June 1: Villadangos del Paramo to Astorga
Slogging through the meseta....for 19.4 miles
There are three paths that lead to Astoria. This morning I'm walking through a plethora of purple wild flowers up to my knees. Some think wild lavender. I think not.
From a distance I do a double take. It's too early to be hallucinating. The air is still. It looks like snow on the last day of May. Instead I focus on poplars shedding like mad and a sea of white fluffies covering the road. It's not yet 8 a.m.
Slogging through the meseta....for 19.4 miles
There are three paths that lead to Astoria. This morning I'm walking through a plethora of purple wild flowers up to my knees. Some think wild lavender. I think not.
From a distance I do a double take. It's too early to be hallucinating. The air is still. It looks like snow on the last day of May. Instead I focus on poplars shedding like mad and a sea of white fluffies covering the road. It's not yet 8 a.m.
I am rarely bored in life although over the next few hours of slogging through this terrain I admit I'm tired of this stuff. With credit to Julia Ward Howe -I even remember her name - I belt out the lyrics and march in time with the beat: “Mine eyes have seen the glory…” Well, at least I remember some of the words. I hum along with the tune until time for the chorus, “Glory, glory, hallelujah….His truth is marching on.” It's a fine walking song and it gets me through these long hours.
The bridge of medieval jousts. The legend of Don Suero and his duel attracts lovers of the Middle Ages to this bridge.
It is a 13th-century bridge which served and still serves as part of the Pilgrim's Road to Santiago de Compostela. The legend says that on this bridge a knight from Leon confronted some foreigners who wanted to cross it in a duel in order to undo a pledge of slavery to his beloved Lady Leonor, under which he would have to fast every Thursday and wear a heavy iron ring around his neck. He must have broken 300 lances. He did not succeed, but the judges of the contest repaid Don Suero by freeing him from the ring. For this reason, the bridge is known as Passo Honroso (Honourable Crossing). (www.Spain.info)
It is a 13th-century bridge which served and still serves as part of the Pilgrim's Road to Santiago de Compostela. The legend says that on this bridge a knight from Leon confronted some foreigners who wanted to cross it in a duel in order to undo a pledge of slavery to his beloved Lady Leonor, under which he would have to fast every Thursday and wear a heavy iron ring around his neck. He must have broken 300 lances. He did not succeed, but the judges of the contest repaid Don Suero by freeing him from the ring. For this reason, the bridge is known as Passo Honroso (Honourable Crossing). (www.Spain.info)
The sight of Puente de Orbigo ahead pleases me immensely. I stop and take numerous photos of the 13th century medieval bridge and its many arches. I even take time to consult the guide book informing me this was built over an earlier Roman bridge witnessing Visigoths battles in the 5th century. This bridge may have been the inspiration for Don Quixote.
With bleachers, flags and banners hung from the bridge, store fronts and houses it appears the town is readied for a joustling tournament. How I wish I could spend the day here to explore and learn. In retrospect, that would have been wise considering this is turning out to be my longest walking day of the entire Camino.
With bleachers, flags and banners hung from the bridge, store fronts and houses it appears the town is readied for a joustling tournament. How I wish I could spend the day here to explore and learn. In retrospect, that would have been wise considering this is turning out to be my longest walking day of the entire Camino.
Bypass Purgatory and go straight to Hell -
Leaving the town I don't realize the rest of the day will be a scorcher. I walk through villages, farmland, fields and scrubland offering little shade in sight. When I see a tree I stand under it for a few minutes. Sometimes a lone tree is so skinny I turn sideways to get the benefits. Have I gone from Purgatory straight into Hell?
ONE STEP AT A TIME
Copyright lyrics used by permission - Juan Jose Aguirre
I can't pretend that I don't care
And I can see that life's unfair
My soul is hanging by a thread
I'm looking back on the life that I have lead
I've been crying way too long
And now I see that I was wrong.
It's hard for me to see
How my weakness
Has brought me to my knees
How did it come to be this way
I can't believe how my faith has slipped away
The journey may be long
But it's my choice to sing this song
I'm tired of trying on my own
I know it can't be done alone
I need a reason to believe
Take away my fears
I'm ready to be free
I know journey will be long
But every morning a brand new song
Refrain: One step at a time
I will change my life forever
One step at a time
I've made the choice
I'm walking away from shame and the temptations
From the lies and expectations
I'm ready for the ride
One step at a time.
Leaving the town I don't realize the rest of the day will be a scorcher. I walk through villages, farmland, fields and scrubland offering little shade in sight. When I see a tree I stand under it for a few minutes. Sometimes a lone tree is so skinny I turn sideways to get the benefits. Have I gone from Purgatory straight into Hell?
ONE STEP AT A TIME
Copyright lyrics used by permission - Juan Jose Aguirre
I can't pretend that I don't care
And I can see that life's unfair
My soul is hanging by a thread
I'm looking back on the life that I have lead
I've been crying way too long
And now I see that I was wrong.
It's hard for me to see
How my weakness
Has brought me to my knees
How did it come to be this way
I can't believe how my faith has slipped away
The journey may be long
But it's my choice to sing this song
I'm tired of trying on my own
I know it can't be done alone
I need a reason to believe
Take away my fears
I'm ready to be free
I know journey will be long
But every morning a brand new song
Refrain: One step at a time
I will change my life forever
One step at a time
I've made the choice
I'm walking away from shame and the temptations
From the lies and expectations
I'm ready for the ride
One step at a time.
Purgatory continued - About mid-way I must look like I’d stepped into a furnace. I certainly felt it. Two women stop to inquire about my well-being. I ask if one will pull my canteen out from one of the pockets outside my backpack so I can wet the bandana, place it under my sun hat to cool my head. I don't care how I look. This is not a beauty contest. A half mile ahead they wait for me again. “Close your eyes” one said. She spritzes my face with her Neiman-Marcus atomizer. What an extravagant item to carry on the Camino… but I’m so grateful for that moment.
Up ahead, and like a mirage I see a tiki-type hut in the distance. Could it be true? Shade and something cool to drink? The handsome bare-chested David, with long ponytail (straight from a romance novel cover?) greets men and women alike with a generous welcoming hug. He has lived in this lean-to for three years providing bananas, fruit juices and water asking only for donations, which tells me we pilgrims must be a generous sort on a boiling hot day like today. He was overly flirty and I got the impression this 30-something dude (Fabio?) would be willing to share his outdoor cot with some attractive young pilgrim who would like the experience of spending the night out under the stars. Sixty-six-year-old women are off limits.
Back to being overheated. One of the problems seems to be my hat. The wide brim does a dandy job of keeping the sun off my face, but it's not vented so the heat is trapped and I'm indeed a hot-headed woman for the rest of the day, which may have contributed to my irritation when I see another chartered bus for “pilgrims-without-backpacks” waiting to take them down the hill at Cruceiro Santo Toribio. I am momentarily tempted to ask if I can hitch a ride.
Up ahead, and like a mirage I see a tiki-type hut in the distance. Could it be true? Shade and something cool to drink? The handsome bare-chested David, with long ponytail (straight from a romance novel cover?) greets men and women alike with a generous welcoming hug. He has lived in this lean-to for three years providing bananas, fruit juices and water asking only for donations, which tells me we pilgrims must be a generous sort on a boiling hot day like today. He was overly flirty and I got the impression this 30-something dude (Fabio?) would be willing to share his outdoor cot with some attractive young pilgrim who would like the experience of spending the night out under the stars. Sixty-six-year-old women are off limits.
Back to being overheated. One of the problems seems to be my hat. The wide brim does a dandy job of keeping the sun off my face, but it's not vented so the heat is trapped and I'm indeed a hot-headed woman for the rest of the day, which may have contributed to my irritation when I see another chartered bus for “pilgrims-without-backpacks” waiting to take them down the hill at Cruceiro Santo Toribio. I am momentarily tempted to ask if I can hitch a ride.
From this high point I can see the city of Astorga, another 3.6 kilometers going downhill, along a river, near a factory, and then crossing a strange zig-zag bridge over train tracks. It seems like a bad dream as the town keeps moving farther away from my grasp. By now I’d logged my longest trek of 19.4 miles on the hottest day yet. Not a good combination.
I’m more then determined to stop at the first albergue, Siervas de Maria in Astorga, a municipal hostel. I later learned the other albergues at the end of the city were indeed full - completo - and those pilgrims had to back track quite some distance to find a bed, or move ahead to the next town.
This albergue is famous for its foot care. I wait in line for the doctor. I'm not the only one in pain. A few pilgrims are sobbing. One look and the doc instructs me to soak in cold water and add salt and vinegar. I raid the kitchen, then the laundry room for a tub. My foot feels better, but it's only a short term solution, but short term is better than nothing.
I’m more then determined to stop at the first albergue, Siervas de Maria in Astorga, a municipal hostel. I later learned the other albergues at the end of the city were indeed full - completo - and those pilgrims had to back track quite some distance to find a bed, or move ahead to the next town.
This albergue is famous for its foot care. I wait in line for the doctor. I'm not the only one in pain. A few pilgrims are sobbing. One look and the doc instructs me to soak in cold water and add salt and vinegar. I raid the kitchen, then the laundry room for a tub. My foot feels better, but it's only a short term solution, but short term is better than nothing.
Sweetie, you got the top bunk -
This albergue offers 154 beds in 16 rooms. My room only holds two bunk beds. Four women. What a joy. Until… an English businesswoman, Caroline, a 50-year old from Brighton whom I met at check-in, and who must have thought I was her same age, asks if she can have the lower bunk. How cheeky! If Caroline was ashamed once she learns my age, she doesn't give up the prized bed. Good grief. The older you are, the higher you go? As a side note, I never came across three-tiered bunk beds I’d heard about and feared.
Several days prior Caroline walked with a German woman, Seglinde, and they invite me to join them for the evening meal. This lovely city was a jolt from the barren landscape I’d walked through. After window shopping for the latest high-end, European shoe-and-clothing fashions I move on to meet the two women on the Plaza Mayor outside the plush Hotel Astvr.
This albergue offers 154 beds in 16 rooms. My room only holds two bunk beds. Four women. What a joy. Until… an English businesswoman, Caroline, a 50-year old from Brighton whom I met at check-in, and who must have thought I was her same age, asks if she can have the lower bunk. How cheeky! If Caroline was ashamed once she learns my age, she doesn't give up the prized bed. Good grief. The older you are, the higher you go? As a side note, I never came across three-tiered bunk beds I’d heard about and feared.
Several days prior Caroline walked with a German woman, Seglinde, and they invite me to join them for the evening meal. This lovely city was a jolt from the barren landscape I’d walked through. After window shopping for the latest high-end, European shoe-and-clothing fashions I move on to meet the two women on the Plaza Mayor outside the plush Hotel Astvr.
Caroline insists we ask for a table outside on the plaza. (Future warning: anytime you sit outside to eat in Europe you will pay almost double – but sometimes it’s worth it - but not tonight.) Here we order what is to be the worst and most over-priced food during the entire pilgrimage. None of us can finish our meal. To make matters worse - much worse - we had to ask for the wine three times, but you can see we finally got it.
For dessert, we have a choice of rain or wind storm -
Without warning a ferocious wind storm sweeps through the Plaza Mayor and blows over umbrellas and tables where trendy, well-dressed couples sit amidst a few pilgrims. Young children and teenagers are screaming, screaming, screaming, and I'm certain someone has been decapitated. Nothing of the sort. Just children being children. Without being summoned we push inside to escape the downpour into the lackluster dining area where we leave our half-finished meal. Once again city food is a disappointment compared to the charm of small villages where slow-cooked meals are not mass produced, or over-cooked, or rushed.
On the bright side the Wi-Fi works and I'm able to retrieve a welcome message from Leslie, my future daugther-in-law, saying she and my son, David, are on their way to Poland and Germany for her business trip.
To my delight high up above the square I see two mechanical figures strike the clock bell on the hour. Had I read the guide book I might have looked around for original Roman walls, drains and baths. Then maybe not. It seems I'm more pilgrim then sight-seer.
For dessert, we have a choice of rain or wind storm -
Without warning a ferocious wind storm sweeps through the Plaza Mayor and blows over umbrellas and tables where trendy, well-dressed couples sit amidst a few pilgrims. Young children and teenagers are screaming, screaming, screaming, and I'm certain someone has been decapitated. Nothing of the sort. Just children being children. Without being summoned we push inside to escape the downpour into the lackluster dining area where we leave our half-finished meal. Once again city food is a disappointment compared to the charm of small villages where slow-cooked meals are not mass produced, or over-cooked, or rushed.
On the bright side the Wi-Fi works and I'm able to retrieve a welcome message from Leslie, my future daugther-in-law, saying she and my son, David, are on their way to Poland and Germany for her business trip.
To my delight high up above the square I see two mechanical figures strike the clock bell on the hour. Had I read the guide book I might have looked around for original Roman walls, drains and baths. Then maybe not. It seems I'm more pilgrim then sight-seer.