2004: Camino Week 3

Nice day walking entirely on my own. Unattractive plod beside main road into Sahagun, where I posted home a few surplus possessions to lighten up even more (dumped sleeping mat last night). Turned off onto little used Calzada Romana: current favourite song is “I don’t want to join the army”, but I could only remember the first few lines of the verse, ie “Monday I felt her on the ankle, Tuesday I touched her on the knee” and had to rumty-tum the rest.

But the Internet has saved me and now I know the full disgusting verses (right up to “Sunday after supper….”) and so tomorrow I can bellow out obscene marching songs with joy in my heart. Albergue in isolated town, but with an excellent cheap restaurant, where I ate with a French ex-senior policeman.

Still plodding over the meseta. My guide said about the bit today: “Be prepared. There is no shelter, no shade, no water, no food, nothing on this stretch to Mansilla“. And they were quite right: 22km of flat plain along an old roman road, with views of distant snow-capped mountains, quite beautiful and absolutely noone in sight for hours (nearly everyone else took the alternative route along the road). It could have been awful in different weather.

Everyone is toughening up a bit now and the feet are no longer a major humanitarian disaster zone. But one of the great lessons is to go at one’s own speed: even a little bit faster or slower and things start to hurt. So generally I prefer walking on my own and meeting up at the end of the day. The other big lesson is the joy of having a very simple existence, with only a few choices to make, and to be able to make those freely. The real world seems daunting after this.

Awful route into Leon (left), and then we were jostling around outside the convent waiting for it to open at 2. I was near the front of the queue, only to be given the worst accommodation (on floor of a hall, no hot water and no toilet seats). I suppose it is reasonable, as later people will have come further or suffered more! It was moving to hear the nuns sing their Vespers, but they did seem very old, grey and rather sad. One tiny little old thing was so slow getting up that once she struggled to her feet just as everyone else was sitting down again.

I was with Jean, who had eaten a bad boccadillo the day before, and was sitting with his head in his hands in what I thought was deep contemplation, when suddenly he dashed out and was sick in a drain outside. Good timing. Was a tourist in Leon, wonderful stained glass in Gothic cathedral, and the wonderful Basilica of San Isadoro. Excellent wine and seafood meal with O, followed by dancing in the street with massed folk troupes.

Another day just walking on my own. Plodded out of Leon at 6am in the rain: at the first cafe stop I witnessed a group who had stayed in refugios surreptitiously putting their packs in an accompanying vehicle which will meet them again just before the next stop. We spurned them.

Took the ‘scenic’ route today, and ended up slogging through glutinous mud, although it was worse for the cyclists. After Villar de Mazarife, just miles of desolate straight road in the rain. Just about kept spirits up, but pleased to reach excellent albergue, with outside cooker by odd mural in courtyard (right). Tripe for supper with O – so fortunate to have such wonderful company.

Walked with O all day. On hard shoulder to Astorga, where we admired the cathedral and Gaudi’s odd Palacio Episcopal. Walked for ages trying to find someone to shave my beard off. Steady climb into hills, and my right shin really starting to play up. At El Ganso it poured down and we took refuge in a bar where I received a fine massage from O and copious drinks, including excellent cider.

Staggered into attractive Rabanal, unfortunately the English refuge was full, but met P so joyful reunion. Boozy dinner, cigars, strange green liqueurs etc, and then it seemed a good idea to cut my beard off myself and then climb onto my top bunk in the pitch dark.

First and only serious hangover, but slightly revived by O bringing me a cafe con leche in my bunk – luxury. Steady climb in beautiful weather to the Cruz de Ferro, and then an audience with grubby Tomas in Manjarin. Bizarre. Then finally my right shin seized up completely so I could not flex my foot. O tried some more massage and generously walked slowly for miles while I had to lurch along like some deranged crab. Then at El Acebo he had to go on, leaving me feeling very forlorn and sad, like a wounded horse with the vultures circling.

Things then got worse. I hobbled to the next albergue in Riego de Ambros and flopped into a bunk, only to find that I was suffering from food poisoning. After much rumbling and a spectacular vomit (fortunately reaching the right place in time) I settled down to wallow in misery. But it just didn’t happen like that. I exchanged texts from home, lit a candle in bed to Danny (7th anniversary of his death) at the agreed time, made myself a cup of tea, put my feet up and started to fall asleep. And then an ethereal choir started (like in that Dad´s Army episode when Jonesy says “I think I´m going, Sir”). It was four French singers practising in the kitchen – they had been singing in all the churches on the Camino. So in fact I felt cosy and had a good sleep.

Woke rested after 16 hours with my leg elevated, and hobbled through spectacular scenery down into Molinaseca, feeling better all the time. Long traverse of Ponferrada, especially as had to double back for my precious stick left at tourist office. Met K on the road and he insisted on accompanying me, and when we reached the albergue I found I was sharing a single cubicle with him. Then he asked if I had a pair of scissors, and with trepidation I brought out my penknife, at which he said (imagine pantomime German accent) “I need to cut the dry skin off my foot, but I cannot reach it. You vill haf to do it”. Then he lifted up a really hideous foot, all yellow curling nails and callouses, and remains of layers of old blisters. So I dutifully hacked away, although I should have said that no Englishman commits such an intimate act without formal introductions and at least 20 years close companionship. Everyone else cracked up when I told them, saying K was even now collecting his winnings from the bet that he couldn’t get a stupid person to trim his feet.