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Trying to Walk in a Relaxed Manner.More Camino Musings

I started writing this a week ago while I was trying to follow the late John Brierley‘s wise words.This piece is, in part, a thanks to the gentle and generous man who walked many Camino kilometres in Spain and shared not just directions but his humour and joyous approach to life with others. He died a few months ago just after completing another Camino.

The first Camino I walked, the Frances, many years ago and I really didn’t have a clue. I just thought I’d get on the road from St Jean Pied de Port and walk. Of course the very first day I took the “alternative” route, the Napoleon way, and got horribly lost. I had little Spanish, but of course thought I knew a lot, and wondered why the few villagers I passed kept on waving their hands at me, and why there was no one else behind or in front. Even 14 odd years ago there were heaps of peregrinos like me, all setting off to find or rediscover or sort out their lives. Even then I was half cynical and half a believer – only not sure in what.

Anyway I eventually made my way back down to the main route and started again. But I’d already done 20km or so, and had 20:25 to get to the first albergue. I made it, just, and collapsed into a bunk shivering. It turned out that the Napoleon route was not safe at that time of year because of the possibility of sudden snow storms. The mountain pass is high and just the day before a pilgrim had died on the Napoleon from exposure.

The caution about walking was in Brierley’s book, I think maybe his first guide. I met a woman who was following his guide.

I dismissed some of the contemplations then but not the two nuggets: walk in a relaxed manner and be vigilant. In those days there was no wikiloc and if you missed a flecha, the yellow arrow that marks the route, you could walk a long way off course.

And now, so long after that first Camino, I’m still struggling with the advice. I either walk along in a dream world, a writing/ photo world – looking for my story, or tear along trying to keep up with my companion. When I’m moving faster I’m also often full of emotions that are not really conducive to any contemplation, or composing.

The other day we started off early from Fasgar, a great little spot on the Olivado Camino in North West Spain. Me, my long suffering compadre and Elaine, an Irish peregrina we met a few days ago – a fast walker. Up the hill and early morning and a faint breeze. Some trees covered in red berries alongside. Then an absolutely magnificent view over the top of the summit. A once in a lifetime sight.

The site of battle in 981 with the Moors. Campo de Santiago. Santiago appeared to help the Spaniards defeat the Moors. 70,000 lost their lives .

A stroll down in the soft grass underfoot to the Ermita built to commemorate the battle that took place in this peaceful spot.

Then, after looking for a while, and I swear you could feel a sort of resolution of that long ago struggle and and the many deaths, well then it seemed like full speed ahead.

Down from the soft curve in the mountains, leaving the valley on a steep path with slippery, moving rocks underfoot, still very beautiful with rain forest type vegetation, clear running river underneath, small bridges. But here I had to be mindful . Of stones underfoot, of not tripping and turning an ankle, losing balance. All those ‘be careful be careful!’ messages that resonate in an older head! I was slow.

Meanwhile my walking companions were moving at a good pace (my nasty mind was thinking, to get to the food before the Restuarante closed at 2 pm. Ha he’s upped his pace to keep level with her/ hope he trips ). Then, inevitably – Why am I so slow? Why am I last ? Again.

Only one I have took of the descent as too busy keeping on my feet and keeping up ! ( see how far behind I am )

The last 4 kilometres were the worst, always the last few are the worst. Seemed an endless pushing through without any stops at all, down a fairly easy path, to Igüeña,

Yes. We made the food. Great meal. Great cervesa. Albergue well looked after and only us three there.

But didn’t travel the second bit in a relaxed manner. Tried.

I hazard a guess that this is how my life is anyway: a struggle to find the balance between moving in a relaxed manner and just leaping in. Also that there are others like me. There you are : Caminoing is a training for life!

And many thanks John Brierley because you have inspired, helped, challenged kindly so many of us walking Caminos. You are truly “the father of the Camino family” (Irish Times Obituary).

Underneath the Spreading Chest Nut Tree……And??

Chestnut tree forests near Noceda del Bierzo

I started writing this 2 months ago while walking the Olvidado in Spain . I was trailing behind on the path which wound through a chestnut plantation . I looked ahead : two figures in front of me consulting the wikiloc to check directions, partly obscured by a huge chestnut tree. I stood in the shade and the words of the rhyme just kept repeating in my head .

Do you remember the rhyme? My grandmother loved chanting nursery rhymes with a clear moral, my mother French songs and ditties . But it was my father who performed all the action rhymes. Ride a Cockhorse, This Little Pig Went to Market, and the other pig one where the little pig “ ran to save his bacon “ as the lightening flashed and the thunder roared.

Most of those rhymes ended with tails chopped off, being boiled alive or captured. So the Chestnut one was a favourite with the actions : chest / nut /tree and then the romance of the baby on his/ her knee. In those days sure as eggs the baby was on a her knee.

Only now walking under this chestnut on a path in Northern Spain do I think of the ramifications of the song and the possible people that could sit on that knee. Or who might have sat on mine through the years, or whose knees I could have been on !

The spreading tree of my childhood, the tree of the rhyme, provided shelter and certainty. Now of course I sense an intimation of possession and control . Also, I’m reading Orwell’s 1984 again, with the voice from the telescreen singing about selling each other : ‘ There lie they, and here lie we/Under the spreading chestnut tree’. Betrayal again. But that is now, not then. Ambiguity, and subtext did not figure in my childhood .

Far from that childhood of laughter and straightforward meanings, I walk along the narrow, shaded path under the chestnut , looking at the other chestnuts spread across the immediate landscape and wonder about narrow escapes . I can’t be specific here but there are brief flashes in my mind of an Irishman with piercing blue eyes and a beautiful voice (and a drinker), the Spaniard during Franco’s time who took me to cell meetings ( so exciting to a 22yr old) , the English guy so kind ( boring) , the rugby hero at University who took me to the ball ( and dropped me because I wore my silly heart in a sleeve and in those days was not witty enough ) … I could go on with the list but you get the idea .

But dragging my heels now and walking slowly again . He’s waiting for me, underneath a chestnut tree on the path ahead . So I did find someone under that metaphorical Chestnut tree of my childhood rhyme . Someone who stuck around . Or rather , we both stuck around.

The rhyme ends:

There she said she’d marry me

And we’re as happy as can be

Underneath the spreading chest nut tree

Shelter,longetivity, shade

As much certainty as one can hope for, The older me is aware of the dead and chopped trees here too .

But I’m walking under the sturdy one .

Who Lived Here? Walking, Seeing and Remembering.

So we’ve reached the town with the beautiful name: La Magdalena. Lots of Magdalenas and Marias and Nuestra Senoras (Churches, sanctuaries, caves) dedicated to the mother of Jesus on this Olvidado.

And this sanctuary way back up a steep hill from Almuhey is one of the most beautiful. Santuario Nuestra Senora De La Velilla overlooking the valley

I wonder about the people who walked here so long ago, who lived and worked in these villages, and also, of course, those who are passing through now. Including us. How will we be remembered? Who will remember us? Who do we remember?

Beautiful old house on Main Street La Magdalena.Closed up and empty but still holding together. A well loved house it seems

Church at top of hill. Look at the stonework on floor. Such craftsmanship

There’s a linking of the past and present, the known and the unknown on these caminos. A Re- membering, the term used by the Australian therapist, Michael White. Re -membering, the core of White’s Narrative therapy, is a special kind of recollection which gathers together the people who belong or belonged to one’s life: their stories, their influences are reorganised to strengthen a view of oneself (White describes the”thickening “of “ preferred identity”).

There’s a lot of “ones”there, a lot of self. But walking for a longish time, each day, is about self. Me Me Me. Or I wouldn’t be writing this.

But this is not entirely a remembering. It’s also an imagining and inventing. Because I often don’t know who once lived in the houses and buildings I pass. I only catch a glimpse of the present inhabitants as I walk anyway. But it’s fascinating to interpret their stories from my present identity, sometimes merging them with my own.

So life is re examined; memories emerge from the mass of stored information we carry with us in our heads. Images flash before us, some stay awhile, others are pushed aside again and covered over.But many, phoenix-like, burst momentarily , vividly, into life.

And for what purpose ? I’m not clear about that. Only for myself, me again, there’s a renewal of sorts, a celebratory tinge to life as lived, and a re purposing . Maybe its the sense of all those people not so very different to me – they made shelter and food, worked, formed friendships, loved and created. Maybe, just maybe, something of their lives lingers here on this Forgotten Path. They are remembered .

Remember them too. Now, A noisy bar in La Magdalena. Fun

Views and Vistas and Staying on My feet. Just Staying the Course.

A pause after the mountain path up to the mountain path past Bonar in Northern Spain. The alternative route to La Robla, the next small town on this Camino Olvidado.

I mean PAUSE as in stay here in Bonar another night. Yesterday was a wonderful day on a Camino with which I have sometimes struggled these past two weeks.

Today was hard too but I did it! Got to the summit of one of the mountains and down again. Upwards via a steep 2 hour climb over loose stones,gravel, a drop over a river (I didn’t look down as my balance is not that good) and narrow slippery sections of path.

Reach the top and vistas stretch out all around this gasping body: purple mountain tops mingle with their shorter more muted brothers or sisters. The white craggy rock frontages are etched deeply by weather and streaked spasmodically with a pale yellow chalky pattern. From one vantage point I can see a minuscule village huddled in the valley. Further around there are several winding paths leading away to other mountain tops.

It is autumn here but so much water and all is green, remnants of yellow flowering bushes and scraggly mulberries hanging in with splashes of colour. The tiny purple daisy flowers that have cheered me on hot days just squeezing their petals through the ground are numerous here where the earth is soft.

. …….a harder, very taxing slide/creep/stumble ascent back down to the world left behind for a while.

From exaltation

To downslide.

Was the cake worth the candle ?

I’m still considering.

Last night I thought about backtracking. Train or bus to those towns we’ve enjoyed but passed through in the blink of an eye. The peregrina life is up with the alarm, packed the night before, coffee if we’re lucky, and hit the road. Cover the kilometres as best one can while hoping for a coffee stop or just a cold water during the day and the arrival at destination. Then find your hostal ( on this route not many). Then it’s the ritual of feet up, shower, washing clothes in sink, tend to feet, a short siesta and out to find food and a drink. Depending on the time, day or town this can be simple, or require a little exploring.

But I’m not complaining, just explaining. This morning the idea of staying here another day and just exploring the town seems as attractive as continuing. But why does the idea seem strange?

Simple really. It’s just that I’ve been stuck in the Camino mould for the last 10 years or so, since I walked that first Camino, the Frances. I’ve gone on walking in Spain because I love exploring this country by walking. I love Spain, it’s people and culture and it’s language. Caminos are a wonderful window into this life.

I have clung on to the idea that the real peregrina walks each step with her pack, learning about herself and life as she goes. A serious business. I guess a little bit of the belief that suffering is good for the soul. A peregrina I met up with again today reminded me that God has a sense of humour. My Camino doesn’t have to be an endurance race and I don’t have to push myself up each mountain, There are vistas down here which I haven’t looked at, really looked at. There are sweeping vistas at ground level and smaller, less obvious views. I haven’t always looked at the light which touches “causas”/ things as I pass with my eyes directly ahead or watching my feet.

So today is about light, noticing light snd recognising that light which exists everywhere.

Light streaming through this very ordinary window of our hostsl room

Spirits lifted we unpacked, strolled out to a late coffee and replanned our Camino. Actually this town of Bonar looks different this crisp clear morning and well worth enjoying. So we walked out along the river and part of the way to the next village , without our packs. I walked along curious, and gently placing one taped up foot in front of the other.

Along the river the light sparkles on the water

Up a slight rise at the end of the path, but I’m not following the yellow ‘flechas’ today and I’m staying on my feet. We turn back to the bridge and return to Bonar

So. Bonar- Enjoy it :Bonar Disfrutalo.

Yes we will. The light is shining and the cake is worth the candle today.

Un vino mas, por favor. And tomorrow a bit off kilter

After a glorious day’s walking in the mountains of the Olvidado near Cistierna, and entering a town which seemed welcoming and navigable, the smooth Rioja just slid down my throat.

We walked from Puente Almuhey to Cistierna, about 20 km mostly over steep mountain paths. Paused at the sanctuary of Our Lady of Velilla .Watching the sun rays streaming through the clouds to touch the multicoloured mountain tops and curves, I can believe that this is a place of miracles.

Mary appeared here, the story goes, to Don Diego de Pedro in 1470. He built an ermita , a hermitage. The present monastery dates from the late 1600s. It continues to be a place of pilgrimage.

Then we hit the track again, uphill. And as we walked the views just absorbed my whole being. Miracles could happen here in this silence and early light. There were just views and views and more views as each time it seemed we’d reached a summit there was another climb and another perfect frame.

These photos just don’t do justice to the colours and shapes

We stopped for a drink of water and the remains of some cake from yesterday’s breakfast and I wished I could paint or sketch the landscape.

Then it was down. Ah, we’re on that ridge and will walk along a level path. But no. The path suddenly changed direction and we almost miss a flecha. Then the surface becomes a dicey mix of loose gravel and slippery mud, and goes down steeply so I have to watch my footing. And so it goes, up and down with unexpected twists and turns. Surely that group of houses way below is Cistierna, our endpoint today?. No, another turn, away from the expected direction. The views are diminishing now as we enter a forest which obscures the shortening mountains. Then a long, sharp descent and I catch my foot just in time. There is Cistierna below. A mix of photos now as I was too breathless to take more.

And then a FaceTime call to Matilda, my granddaughter. Happy Birthday lovely girl. Find a room, shower, head back to the street and food: a good Rioja here we are.

So the morning after is hard. Up late, can’t find my toothpaste or dry socks, stiff as a board but too late for stretches. A bit off kilter.

But, it was worth it. Just to sit and watch and feel “Hey I’m here in Spain” Tomorrow is tomorrow.

Hasta manana .

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