September 15: Some things you remember from delight, others from trauma (!)

I didn’t post yesterday. Our guest house had no WiFi.

We stayed in San Juan de Ortega, a hamlet that exists, has only ever existed, because of pilgrims. It is a dozen houses, some goats, chickens, a handful of old folk, 2 albergues, a guest house and a bar, all clustered around the historic monastery and “cathedral” (grand monastery church), dedicated to local boy, San Juan of the nettles. An acolyte of Santo Domingo de la Calzada, (he of the sacred chickens, namesake of our rest stop three nights ago), San Juan served as abbot there, although both saints are credited with the Romanesque 12th Century buildings that are the core of the village. These days, they are something between a museum and a church – a sacred space with multi-lingual labels and panels, pointing out the finest features. One fascinating item, the “Annunciation pillar”, whose capital features Mary and Elizabeth, both obviously pregnant. On one side, Elizabeth’s hand is on Mary’s bump. In such a masculine place (crucifix, knightly tomb, fortified walls), this small tableau was very poignant.

The village was bustling. All rooms were taken. We walked out this morning past pilgrims, packing up tents after a night on the verge. The bar hummed with multiple languages. Even if you are walking on, it is the first bar for ten kilometres and the last for another six. All the kitchens were doing roaring trade in the hot, flat, hilltop sun.

We met Veronica again, yesterday in the bar, and today along the road. She is very articulate, with very conservative politics. She and I engaged in two, hours’ long conversations, with mutual interest and respect. Veronica even called that out. We hugged both greeting and departing.

We promised not to compare our two Frances walks, but sometimes forewarned is indeed forearmed. We walked the 27km into Burgos today. We both remembered this as grueling; pounding along large roads, through generic, industrial buildings: hot, shadeless, painful! We since learned there is a “river walk” variant. Today, we set off determined to find it. It was unmarked, and involved us doubling back a few hundred metres, but find it, (ultimately), we did. A little longer overall, but, it shadowed the river, including though a well-maintained, shady park. It was so much more human(e) an experience.

One more comparison is also required. Yesterday, around 21km out from Belorado, I hear “What the f***! Not this again” behind me. Carey expressing the moment of recognition I too had just experienced. I will describe this as the “Hella no! Why?” hill: a deep gully, about 150m steeply down, a small bridge across the stream and a 150m climb right back up. It is less awful than it looks, with a couple of hidden plateaus on the return climb, for the gasping of breath. From kilometres of beautiful, but unremembered, country, that one spot was immediately recalled.

To paraphrase the old elephant joke: How do you walk a Camino? One footstep at a time.