Like a Friend Expected/Sonic Tonic

27/10/07
Grañon, Spain

It's cold now. Starting to move into the 'properly cold' territory. The next few days walk will take me higher and closer to the open, cold meseta - the giant plateau of central northern Spain. While at only around 800m, the lack of nearby ocean and the vast openness of the land means that bitter cold is likely to be my companion for the next two weeks.
The refugio I am in tonight is simply beautiful in a staying-in-the-bell-tower-of-the-church rustic kind of way - everything done with an old school ascetic functionality in mind; mattresses on floors, open fire, long wooden dining table. Gryffindor Tower comes to mind, too, especially because of the immediately close friendship offered. So, it's also beautiful because of the warmth of the welcome I received when I arrived. The French hospitalero couple looking after this place greeted me with smiles and comfort as if I were a friend expected. I find myself reminded of Athos, in Greece - that same Christian welcome and sense of ascetic homeliness. I'm touched by it, by the simple humanity of it.
As I write the husband, who is cooking tonight, is quizzing his wife on what spices he needs to add to the soup. In front of me a small fire crackles quietly in the large fireplace, somehow throwing plenty of heat into the room (along with a fair bit of smoke). In the background a CD of Gregorian chants plays, and its haunting chords and melodies feel right at home here. It is a music that speaks of ascetic life of long cold winters and purpose.
This is very much a journey of simplicity - forced and desired. Needs are simple: bed, food, water, warmth, Way markers. In the context of looking after these immediate needs the plethora of superfluous, vain, or simply bored ones drops away. The experience is both liberating and enlightening. The 'stuff' one tends to imagine one needs for life loses much of its provenance and begins to float untethered in the mind, eventually drifting off into the distance. The demonstrated, experienced simplicity of life gives one hope; "You know, I think I really can be happy. It doesn't actually take that much... And all this time I thought I couldn't... Huh." Freed of the mundane (which I actually suspect is the stuff we often don't need, largely) the mind turns both inward and outward. Important questions, sometimes long neglected, come into undistracted focus, and the small beauties of the physical world are regarded.
Likewise, one's fellow pilgrim becomes of great concern - their health, their happiness (here and at home). It is a care that somehow many of the hospitaleros share. I don't know how they do it, day after day, new face after new face. It is a life of service (although most are volunteers for a few weeks at a time only). Like many who give their time to others, the couple here told me they draw great joy, a deep personal joy, from their time of service here, despite the stress it sometimes brings. But I think it also is a life of purpose, driven by the simple needs of fellow pilgrims, fellow human beings; warmth of house and welcome for weary beings, food and water for hungry bellies, and bedding for tired bodies. But somewhere in the dynamic of care there there arises something that nourishes both fed and feeder. Reduced to such simple needs acts of kindness uncalled for or friendship unearned glow like fire, and it is clear that the unadorned light falls on both.
It seems as though the act of care is as important for the carer as for their often anonymous charge.

29/10/07
Burgos, Spain

Today I took 80,000 steps. At the end there was music, laughter, dancing, and singing. Inhibitions often seem temporarily vanquished as the sun goes down each day, by weariness, by friendship. Now there is silence, like that between songs, as the pilgrims make their daily chores - bathing, washing, tending to feet. Some write in diaries, some in emails, but now the music is over people go about it refreshed. The songs were like tonics, and we drank them, all.

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Oh Chorizo!

So finally an update (so long between drinks!). Here I am in Spain, a land in which people fight bulls (not sure why yet), run from bulls (pretty obvious after the fighting really), and then eat the bulls (or at least some of them). It´s also a land in which everything happens in the bar (apart from the fighting of and running from the bulls). Coffee? Bar. Beer? Bar. Food? Bar. Breakfast (sometimes done with a beer... shudder)? Bar. Ah Spain... where the men are doe-eyed, floppy-haired, and short-short wearing, and the women are feirce looking and often sporting battle mullets of thick black hair.
Speaking of which... this is indeed the land of battle mullets, possibly best described as a conventional mullet with some extra length around the hairline (this bit would stick out from under your helmet). Often Spaniards armed with such mullets will make themselves even more feirce looking by the addition of some small dreadlocks, or the simple refusal to wash. It´s quite a look and I must say I´m tempted to try it (especially now that I am beardless). But the battle mullet is, to me, an indication of a broader under-current of rebelliousness embedded in Spanish culture. You see it on the streets in the form of grafiti or in the dress of the youth of the nation, and you see it in the sheer amount of art that is publicly funded and displayed. This seems to me to be a country that encourages rebellion for rebellion´s sake. As a result it is clearly a nation of little nations: Catalan, Basque, Gallego, etc. A bit of rebellion is, after all, good for the soul.
This is, of course, also the land of chorizo and black-red gutsy wine - best consumed together, really. Quite a few of my fellow pilgrims have complained of the overwhelming presence of chorizo. Chorizo, chorizo, chorizo. It´s everywhere, and mostly awesome.
The Camino here is very different from the Chemin of France. For one thing the average age of pilgrims dropped by something like 30years with the Pyrenees crossing. For another, as a pilgrim you are now well and truly into the land of the Camino, and there is plenty of infrastructure around to help you along. One manifestation of this (stemming from the historical importance of the Camino) is that the route passes through large cities (ok 100,000+ people). This is both nice and unpleasant; nice because you get access to all the luxuries and commodities that cities bring with them, unpleasant because you often have to share the road with the large trucks bringing in those commodities...
But there is compensation. Here is Spain there are many more pilgrims, and the lowering of the average age (sorry oldies) means thateveryday is a celebration. But more on that in the next post.
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A High Goodbye

The French section ended for me not long after the section from Navarrenx - Ostabat. Two days later I was relaxing with Abi in a wonderful little Chambre d´Hote on the banks of the Nive, a couple of hundred metres upstream from St Jean Pied de Port. It was a needed break and having the time to simply relax and enjoy a village, with Abi at my side, was hevenly. St Jean itself is a very pretty little town, nestled at the ´foot of the pass´to Spain. Plenty of bare peaks to be looked at, bubbling stream full of little trout (traditional food for the passing pilgrims), a few good restaurants. Thankfully the weather was spectacular too, so the two of us spent days wondering the town or simply sitting in our hotel´s little garden by the Nive, munching on brebis, local hams, and chocolate that should probably be banned it was so good.
But all good things come to an end, and after three days rest it was time for me to move on (and Abi to go back to work).
So on the 15th of October I set off from the Port d´Espagne for the 1200ish metre climb. I had heard a great deal about how difficult this was, even for experienced walkers, and to allow a good 8 hours at least. I was also a little worried about how fit I was, especially after three rest days. Well... after blasting past a couple of puffing Spaniards, a wiry Frenchman, and a chap on a mountain bike I decided that, yes, I am fit. In fact, I made it to Roncesvalles in a little over 6 hours, including half an hour stopped at the Fontaine Roland (near the border) for lunch. I was quite proud that I beat a person on a mountain bike over the Pyrenees!!
As for the walk itself, it was, simply put, stunning (this PC doesn´t like my camera so no photos for now). The climb was very steep at times, but this resulted in majestic, sweeping vistas being presented to you at every other corner. My only difficulty lay in the 40km/hour (conservative estimate... felt like 60) headwind that raged all day.
Just to make things interesting for walkers I passef through during dove hunting season, which meant apart from the howling of the wind, the bleeting of sheep, and my own steps, the other dominant sound in my memory are the volleys of gunfire that rang through the day. My introduction to this still makes me laugh... At one point the road dipped slightly, a small ridge rising above to the right. As I hummed along, content to be in the lee of the earth and without wind forcing tears from my eyes, I noticed the pretty twitter of birdlife in the few trees. "How lovely!", thought I... Boom, boom, boom, boom (encore). I nearly hit the deck because the blasts from the shotguns were obviously only metres away, just above my head. No more twittering... But also no sign of any hunters, or of their fallen prey . Deciding that exit was the best strategy I made quickly for the bend in the road ahead where I promptly saw the sign warning me of the prevailing artillery. Rounding the bend I could also see the answer to my beffudlement as to the source of the gunfire. Every 50m or so along the ridge was a little ´bunker´, behind which a hunter or two huddled. None of them were moving to find downed birds (I suspect they may have bumped their sights with the bottles of wine they drink to keep warm, throwing their shots wide...). And yes, the fields of fire from the bunkers must only have been a couple of metres above my head.
The rest of the day was spent smilling broadly at the spectacular views, and marvelling (again... this must be so borring for you all) that this is part of my work. Roncesvalles made for a grand site as the highest point was topped, the grey monastery walls standing out starkly against the autumnal forrests.
More on Spain soon.
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