June 3: Rabanal to El Acebo
While the ascent up the mountain is steady I find this not difficult since I'm not fighting gale-force wind. A few months later my husband has a new appreciation for the challenge I faced my first day - after seeing on television the effects on people trying to move in the wake of gale winds from Hurricane Isaac. Since I made it today I think back to my failure the first day. I am reassured I could have made it up and over the Pyrenees had the exertion from the extreme wind not forced me into survival mode. Unfortunately, a "do-over" in the Pyrenees with better conditions is not possible. This year anyway. Perhaps it's a challenge to be undertaken when I'm 70 or 75.
Pausing at La Cruz de Ferro
The morning sky continues dark and stormy upon reaching La Cruz de Ferro – the Iron Cross. This is to be the highest elevation of the journey at almost 5,000 feet. I'd seen photos and read about this place holding significant meaning and a sacred place of prayer for most pilgrims. This spot is traditionally a place to pause and reflect on the purpose and meaning of one’s individual journey.
For once I did not rush away, nor did I tear up although I thought I might. There were more than a few who do, including several men. A few people, including Caroline, the stoic businesswoman from England - and an older couple - climbed to the top of the rock pile and tearfully pulled out letters to read. It was an unforgettable landmark and moment. The energy here was profound.
One might wonder, What’s so important about an iron cross atop a cairn - a 15 foot high and 45 feet wide (actually it's larger but don't know the actual size) pile of rocks? It’s difficult to explain. It’s symbolic. I thought about bringing a stone from home, but the extra weight and the thought of explaining this to a customs official stopped me. After the ordeal on my first day, I picked up several small stones to carry until this day. I gave my three stones a good underhanded toss and said a silent prayer.
Slow us down, O Lord
that we may take time to think,
time to pray,
and time to find out Your will.
Then give us the sense
and courage to do it.
- Peter Marshall
The origin of cairns is supposedly from ancient times. From the Scottish-Gaelic. Or a tradition from pagan Druids. Hum. More to read up on once I get home.
Through browsing the interest I learn that pilgrims are encouraged to leave behind our troubles at this humble site and reflect on our purpose of coming this far. It was unusual for me to stay in one place for long, but here I stood or walked around for 20-30 minutes and could easily stayed longer had there been a place to sit and meditate. Before leaving my Marian group, from St. Thomas the Apostle Church, in Tucson, bestowed upon me a pilgrimage gift to leave along the way. I deposited it at the foot of the cross.
Across the pass of Puerta Irago I continue to pray then see another cross and cairn of stones a few miles ahead – this one more commonplace like many others along the Camino.
For once I did not rush away, nor did I tear up although I thought I might. There were more than a few who do, including several men. A few people, including Caroline, the stoic businesswoman from England - and an older couple - climbed to the top of the rock pile and tearfully pulled out letters to read. It was an unforgettable landmark and moment. The energy here was profound.
One might wonder, What’s so important about an iron cross atop a cairn - a 15 foot high and 45 feet wide (actually it's larger but don't know the actual size) pile of rocks? It’s difficult to explain. It’s symbolic. I thought about bringing a stone from home, but the extra weight and the thought of explaining this to a customs official stopped me. After the ordeal on my first day, I picked up several small stones to carry until this day. I gave my three stones a good underhanded toss and said a silent prayer.
Slow us down, O Lord
that we may take time to think,
time to pray,
and time to find out Your will.
Then give us the sense
and courage to do it.
- Peter Marshall
The origin of cairns is supposedly from ancient times. From the Scottish-Gaelic. Or a tradition from pagan Druids. Hum. More to read up on once I get home.
Through browsing the interest I learn that pilgrims are encouraged to leave behind our troubles at this humble site and reflect on our purpose of coming this far. It was unusual for me to stay in one place for long, but here I stood or walked around for 20-30 minutes and could easily stayed longer had there been a place to sit and meditate. Before leaving my Marian group, from St. Thomas the Apostle Church, in Tucson, bestowed upon me a pilgrimage gift to leave along the way. I deposited it at the foot of the cross.
Across the pass of Puerta Irago I continue to pray then see another cross and cairn of stones a few miles ahead – this one more commonplace like many others along the Camino.
Part of the descent is along the highway. I wonder beforehand why it's considered so dangerous to take a shortcut and walk along the highway. This morning before my very eyes I have the answer. A tour bus takes the entire opposite lane as he follows a sharp curve in the road, while an automobile coming in the opposite direction faces the bus in his lane. In the meantime a motorcycle follows the automobile. Next comes a bicyclist following the bus uphill. I am one of several walkers and we quickly duck into weeds at the side of the road. This is an accident about to happen and a miracle it did not. Taking a deep breath I continue more hyper-vigilant than ever.
A bend in the road leads to Manjarin. Population of one. A recording of the rosary - or some sacred reading is recited in Spanish on a loudspeaker to greet pilgrims. A shrine stands next to make-shift painted arrowed-boards pointing toward Mexico, Jerusalem, Galiza, Finisterre, Santiago, Rome, etc.
Had I not just risen from sleep four hours ago this might have been a unique place to stay overnight, as the albergue/shack was ecological and organic in nature, had outside toilets, with little hot water and a fire pit for heat. Or maybe not. My friends back home already think I’m crazy for not checking into a Holiday Inn Express. Several bicyclists stop here, as did a handful of walkers. But perhaps only for a few hours.
Had I not just risen from sleep four hours ago this might have been a unique place to stay overnight, as the albergue/shack was ecological and organic in nature, had outside toilets, with little hot water and a fire pit for heat. Or maybe not. My friends back home already think I’m crazy for not checking into a Holiday Inn Express. Several bicyclists stop here, as did a handful of walkers. But perhaps only for a few hours.
Cows graze nonstop in the pasture, the fog rolls in, another cairn, a large blue and yellow Camino de Santiago sign, and an incredible green valley. At this elevation I can easily see the city of Ponferrada ten miles in the distance. Simultaneously I see the village of Acebo three miles below, which is my next stop for the day. I consider going on to Ponferrada, and wish I would have, but I don't know how far into the city I will have to go to find an albergue.
The descent is steep, slippery and potentially dangerous. One false step and it’s a twisted ankle, a broken leg, or worse – a fractured skull.
Once in the village I stop at the combination bar/café/albergue Primer pueblo del bierzo en la Camino. This village seems to attract busloads of tourists perhaps heading on to Ponferrada. Here the local cafes are crawling with tourists. The bar-keep must pitch in to check in pilgrims. She seems surly and prefers talking to customers and/or friends. The bathroom fixtures appear new, but are dirty. I already paid for the bed, but I am determined to not eat here.
M.A.S.H Unit:
After getting settled I walk around the village. When I come back to this lodging there is a hefty Italian man, who had cried like a baby back in Logrono while some svelte chick tended his blistered toes. This time he is moaning and groaning so loud I thought for certain he had broken a leg on the way down the steep descent. I leave to find a place to eat and upon returning an ambulance arrives to carry the Italian away. Fast forward three hours later and the Italian cry-baby returns from a clinic/hospital in Ponderrada with every one of his toes bandaged.
The patio dining at a bar/café at the entrance to the village looks charming. Free Wi-Fi is offered while on their premises. I order gazpacho that arrives with loads of toss-ins. By now the busload of noisy Germans have left. The charming young waiter was doting on me. I probably reminded him of his grandmother. I was one of the few diners on the outside patio. I wasn’t going to have dessert, but then the delightful waiter suggested berries over yoghurt. Of course loads of bread and a bottle of vino tiento, which I could not finish. All the while I’m snapping photos of my food and emailing them to my husband. Friends back home couldn’t believe I ate like this every day and still lost seven pounds.
Needing to walk off the food, especially the dessert and wine, I head toward the end of the village where I would exit tomorrow morning. There along the road I find a sobering modern sculpture of a bicycle in memory of one of the many pilgrims killed on the road I walked earlier that morning.
Once in the village I stop at the combination bar/café/albergue Primer pueblo del bierzo en la Camino. This village seems to attract busloads of tourists perhaps heading on to Ponferrada. Here the local cafes are crawling with tourists. The bar-keep must pitch in to check in pilgrims. She seems surly and prefers talking to customers and/or friends. The bathroom fixtures appear new, but are dirty. I already paid for the bed, but I am determined to not eat here.
M.A.S.H Unit:
After getting settled I walk around the village. When I come back to this lodging there is a hefty Italian man, who had cried like a baby back in Logrono while some svelte chick tended his blistered toes. This time he is moaning and groaning so loud I thought for certain he had broken a leg on the way down the steep descent. I leave to find a place to eat and upon returning an ambulance arrives to carry the Italian away. Fast forward three hours later and the Italian cry-baby returns from a clinic/hospital in Ponderrada with every one of his toes bandaged.
The patio dining at a bar/café at the entrance to the village looks charming. Free Wi-Fi is offered while on their premises. I order gazpacho that arrives with loads of toss-ins. By now the busload of noisy Germans have left. The charming young waiter was doting on me. I probably reminded him of his grandmother. I was one of the few diners on the outside patio. I wasn’t going to have dessert, but then the delightful waiter suggested berries over yoghurt. Of course loads of bread and a bottle of vino tiento, which I could not finish. All the while I’m snapping photos of my food and emailing them to my husband. Friends back home couldn’t believe I ate like this every day and still lost seven pounds.
Needing to walk off the food, especially the dessert and wine, I head toward the end of the village where I would exit tomorrow morning. There along the road I find a sobering modern sculpture of a bicycle in memory of one of the many pilgrims killed on the road I walked earlier that morning.