May 28 - Castrojeriz to Boadilla del Camino
You gotta climb up and over, then go down....carefully, but you gotta get outta town first.
I leave the albergue in Castrojeriz at 5:45 a.m. hoping to get an early start. On the outskirts of town I realize I left my hiking poles behind in a tall wicker basket near the front door where we were instructed to place them yesterday afternoon. Out of sight; out of mind. How could I forget such an important implement for the Camino, you may ask. Oh just wait. It gets worse in the days ahead.
I leave the albergue in Castrojeriz at 5:45 a.m. hoping to get an early start. On the outskirts of town I realize I left my hiking poles behind in a tall wicker basket near the front door where we were instructed to place them yesterday afternoon. Out of sight; out of mind. How could I forget such an important implement for the Camino, you may ask. Oh just wait. It gets worse in the days ahead.
I retrace my steps to the albergue in the dark and I’m back on the street at 6:15. Don and Frank catch up with me mid-morning. The climb to Alto Mostelares is steep. I'm delighted to see the entrepreneur-vendor at the mountaintop, where I buy a banana and find a bush. Frank stays behind for a while to fiddle with his zip-off hiking pants, and then catches up in a mile or so.
Spain is the second most mountainous country in Europe (after Switzerland) and especially northern Spain where I am now. The landscape is incredible from this elevation (900 meters above sea level). It’s almost equally steep on the downhill. I know the statistics. Every year one in three people over age 65 trip or stumble and fall causing hip fractures, head trauma or death. I’m not worried about deteriorating muscle strength. I am fit. However, my vision makes me a likely candidate for a fall. I don’t walk with my bifocals. I look down almost always. If I want to take in the panorama, I know I must stop. I don’t like to do this because I lose my stride - my momentum. I miss a lot of vistas this way.
After 6 miles I stop for hot tea and a chorizo bocadillo at Itero de la Vega where I see more top-cropped plane trees on the main plaza. Don stops here for the evening perhaps to spread some ashes. Frank plows ahead.
Solitaire on the Camino....again
Now I am glad to be walking alone, as the two men were chatty and I'd heard their stories several times over. Corien picks up her pace and passes us by. I’m now in the province of Palencia and still within the region of Castilla Y Leon.
The Camino heightens sensitivities. I alternate between deep and shallow breaths. This helps when I’m feeling overwhelmed. Random thoughts surface now that I am alone. It's difficult to stay in the present moment. Most times I think of people and the good times and events in my past. I wish again I had a recorder. It’s not easy to stop and write and my miniscule notebook couldn't hold all my thoughts. There’s a rhythm to walking and I don't want to lose it. I acknowledge how lucky I am. I am grateful for all I have at home and with life in general, and am determined not to take it for granted.
It's getting hot. I’ve walked nearly 12 miles. By now it’s 12:30. I'm tired and discover I'm out of water. How did that happen? I’m usually so careful about filling the hydration system to the top. I wonder when I should take the bus again to make up time. I’ll never get to Santiago only walking 12 miles a day. I need to walk 18, but my foot hurts too much and I am worried about causing permanent damage. Will I find a bus at Fromista tomorrow? I must ask but I’m too tired for interaction and conversation.
I overhear a German woman pilgrim say that when she walked the Camino last year it was more difficult to find albergues and this year is easier because more pack-free pilgrims are staying in B&B’s instead of albergues. I'm irritated when I see pilgrims loading their backpacks into shuttle buses. If someone is going to make a pilgrimage do it right. But then perhaps I'm being criticized for taking the bus by someone who doesn't know my circumstances. I constantly have to remind myself that everyone has their own method of doing ‘The Way.’ Buen Camino.
Future Camino-trekkers, take note of this recommended Guide - I’m grateful to my new Tucson friend, Gale Reich for insisting I get my hands on John Brierley’s Camino Guide. I ordered it three months prior. It was back-ordered, and then the order was canceled. After Gale’s warning this time I ordered from Barnes & Noble with a one-day delivery. It arrived three days before departure. How I wish I could have read it several times beforehand for valuable information. The times I did not refer to the guidebook I was sorry.
Boadilla del Camino
Spain is the second most mountainous country in Europe (after Switzerland) and especially northern Spain where I am now. The landscape is incredible from this elevation (900 meters above sea level). It’s almost equally steep on the downhill. I know the statistics. Every year one in three people over age 65 trip or stumble and fall causing hip fractures, head trauma or death. I’m not worried about deteriorating muscle strength. I am fit. However, my vision makes me a likely candidate for a fall. I don’t walk with my bifocals. I look down almost always. If I want to take in the panorama, I know I must stop. I don’t like to do this because I lose my stride - my momentum. I miss a lot of vistas this way.
After 6 miles I stop for hot tea and a chorizo bocadillo at Itero de la Vega where I see more top-cropped plane trees on the main plaza. Don stops here for the evening perhaps to spread some ashes. Frank plows ahead.
Solitaire on the Camino....again
Now I am glad to be walking alone, as the two men were chatty and I'd heard their stories several times over. Corien picks up her pace and passes us by. I’m now in the province of Palencia and still within the region of Castilla Y Leon.
The Camino heightens sensitivities. I alternate between deep and shallow breaths. This helps when I’m feeling overwhelmed. Random thoughts surface now that I am alone. It's difficult to stay in the present moment. Most times I think of people and the good times and events in my past. I wish again I had a recorder. It’s not easy to stop and write and my miniscule notebook couldn't hold all my thoughts. There’s a rhythm to walking and I don't want to lose it. I acknowledge how lucky I am. I am grateful for all I have at home and with life in general, and am determined not to take it for granted.
It's getting hot. I’ve walked nearly 12 miles. By now it’s 12:30. I'm tired and discover I'm out of water. How did that happen? I’m usually so careful about filling the hydration system to the top. I wonder when I should take the bus again to make up time. I’ll never get to Santiago only walking 12 miles a day. I need to walk 18, but my foot hurts too much and I am worried about causing permanent damage. Will I find a bus at Fromista tomorrow? I must ask but I’m too tired for interaction and conversation.
I overhear a German woman pilgrim say that when she walked the Camino last year it was more difficult to find albergues and this year is easier because more pack-free pilgrims are staying in B&B’s instead of albergues. I'm irritated when I see pilgrims loading their backpacks into shuttle buses. If someone is going to make a pilgrimage do it right. But then perhaps I'm being criticized for taking the bus by someone who doesn't know my circumstances. I constantly have to remind myself that everyone has their own method of doing ‘The Way.’ Buen Camino.
Future Camino-trekkers, take note of this recommended Guide - I’m grateful to my new Tucson friend, Gale Reich for insisting I get my hands on John Brierley’s Camino Guide. I ordered it three months prior. It was back-ordered, and then the order was canceled. After Gale’s warning this time I ordered from Barnes & Noble with a one-day delivery. It arrived three days before departure. How I wish I could have read it several times beforehand for valuable information. The times I did not refer to the guidebook I was sorry.
Boadilla del Camino
The first albergue into the village of Boadilla del Camino is closed for interior painting. The next is a no-frills municipal albergue that once was a one-room school. I stop here. I don't need frills at this stage. I need a place to rest my head and my right foot. The body in-between is okay. Perhaps I should make a movie titled, “My Right Foot.” "My Left Foot" has already been filmed.
At the adjoining bar I pay the pittance of 4 euros for a bed. This is the cheapest place I stayed during the entire Camino. Unlike me, I order a mid-day cerveza and another chorizo bocodillo. It’s good I haven’t tired of this sandwich, as oftentimes it’s the only thing available. I haven’t seen morcilla (blood sausage) on menus. Nor have I seen panna cotta some pilgrims are talking about, although this is an Italian dessert but sometimes in Europe there is a cross-over of regional foods.
At the adjoining bar I pay the pittance of 4 euros for a bed. This is the cheapest place I stayed during the entire Camino. Unlike me, I order a mid-day cerveza and another chorizo bocodillo. It’s good I haven’t tired of this sandwich, as oftentimes it’s the only thing available. I haven’t seen morcilla (blood sausage) on menus. Nor have I seen panna cotta some pilgrims are talking about, although this is an Italian dessert but sometimes in Europe there is a cross-over of regional foods.
Today is sunny, with an exceptionally blue sky that reminds me of the years I lived in Boulder, Colorado. After hand-washing clothes, and hanging on a line outside, I stroll through the town of 200 residents. .
Lin, the Gate/Party Crasher...twice en una dia!
I leave my humble quarters and roam. Down the street and around the corner I poke my head through the entry to the gardens outside Casa Rural – En El Camino. It’s charming. It should be. This private casa cost 35 euros per night. I have voluntarily put myself on a very tight budget. For now I'm satisfied with my 4 euro lodgings. I take in sights and scents of the lush gardens and the metal sculptures. It doesn't hurt anyone to pretend this is where I'm staying. I see a customer with a tall, cool-looking drink. I ask the charismatic waiter what it’s called. I order a Trina, the delicious carbonated mixed-citrus drink tasting like the Canadian import, Orangina carried by no other then our local Trader Joes.
While I'm waiting for my order an American woman, who seems to know this swarthy, Rasta-looking waiter, urges him to take a break and come into a private room with her. For some mutual R&R perhaps? Or wanting to share some prayer cards? He resists her charms and says he has to work. She tells him he works too hard and needs a break. He ignores her – for now – and turns his attention back to me, his customer, and asks where I'm from.
When I answer, Arizona, he introduces me to a woman from Phoenix. She invites me to sit at the table shared with two other women. One looks to be an 80 year-old, former hippie-type who says she walked the Camino many times in years past. Nowadays, she rents a room for a month at this place and sits while pilgrims pass through and exchange stories. I didn’t understand why she would stay here so long ... until I understood the artistic attraction and taste the food.
I leave my humble quarters and roam. Down the street and around the corner I poke my head through the entry to the gardens outside Casa Rural – En El Camino. It’s charming. It should be. This private casa cost 35 euros per night. I have voluntarily put myself on a very tight budget. For now I'm satisfied with my 4 euro lodgings. I take in sights and scents of the lush gardens and the metal sculptures. It doesn't hurt anyone to pretend this is where I'm staying. I see a customer with a tall, cool-looking drink. I ask the charismatic waiter what it’s called. I order a Trina, the delicious carbonated mixed-citrus drink tasting like the Canadian import, Orangina carried by no other then our local Trader Joes.
While I'm waiting for my order an American woman, who seems to know this swarthy, Rasta-looking waiter, urges him to take a break and come into a private room with her. For some mutual R&R perhaps? Or wanting to share some prayer cards? He resists her charms and says he has to work. She tells him he works too hard and needs a break. He ignores her – for now – and turns his attention back to me, his customer, and asks where I'm from.
When I answer, Arizona, he introduces me to a woman from Phoenix. She invites me to sit at the table shared with two other women. One looks to be an 80 year-old, former hippie-type who says she walked the Camino many times in years past. Nowadays, she rents a room for a month at this place and sits while pilgrims pass through and exchange stories. I didn’t understand why she would stay here so long ... until I understood the artistic attraction and taste the food.
I take my leave of this charming setting. After collecting my laundry off the line and take a short nap I go back that evening at 6:30 and crash the high rent district for the Pilgrim's meal. This turns out to be the best meal on the Camino and am told it's prepared by the artist, Begona, whose art is displayed on the walls in the open, community dining-room. Our waiter is wearing a cap to cover his abundant dreadlocks, the style going back to ancient times, whereas some think Bob Marley invented the style in the 1960s.
Over a communal meal of two soups - garlic and lentil, of course - we have a choice of fish, pork or chicken. Accompanied by jugs of delicious vino tiento with no label. Ice cream is served in disposable containers which one pilgrim stacked eight high for a photo op. My table mates are interesting and lovely companions who would have been easy to walk with. Two men, long-time friends from Holland, were on bicycles. One 60-ish widower lost a girlfriend to cancer last year. His buddy lost a sister and a niece was seriously ill. The female blonde and fellow next to her, the only couple at the table were celebrating their 45th anniversary. The husband carries her backpack. What a love story. Everyone has a story.
Later that evening as each pilgrim pays their bill the Rasta-looking waiter remembers that I'm from Arizona. What a remarkable memory for someone who sees 50 or so people every day of the week over the course of a year. I later discover this cute, charismatic, multitasking waiter-chef is indeed Begona himself - THE ARTIST.
What a charming and memorable evening.
Over a communal meal of two soups - garlic and lentil, of course - we have a choice of fish, pork or chicken. Accompanied by jugs of delicious vino tiento with no label. Ice cream is served in disposable containers which one pilgrim stacked eight high for a photo op. My table mates are interesting and lovely companions who would have been easy to walk with. Two men, long-time friends from Holland, were on bicycles. One 60-ish widower lost a girlfriend to cancer last year. His buddy lost a sister and a niece was seriously ill. The female blonde and fellow next to her, the only couple at the table were celebrating their 45th anniversary. The husband carries her backpack. What a love story. Everyone has a story.
Later that evening as each pilgrim pays their bill the Rasta-looking waiter remembers that I'm from Arizona. What a remarkable memory for someone who sees 50 or so people every day of the week over the course of a year. I later discover this cute, charismatic, multitasking waiter-chef is indeed Begona himself - THE ARTIST.
What a charming and memorable evening.