorrow’s stage is in danger. He’s taking a flight back to the United States from Vigo early on Monday morning as he has to work in Lexington, Kentucky, on Tuesday which means that Sunday is the last possible day to reach the Galician capital. Assuming all goes well, he gets out tomorrow and we can start walking again first thing on Friday morning, we would have to average forty kilometres a day to reach the Plaza de Obradoiro on time. I tried to cheer Zach up by telling him it was very doable and that with the amount of kilometres we already had behind us, there was no need to worry. He knew the only thing he had to worry about and I told him that I wanted him to give me a surprise tomorrow morning when I came through the door of A&E.

Zach thanked me and insinuated that I’d already done enough, he’s well-looked after here, and that I shouldn’t worry about him and go on with my Camino, as he’s sure everything will be ok. I answered that whether he likes it or not, he’s my friend and I don’t go leaving friends behind. We walked into this hospital together and we’ll walk out of it together too. He’s in my country and I’ll do everything within my means to make sure nothing bad happens to him. And if he doesn’t like what I’m saying, he shouldn’t blame me, rather his Hollywood counterparts and their strange interpretation of what constitutes friendship which I’ve been force-fed since I was a kid, and even today, with the likes of The Goonies, The Lost Boys and things like that…

     

After saying goodbye to Zach, I left the hospital and took a taxi to the hotel in Lugo where I’d be spending the night. Asides from the twenty kilometres that I walked today, soaking wet in the rain, I was left worn out by the afternoon and the stress in the hospital. I needed to go out and get some air. On the way into the city, a good few kilometres’ journey, I thought about destiny and if things just happen or if they have some sort of explanation even if it’s difficult to understand. One of the reasons why I’m doing the Camino is a good friend who sadly left us some time ago and who I wasn’t able to help in those tragic circumstances, even though I wanted to. Now the Camino has brought me to Lugo hospital with an American guy I met a week ago but with whom I have a lot of things in common, despite the fact we grew up thousands of kilometres apart. I thought about my friend and I felt good; for doing the right thing, for being at another friend’s side, this time a new one, when he needed it most. As he always did with me. And even though he’s not with me in person anymore, I felt that he was very near, like on so many other occasions…

Part 30: O Cebreiro - Triacastela (22 kilometres)

Yesterday I went to bed thinking about Günther’s optimistic weather forecast, “bright and sunny”, so as soon as I opened my eyes I wanted to go running over to the window to check that it was indeed bucketing down from the high heavens. I was wrong, it wasn’t raining… it was snowing! A heavy snowfall at the end of May in a town that’s not even at an altitude of one thousand five hundred metres. And they say that the planet’s getting warmer…

After a shower and freshening up, I went out to a café opposite our lodgings to have some breakfast. Günther and Szilvia were already there gulping down hot coffee to stave off the cold and some toasted bread to do the same with the hunger. Dinner last night was good but given the time we arrived, there wasn’t a lot of choice and we had to make do with soup, salad and one helping of octopus between the three of us. A rather light meal. Over dinner, Günther and Szilvia again brought up the recurring theme of the “energy” that we had experienced on the ascent to O'Cebreiro. With all due respect to both of them, I told them that I wouldn’t be talking about any specific energy that had taken hold of me, rather just a sense of wellbeing that I hadn’t felt for a while, and in Spain we call this feeling de puta madre or, in other words, feeling fucking wonderful. Nothing more, nothing less.

It’s clear that Günther and Szilvia are not alone on their crusade for energy or in their pursuit of personal balance through places on earth which supposedly emanate more positivity. These types of people are in abundance on the Camino, especially amongst foreigners. Some of them give a supernatural feel to this journey, but with more of a nod towards the esoteric than towards the religious or existential side of things. And that’s fine by me, as long as they don’t try to convince me that black is actually white. Over dinner last night, Günther insinuated that there is something inside me that I don’t let people see. Apparently it’s very difficult to get to my heart because there are a lot of barriers around it and that maybe that’s why I wasn’t able to feel the energies which, according to him, are flowing all around us. Well how about that. The Tyrolese version of Mystic Meg. I wasn’t sure how to reply so as not to offend him to tell you the truth, as I think this is a delicate subject and I get the feeling that he’s a bit sensitive about it. So I simply told him that it was one thing that I’m a little introverted when it comes to sharing certain stories with others, and quite another that I’m generally sceptical about this supernatural forces in the universe business.

Maybe the problem lies in the fact that as a good guy and, to make matters worse, Aragonese, I tend to oversimplify things. In any case, this whole energy thing that seems to be so important to Günther and Szilvia is really quite simple and can basically be summed up in the following way: there’s one energy that we’ll call “very good” which is what I experience when I’m feeling bloody brilliant, and another “very bad” which is what I experience when I’m fucked. Once we have identified the two fundamental types of energy, the equilibrium consists of doing everything possible to ensure there are more “good” moments than bad ones. And if in my pursuit of this equilibrium, which is practically every day, I had to go to Machu Picchu or to an underground volcano in Iceland, then I’d be done with it. If you want to call all this Ying and Yang, then bully for you. If believing these things helps some people endure the troubles of their own existence and find meaning in things, then that’s great too. But don’t go telling me that the rest of us don’t feel anything because we’re not on the same wavelength and, if possible, don’t take advantage of people who are having a really hard time by telling them porkies to make a quick buck or two.

  

After breakfast we went up to the room to gather our things. The woman that runs the inn asked me where I got the txapela I’m wearing and I told her it was my grandfather’s, as he was born in Legazpia. The landlady’s face lit up as she told me that her husband is from Idiazabal, very near there, and that she herself lived in San Sebastian and in Guipúzcoa for over forty years. She told me that when she was 14 years old and hardly able to speak any Castilian Spanish, a family from the town who had prospered after moving to the Basque Country offered her the chance to go and live with them in San Sebastian to work as a nanny and help with the housework. She said yes but only because she thought San Sebastian was “just a little further past Ponferrada”. She doesn’t remember ever being so scared in her entire life as on that trip, especially as she saw that they were leaving Bierzo and then all of Castile, and they took forever to get to San Sebastian. She thought that there were actually kidnapping her to sell her to someone. Once she overcame her initial fears, as is always the case after a big change, this brave Galician girl made it through, got married, started a family and then, at retirement age, came back to her parents’ town to refurbish the family house and use it as pilgrim lodgings. Her husband was watching the television that was on in the living room but he was also listening in to our conversation as, every so often, he would nod at something his wife said. I found it quite amusing how the landlady kept referring to her husband as “that one”, and not his first name: “I married that one; that one retired; I came here with that one”… all the while that one just nodded at her words without uttering a dicky bird.

After saying goodbye to them and thanking them for everything, I went with Günther and Szilvia to visit the pre-Romanesque church of Santa María la Real and the memorial tribute to one of the old parish priests of the town, Don Elías Valiña, a tireless advocate of the Camino and creator of the famous yellow arrows that guide us to Santiago and to whom those of us who don’t need a map, GPS or anything similar to get to Galicia, owe a lot. As we left the church, we ran into the American guy Michael and so we started our descent together through thick fog and snow that just kept on falling.

Soon after we left the town, we came across a donkey that started to bray and, with a serious look on my face, I asked Günther if he wanted anything. He didn’t get it at first and asked me what I meant so I told him that I thought I heard someone speaking German. We all laughed, but I think Günther did so half-heartedly as became clear a little further on when, as we passed by some cows, I made the same joke and the Austrian very seriously told me that that was enough. What can I say; I thought it was fantastic that he said that. Despite the fact it was only a joke, it was good that the Austrian put me in my place if the joke wasn’t funny to him. I know that my sense of humour can be a bit draining sometimes so there’s no harm in reminding me of it from time to time. Just another of the many things I’ll take note of that I like about Günther.

In Liñares, after four kilometres of walking downhill in the midst of a never-ending downpour, we stopped to have a hot Cola-Cao. Our next stop was in Padornelo, in the church of San Juan, where we sat down to escape the rain and rest with Gregorian chants in the background. As we reached Fonfría, ten kilometres from Triacastela, we stopped for lunch and had hot Galician broth, a bit of empanada and a good glass of locally-produced red wine which managed to warm us up. We had a well-deserved rest and took a few videos of us horsing around, in which Günther was again the star of the show. After this we set off for Triacastela, where it still wasn’t clear if we would finish the stage, at least if I would, as I was waiting to hear from Zach about his bowel movements or lack of them.

As we arrived in Triacastela, I met Tim, the American guy from Kansas, who was already having a drink with John, a Canadian man who he had met early on in the Camino. I still didn’t have any news from Zach, I was soaked to the gills after being out in the rain all day and well, I fancied a whiskey to warm me up so I decided to stay in Triascastela, if not for the night, at least for a while until I was sure Zach was still alive and that he hadn’t been gobbled up by that monster he must be carrying around inside him. Michael said he was staying too and Günther and Szilvia decided to go on for another ten kilometres to finish the stage. Two hours after arriving, still without any news from Zach, I decided I would stay in the town for the night. I had dinner with Tim, Michael and the Canadian John and we had a good time. John showed me his travel journal where he paints postcards of the Camino and writes some comments to go with them. He does it really well and he’s contemplating whether it’ll get him some publicity once he gets back to Canada.

   

After dinner I received a message from Zach. He told me that as he was walking down from O Cebreiro, he met an Irish girl in a bar having a coffee and that, given how worried he is about the situation, it didn’t take him long to open his heart and tell her that it’d been a month since the turtle had poked its head out. The Irish girl must have entered into a state of shock as she told him that he had to get to a hospital as soon as possible or he was at risk of death. Needless to say, it didn’t take Zach long to order a taxi and go to Sarria, which is where the nearest health centre is. Those there recommended that he applied another enema and that if that didn’t work, he’d have to go to the hospital in Lugo. He reserved a room in a hostel for the night, hopeful that everything would be sorted in a few hours. I told him that it’s a bit late for me to walk to Sarria now but that I’ll get up early tomorrow to get there as soon as possible and that if he has to go to hospital, I’ll go with him. I once again insisted that I would leave my mobile phone on all night and that if anything happens, he shouldn’t hesitate to contact me no matter what time it is. Zach thanked me deeply and so we left it that we would see each other the next day.

   

After our exchange of messages, I settled down at the bar to have a drink. I’m not a doctor and I don’t know what could be happening to the American but you can’t help but worry a little about something that is just not one bit normal. In my case, I don’t leave home without sitting down in my office first thing to review the most important matters of the day, so it seems like something from science fiction to me that the guy from Kentucky hasn’t been to the office for nearly a month.

At the bar there was a group of locals trying to fix the country speaking in the Galician language. They were talking about the good old crisis, as it would seem there’s no other topic of conversation in Spain at the moment. One of the things I’ve enjoyed most about the Camino is not reading the newspaper or watching the news. For a whole month I haven’t heard a pick about the crisis. The barman said to one of the punters, who was as drunk as a skunk, that the problem is that Europe doesn’t work: “you go and tell a German that he’s like a Spaniard and he’ll tell you to fuck off”. In his thick Galician accent, the punter replied: “what the hell, I don’t want to be German either, no fucking way”. He then went on to remark: “what we need to do is join forces with Italy, Greece and Portugal, and leave the Germans to do their own thing”. After nodding my head and toasting the local man, I told him he was exactly right and that he could count on me for the Mediterranean team. I’m not sure if we’ll win anything, but we’ll sure as hell have a damn good time…

Part 29: Cacabelos - O Cebreiro (37 kilometres)

Last night after dinner, another two bottles of El Bierzo wine were consumed along with some herb liqueur shots that I wanted the foreigners to try. Günther was as sharp as a tack, joking away as always, and letting out that Conan the Barbarian hearty laughter that would even bring joy to a funeral cortège. At one point in the evening when it was just me and him talking, I asked him if he was making the most of the temporary separation from his wife to let his hair down or if the show would continue when he meets up with her in Melide. He told me that I’d have time to find that out because his wife and him would both treat us all to champagne in the Parador when we arrive in Santiago, but he gave me a heads up that yes, for my peace of mind, he is the same when his wife is present, if not even worse.

I think the list of alcohol consumed last night serves to show that no one got up excessively early this morning. Today’s stage promises to be not only long, but hard as well. Harder for some than for others depending on the chosen route. The Camino offers three alternative routes after Villafranca del Bierzo. The traditional one, which is flat and relatively easy until the 10 kilometre uphill hike to Galicia, and then two different paths, one of which is known as the “Camino duro” (hard way), which has been gaining popularity the last few years but  which doesn’t really have much to do with the historical route, if anything at all. Feeling energetic, Günther chose the hard way and didn’t take long to leave Cacabelos. I think it’s really funny how the Austrian pronounces the word ‘duro’. He says it in two goes, changing the ‘r’ into a ‘g’ and lengthening the ‘o’ at the end: “du-goooo”. I went down for breakfast in my own time and ran into Ruta and Szilvia who were finishing theirs off.

A short while later Zach appeared and I immediately looked for his knowing nod to confirm that the miracle had taken place. He pursed his lips to make it clear that not even the enema had been enough to solve the problem. A little later, as we were on our own, he confirmed the bad news and told me that he was going to stay in Cacabelos a little while longer as, even though his Spanish is limited, he thinks he understands what the name of the place means and he’s convinced that he can’t leave a place with such an inspiring name without fulfilling his duty. There’s no denying that the American takes things on the chin in good humour. I left him in the fruit shop buying plums and a couple of kiwis but before I said goodbye, I told him I’d have my mobile on, even at night, and that he shouldn’t hesitate to phone me if the situation gets worse or if he experiences any of the symptoms my sister said that he should look out for in particular (vomiting or abdominal pain or rigidity) and, if this is the case, to haul his ass, literally,
to the hospital as fast as he could.

   

Before leaving Cacabelos, I ran into Michael, the young guy from Boston, and together we walked the eight kilometre path through vineyards to Villafranca del Bierzo. Michael was telling me that he was accepted into one of the best universities in America a couple of years ago but that he’s decided to leave it and Washington altogether, which is where the university is. He’s sick of the insanely competitive environment around him and the fact that, no matter how good his faculty is, you can’t disagree. They rob you of individual thought while you’re meant to just like or lump whatever the teacher tells you. He wants something else for his life. Despite being young, Michael seems to know what he wants and I couldn’t do anything but encourage him, from first-hand experience, to do what he feels is right for him and not what others tell him to.

In Villafranca del Bierzo, we met Ruta and Szilvia by the church of Santiago. Afterwards we went down into the historical old part of the town to have our first bite to eat of the day. In the café where we stopped, there was a forty-something year old man being helped to walk by a child of about ten. I think other people I’ve met on the Camino have spoken to me about this pair. If they are the same ones, and I think they are by the scars on the father’s scalp, he’s an Australian who’s suffering from an incurable brain tumour, according to doctors, and the boy is his son. I don’t know if they’re travelling with the faith that the Apostle will cure him or simply because he doesn’t want to leave the world without having taken this trip with his firstborn. It’s really difficult to appear indifferent to some of the things you see here. You simply have to put all your own problems into perspective, especially those that have a solution, when people like the Australian guy are walking alongside you. Not to mention the huge role the boy’s taking on, walking this path on what would surely be, and I hope I’m wrong, his father’s last days on this earth.

After our quick snack, I said goodbye to Michael as he also wanted to give the “Camino duro” a go, and I had a quick walk around the streets of this beautiful town in El Bierzo where I’m already starting to hear some Galician voices. I set off again shortly after. I’m walking in a very good mood today. If things don’t go pear-shaped and my feet hold up, I’ll finally arrive in Galicia today. It feels like only yesterday when I started from that apartment building at Canfranc station that I helped to build twelve years ago, and already a month has passed. A month in which so many things have happened. A month that seemed like forever when I began my pilgrimage and now I get the feeling that it’s not going to be long enough and I’m not going to want this all to end when I get to Santiago…

   

For more or less the next fifteen kilometres I walked some stretches alone and some with Ruta or with Szilvia, having lively conversation. In La Portela de Valcarce, Ruta wanted to stop off to ask if there was any room in the pilgrim hostel. The pain in the arch of her foot is killing her and she’s decided to finish today’s stage here. Unfortunately, she was told there was no room and that she’d have to try her luck in the next town which is more or less one kilometre away. Ruta said that she could do one more kilometre but then she’s definitely staying in that town to rest. Szilvia stayed with her and I decided to go on as I’d received a message from Günther, who is as nice as ninepence, telling me that he wanted to enter Galicia with his first ‘Camino friend’ and that he’d wait for me in Vega de Valcarce, three kilometres away from where we were right now. As I arrived in Ambasmestas, a beautiful little town that lies in a valley where the rivers Valcarce and Balboa converge, I sent Ruta a message to tell her to make the effort and spend the night in this peaceful backwater.

Günther was waiting for me in Vega and greeted me with one of his usual big hugs that leave your vertebrae quivering. I arrived, just about, with a slight twinge in my calf and so I asked him if he’d let me rest before the hike we had in front of us to which the Austrian showed no objection, despite the fact we were running the risk of the evening closing in on us. Shortly after arriving in Vega the Hungarian girl Szilvia appeared and also expressed her desire to hike to O'Cebreiro with us. The climb was spectacular. Hard but more due to the amount of kilometres we’d already covered today than due to the route itself. But the reward was worth it. The views were spectacular and I hadn’t felt that serenity that we felt along the way for a long time. We definitely picked the right time to go up as there was no one else on the road and the sun was already down hiding between the mountains that surrounded us. The emotional element of the climb, knowing that we were about to cross into the land where the Apostle’s remains lie, was very much present and it was a very special moment, one of those that I’ll treasure.

The climb was not only special, but fun. Günther and yours truly have a great understanding and we spent the whole journey cracking jokes. I had already experienced the fact that when we are on higher ground, he feels the need to make it known that he’s Austrian and the mountains are his natural environment. On the way up to O'Cebreiro he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to reassert himself as the Abominable Snowman. At one point he stopped to very intently scan the horizon and then told us to hurry as those clouds we could see to our left were coming straight for us, and it wasn’t looking good. I stood there looking at him with a face that said “you’re making this up, right?” and he looked back at me and a few seconds later said, very seriously: “I smell the humidity; it’s going to rain”. I nodded unconvinced but knowing for sure that there was no way in hell this was the weather forecast. I don’t know a bloody thing about meteorology but there was no wind and no water appeared to be falling from those clouds in the region there were over now. And anyway, we weren’t that far from the summit so with any luck we would arrive without getting wet.

As we were only a couple of kilometres away from O'Cebreiro, we reached the boundary stone that marks the fact that we’re now in Galicia, and we hugged each other full of jubilation. We also made the most of the photo opportunity to illustrate the moment. A little before reaching this boundary stone and passing into the first Galician town, it seemed as though a few clouds, darker than the ones before, were closing in on us but Günther told us not to worry and that it wasn’t very likely that they would open up on us. Without thinking twice, I put my rucksack on the ground, got out my rain jacket and put it on, which the two of them found very funny. Well, it was funnier for Szilvia than it was for Günther, who am I kidding. At not even three hundred metres from the town, the Austrian stopped for a moment and asked us if we heard something. We said we didn’t but he asked us if we were sure. “Yes, don’t you hear it? It’s a bottle of wine calling us!” - which was followed by one of his usual outbursts of laughter. The truth is Günther’s sense of humour is much appreciated as, of course, is his generosity, which he showcases as much as he can.

It was almost nine at night when we set foot in the streets of the town. A group of pilgrims who were out for a walk after dinner were surprised to see us arrive so late and gave us a round of applause. The pilgrim hostels were full so we had to look for accommodation in one of the renovated stone houses which are used as lodgings for pilgrims. In one of them, I asked if they had any beds and a very serious man told me yes they did, but that they were taken. I quickly found out what Galician wit is and to tell you the truth, I didn’t find it all that amusing. I’m sure walking for nearly twelve hours only for someone to say such a stupid wisecrack didn’t help. In the end a nice woman told us she had room in her house and so we got settled in. We had the customary hot shower and as we went out to go for dinner, we were surprised to see those clouds, which our Austrian weatherman had said were only passing by, bucketing down over our heads. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to ask Günther what had happened to his forecast and he told me, while giving me a pat on the back, as if I had twigged, not to get all smug as it’s only a passing cloud and tomorrow the sun will be out again…

 

Part 28: Molinaseca - Cacabelos (23 kilometres)

This morning I woke up wrecked. On the descent into Molinaseca I had to constantly keep braking so as not to go flying, which left me knackered. Even so, I wasn’t able to stay in bed much longer. Most days I wake up before my alarm clock goes off. My body is so tense that it’s hard to get to sleep and in the mornings, I lie there awake long before I should be. I don’t know if the tension is just physical or also emotional given everything I’ve experienced so far and because I’m spending a lot of time walking alone and churning things over.

I ran into Tim, the American guy from Kansas City who I had briefly met in León, in one of the cafés near the hotel. He was having a slice of tortilla and a milky coffee and I asked if I could join him. Tim told me that he used to work for IBM and that he was a bit tired of his job, which is why at the beginning of last year when the company decided to get rid of people, he put his hand up and told his boss, who he got on with very well, that if they needed volunteers to go to the wall, they could count on him. He packed up his things and headed off around Southeast Asia and now, before going back to the States, he has decided to round off his sabbatical year by doing the Camino de Santiago. The same path I’m aiming to take myself, one of life’s little coincidences, but the other way around, starting with the Camino de Santiago and then continuing on to Asia. As he listened to my future plans, Tim seemed a bit envious of the adventure that I’m beginning and that he’s about to finish.

I said goodbye to Tim and as I went to get my things from my room, I bumped into Zach, Ruta and Szilvia who were walking through the town at a gentle pace. Zach told me that Michael finished in el Acebo yesterday, like them, but that they’ve lost Hilly who is becoming more and more affected by the dehydration caused by her gastroenteritis and needs to rest. I arranged to try and catch up with the three of them in Ponferrada. After packing up my things, I headed off towards the capital of el Bierzo. Before leaving Molinaseca, I stopped off in a fruit shop to buy something for the walk. The shopkeeper was outside and his wife was inside serving. He told me that when he gets the chance he escapes from the counter and goes out onto the street to see the female pilgrims and give them an admiring comment or two. Apparently, every once in a while his wife shouts out at him and he goes back in, and that’s how he spends his days, as otherwise they’d be really boring.

Before arriving in Ponferrada there is a small air field for remote-control aeroplanes and helicopters. I’m not making it up either. Like good old remote-control cars, only here it’s gadgets that fly. There were about a dozen geeks spending their Sunday morning with their crazy flying machines. In Ponferrada I met up with Zach and Ruta, the Lithuanian girl, and Szilvia, the Hungarian girl. We briefly visited the castle and one of the more important churches in the city and, after stopping at a pharmacy so that Ruta could buy something to relieve the pain in her battered feet, we continued on our way. A very nice local man, Rogelio, ‘here all his life’, who we almost couldn’t get away from as he wouldn’t stop talking, pointed us in the right direction out of the city. I thought of Günther as I passed by the Energy Museum on the outskirts of Ponferrada. Even though I don’t think this is the same type of energy he’s looking for, I wondered if the Austrian would have dutifully visited the place.

We alternated for the rest of the stage; sometimes the four of us walked together and other times everyone at their own pace, which was obviously different. There are groups that form on the Camino where it would seem that people even have to go to the bathroom hand in hand. There are groups where tensions later form as it’s naturally quite complicated for several adults of both sexes to all agree, especially bearing in mind that they’ve only just met. This is more the case among Spaniards to tell you the truth. The foreigner who comes here is more independent, they do their own thing and won’t get offended if you suddenly tell them you are going ahead or you’re stopping because you feel like it or because you want to be alone. It seems we don’t like sheep that stray from the rest of the flock here in Spain as, God forbid, they might actually do better than us, and then we’re left here in a right state. The little sheep have to all go together and guiding them is a shepherd who they must bow down to when he pokes them with his crook. That’s how flocks work, although fortunately there are more and more sheep who dare to think for themselves and go wherever they please without adhering to the norms, the perceived next step or the politically correct.

We arrived in Cacabelos around mid-afternoon. Günther sent me a message to tell me which hostel he’s staying in with the Germans Bruno and Alexandra and so we headed straight there. We booked a room and agreed to meet at the hostel’s pulpería (restaurant specialising in octopus) in an hour. As I arrived on time, I saw Zach was already there having a glass of orange juice. He seemed serious and I asked him if everything was ok. He told me not really, apparently it’s been a few days since he’s been to the toilet and he’s beginning to get a little worried. Despite the fact I don’t suffer from this problem, even when I’m travelling, I tried to put the American from Kentucky at ease by telling him that it’s normal and I gave him the extreme example of a friend of mine who usually only goes to the rubbish dump once a week. I didn’t catch sight of any sign of relaxation on Zach’s face so I asked him to specify exactly what he meant by “a few days without going”. He shuffled a little uncomfortably in his chair and told me in a roundabout way that he’s only been once, in Burgos, since he left the States almost a month ago and that it wasn’t exactly anything to write home about. He also told me that he’s decided to stop eating and he’s only been drinking fruit juice for the last 24 hours. Thinking of all the things I’ve seen him eat since I met him a week ago now, I replied telling him that I thought it was the right thing to do. I also asked him to give me a minute to ring one of my two sisters who are doctors.

Like my father, two of my sisters are, besides beautiful, excellent doctors. But they see things differently and have different approaches to medicine. One of them comes from the conservative school of thought in the sense of not amputating at the first given chance or prescribing medicine just because. She sways more towards natural medicine and thinks that many ailments are related to the psyche and the fact that not a lot of time is spent with patients, and that we should talk more with them as many of these ailments are somatic manifestations of unresolved internal conflict. In this case in particular, she would say that if there were no other symptoms to make us think we were up against something more serious here, we’d just have to let the American get on with it, not talk about it much and he’d do what he needed to do in his own time. My other sister comes from the fast-acting school of thought and thinks that you have to quit the nonsense and solve the problem you have before you. And if the problem here is that the American guy is not shitting, then we have to find a way of making him or else slice him open and scoop out the shit ourselves. I’m exaggerating of course, but I think this example proves my point that they are two very different personalities.

I could see Zach was a bit alarmed by the situation so I thought that a kind of "zen" medical advice would be better so I decided to call the naturist doctor. As luck would have it, she didn’t pick up her phone so I decided to call my other sister. I gave her all the details and, as predicted, her answer was that we’d have to use the heavy artillery: “enema casen” were her exact words. So as not to freak the American out after my first call, I asked my sister would it not be better to continue with the laxatives, which Zach had told me he had started taking yesterday, along with the juices and plums, and then after that go down the road of the dreaded enema if nothing happened in a reasonable period of time. Her answer was quite blunt: “if he’s gone that long already, laxatives will have the same effect as a pineapple-flavoured sweet; enema casen Javier, listen to me”. After hanging up I went back to the bar and Zach asked me with a bit of a forced smile if he was going to die. I told him he wasn’t and that, in any case, it’d be the cleaning lady who’d be dying after we manage to remove everything that’s lying inside him. Following my sister’s instructions, we went to the pharmacy and got the product, convinced that it would all just be a little fright. As we went back to the pulpería where we had arranged to meet the rest, Zach told me that he was going up to his room and asked me to make up an excuse and some sort of pain but not to give away too many details about the issue, which is a little embarrassing for the American. Totally understandable. I told him not to worry and that I would momentarily keep his secret but that I’m writing a journal on my trip and that it would all come out there. “Well, let’s hope that the story has a happy ending and that we can laugh about it by the time we read your journal”, he replied.

Dinner was quite good. It basically consisted of delicious helpings of octopus, shoulder of pork and mixed salad, all washed down with Bierzo wine, the perfect accompaniment to forget about the severity of the last few stages and to enjoy good company. Besides Günther, the Germans Bruno and Alex, the Lithuanian girl Ruta and the Hungarian girl Szilvia, another German called Matthias, who his compatriots had met on today’s stage, joined us. He’s tall, thin and blonde. Even if they hadn’t told us he was German, I think we would have guessed alright. Whenever the wine takes effect and makes us all a little braver, confession time arrives as people are curious to find out what has brought each of us here. I always repeat the same old story without going into too much detail, as I consider it very personal.  And I always put the question back at people and ask what brought them here as I feel that people who ask this question are willing to share their own reasons. Bruno was holding back tears as he told us that his wife left him for another man ten years ago and soon after he had a massive heart attack which almost finished him off. He looks great and it’s incredible that he’s enduring all these kilometres that we’ve racked up despite that serious health problem. When it was Matthias’ turn, he told me that if I came outside to smoke a cigarette with him, he would tell me his reasons. I answered that I don’t smoke but that I’ll gladly accompany him.

   

Outside, surrounded by a bit of mystery, Matthias confessed that he’s addicted to drugs and that he came to do the Camino de Santiago as a type of therapy and also to find the strength he needed to quit. He apologised for taking me away from the dinner. He told me he doesn’t want to go telling everyone but at the same time he needed to tell someone and, for some strange reason, he thought I’d be the best person to listen to him. I like the German guy, he’s someone who is fighting to overcome something and, what’s more, he’s smoking Ducados. I always have big respect for smokers of this strong Spanish cigarettes. He also told me that within a period of two years he lost both his parents to cancer and that he’s alone. He’s an only child and he can’t even say he has great friends who aren’t party pals or ones from shady dealings who just suit themselves. Another reason he decided to do the Camino de Santiago is because he thought that here he would find the faith to believe that one day he would see his parents again, as he’s finding it hard to go on thinking the opposite. A few days back when Matthias arrived in León, he got so fed up that he upped and caught a train to Madrid. All he wanted to do was jack it all in, go back to Germany and smoke weed until he was so high that he didn’t even know his own name. When he arrived in Madrid, he started to feel bad about having left the Camino. Something inside told him that he couldn’t give up. He thought that if he quit and didn’t reach Santiago, he’d never be capable of quitting drugs or of finishing anything really worthwhile in his entire life.        
                                               
I don’t know why I then told Matthias the following, maybe the conversation was getting existential and that pushed me to do it but I asked the German guy if he had considered the possibility that his parents are sending him the strength he needs to continue from wherever they are. I carried on by saying that the unease he felt inside after throwing in the towel was nothing more than the words of his parents who are no longer here but if they were, they’d be encouraging him to continue, to reach Santiago and to quit the drugs. Matthias stood there staring at me and asked me very seriously if I really think that’s possible. I told him no, I don’t know for sure if that’s possible just as I don’t know for sure if he’ll see his parents again. But I think it’s all about creating moments and if thinking this makes him feel better and able to deal with the fact his parents are no longer physically with him and means he can soldier on, then why not convince ourselves of it, why not believe now without waiting to fall off a horse or for a blinding beam of light to show us the truth. Why not believe that his parents are sending him the strength he needs to get to Santiago from some place where he’ll be one day too. Matthias was silent for a few seconds and then said yes, with a hint of a smile, why not believe it. I was a bit surprised at my words to Matthias to tell you the truth and I couldn’t help but think that it might also be the case for me that someone close who I lost suddenly, precisely as they were on their way to Santiago, is guiding me there. Yes, why not think that if it makes me feel good. Even if it isn’t very rational, even if there’s no way of proving it’s true…

   

As we went back into the dining room, Günther made the typical joke of mimicking the tune to the Full Monty striptease as if the German and I had been out holding hands in the street. It’s clear that the Bierzo wine is doing a good job. Without a moment’s hesitation, I made out like I was going to take my t-shirt off, showing those present a glimpse of my paunch. Matthias told me not to be shy and to continue with the show, so I whispered “Room 315” in his ear which was met with a huge roar of laughter from the German. As I said yesterday, the humour in Germany must be something else if these guys are having such a good time with me…

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…