September 8: The Kingdom of Navarre

The last 2 days (Day 4 & 5) were all about the sky. We are walking through the cropped fields, setting vineyards, ripening olive orchards of Navarre. It is a vast landscape of rolling hills (high enough for wind turbines on their crests and not without their scrambles). We were blessed with “patchy” weather: rain clouds and fluffy ones; drizzle and flat sunshine. It’s often been overcast, making the walking much more comfortable than the temperature alone would suggest (31 degrees yesterday). And, patchy weather creates skyscrapers: all the clouds from pigeon grey to whispy white, glowing sheepy ones, painterly pallet-knife slashes; all the blues from luminous, inorganic lapis lazuli to the chalky-blue of the small butterflies. The cropped fields are tawny, golden, amber, depending on the stubble remaining. The trail is largely white in these stages. Green-black needles of cypress punctuate the ridges. Still-green oaks and beech, silver aspen mark the rivers looking across from above. It is constantly changing, timeless country. But, not immune from politics. Much of the graffiti today was variants of “Oppressors go home”, “Basques should decide”, referring to their longed-for independence referendum. The number of Palestinian flags hanging from windows in the picturesque streets is notable. There is clearly fellow feeling.

Carey, my mother and I marched for Catalonian independence in Barcelona in 2020. We were there during the protests following the suppression of their referendum. My mother, then over 80, walked, draped in the Catalonian flag, like a cape. She wanted to do her bit for “fairness”. Spain, like Britain, has a history of absorption that does not map to a history of common identity. The issues of tribe, so assertive in global politics right now, are anything but new.

The banks along the trail have been a smorgasbord of autumnal snacks: blackberries, sloes, elderberries, and (if you are a bird) hawthorn, briony. Figs and walnuts are not yet ripe, but plumping up and, of course, the grapes are ripening on the vines (not that we would take produce without permission). After a dry summer, the blackberries are small and seedy, full of flavour, with little juice. Carey reminded me of one of our early walks together in England, where (he says), I kept pointing at the hedgerow plants and saying “we make alcohol out of that… and that… and that…” It made an evident impression about English rural culture (elderberry wine, sloe gin, anyone?).

The flowers are mostly over, with the exception of powder blue chickory, which is still thriving fetchingly along dusty paths. Even the thyme has been baked clean of its scent. It is time for spiky things: so many different kinds of thistles and teasels. They, literally, burst with seeds and beloved of buntings and finches. I saw my first goldfinches today. You will all know, from last year’s blog, that the goldfinch is a Renaissance symbol of Christ’s passion, resurrection. It is a protector of Christian souls. I love to see them on Camino.