September 30: Iron Cross

I should not be trying to write this post. We came into Molinaseca (our rest stop) 6 hours ago, since when we have showered, pounded out our clothes, headed back into town for refreshment and enjoyed two beers and half a bottle of wine, each, (the latter as part of a tasty pilgrim meal, which we enjoyed at a riverside bar, beside the picturesque Medieval bridge that marks the entrance into the village. But, despite my decided buzz, I do want to share my thoughts.

Today was Iron Cross day. The Iron Cross is a sacred place for pilgrims; the “real” pilgrims, who walk the hard yards before Sarria. Perched at the highest part of the trail, it is piled up with offerings from walkers. When we were here last year, it was cold, grey and foggy. The Cross loomed up, unexpectedly, out of the mist. It was a somber, weighted place. We watched other pilgrims weep and embrace as they offered their burdens or honoured their friends at the summit of the walk.

This year, in bright sunshine, it was a joyful place of selfies and had little solemnity. But, we were prepared with our tokens, thoughtfully prepared and carried almost 400km. We both placed them on the heap and, despite the sunshine and laughter, did truly feel a sense of commitment and release. As I said to Carey, a church can be somber, or gossipy, or joyful, or simply a place to be. The Iron Cross is the same.

The last time we walked this stage, it was heavy fog, damp, cold and treacherous. This time, we saw the views, which were spectacular, the final blooms of heather, peeking pink among the russet carpet of faded flowers; the blue, blue sky; the harlequin mountains, mottled with rusty ferns, fading gorse and deep, rocky ravines, punctuated with aspen and popular just turning yellow and the occasional orange-berried rowan, among glossy green fir plantations.

The going was firm, but not easy. In a 26km day, there were maybe 10kms of steep, rocky decent, where any misplaced footfall could have been walk-ending injury. The paths were chiming, sliding shale; dusty, single-file game trails, striped with shadows, crowded with brush – briars, heathers, gorse; steep, switchback descents over sharp stone outcrops. Much of our tiredness today is mental – from 6 hours of attention, correction and tension. But, we repeatedly turned to each other and agreed that we were blessed with the dry footing and bright, even brilliant, light, illuminating both the trail and the vast mountain landscape which we just didn’t have the chance to see last time, because of the weather. There was certainly an enhanced awareness of the risks. The precipitous drop offs on the side of the trail were much less scary when you couldn’t see more than 5m of the drop. I was very aware of the risk of simply disappearing of the trail today. Fortunately, we made it with no more than a few bruises and tweaked ankles