Writing to you with some more memories from my recent trip to Spain. If you missed it, you can find the first instalment here.
The city is silent when I wake up. In the dark, I slip out of bed and into the shower The water is hot and so high pressure it's almost bruising. I'm grateful for it. Grateful for my body and all the things it might experience on this trip. Grateful for the simple pleasure of hot water followed by a fluffy towel that I wrap myself in and stand shivering on the balcony, watching the passing trickle of commuters.
The camino is signposted by yellow arrows and scallop shells, some official and some not. While the trail itself has existed for centuries, the route as it exists today owes a debt of gratitude to Don Elías, a priest who'd studied the pilgrimage in-depth and – in the early eighties – took it upon himself to start marking the path towards Santiago, driving a Citroen van full of tins of yellow paint across Northern Spain and daubing arrows at any unmarked crossroad or other potentially misleading point on the path.
The path is so well-marked now that between Pamplona and Burgos I never once looked at a map. The only time we consulted it was that first cold but bright morning in Pamplona, rambling down city streets and past the old city walls. The first shell we found was on a traffic marker; on the next block there were scallop tiles set into the floor, leading us over a roundabout and then onto a stretch out of town, where the city gave way to fields, blue skies and beauty in an absurdly short amount of time.
We fell in with other walkers, or almost. Seeing people with scallop shells knotted to their backpacks reassured us we were on the right path. And at a certain point, the path turns away from the road and across fields towards the hills, a steep upward silhouette with spinning wind turbines too massive to comprehend even when we're still miles away.
I'd read some horror stories about the path up Alto del Perdon – The Mount of Forgiveness – and it's steep, but not as bad as I feared. At its summit is a metal sculpture and ridiculous panoramic views, along with several makeshift shrines; a signposted has been wrapped with prayer flags, memorial stones piled around its base along with smaller tribute pebbles marked with names and dates, brought to this place in the pockets of travellers from all over the world.
Going down is harder than going up, and would’ve been even more treacherous if it was wet, though we still witnessed a few tears and tumbles. By the time we make it to Uterga, everyone is ready for a rest, but that means the one albergue with the garden terrace and cafe has a queue reaching out the door. I sit in the shade for a minute, laughing when an Irish lad at the next table comes back from the bar with a tray of beers and what had been sold to him as 'summer drink'. With cute intentions of keeping himself and his pals well-hydrated, he'd ordered them one each to go with the beer. At the table they discover ‘summer drink’ is red wine, ice and lemonade.
I can't be arsed queueing so we ransack the overpriced vending machine in the garden for actual soft drinks, then continue on our way, the only ones in sight as we stomp through woods, fields and several ghost-town villages to make it to Puenta la Reina far earlier than we'd planned. The next morning we head out over the bridge the town is named for and along the old Roman road, following the yellow arrows through wheat fields, olive groves and vineyards, under a bypass then a canal propped up on huge cement struts, until we find a deserted rest area: shady picnic tables and another tree wrapped in prayer flags with trinkets, messages and tiny bells hung from its branches, but not a single soul in sight. We are on our way to Estella, a medieval town with multiple palaces, convents and churches, and a place that's already become almost mythic to me because the day before I'd overheard someone explaining she was on her second attempt at the camino; on her first she'd had to give up by Estella because she got seven gruesome blisters in six days and was in too much pain to continue.
I'm hot and moody by the time we reach the last stretch from Villatuerta, grateful for the shade of the forest on the high path above the river and the dizzy chill of the supermarket once we make it into town. Our B&B for the night is up a hill but the owner has kindly offered to collect us; after only two days of walking, being in a car again feels ludicrously fast and disorientating. But the place is perfect: a quiet, hidden-away sanctuary with a lush garden where we eat our supermarket picnic. The owner tells me we can wash our clothes in the garage and hang them in the sun; he offers to bring them in when it gets dark. I fumble for my Spanish to ask what time sunset will be: the closest I can get is “a que hora se va a dormir el sol?” What time does the sun go to sleep? He is all solemn twinkles when he understands and answers: nine. The sun goes to bed about nine.
Yes please! I love it.
I'd love to read more memoir pieces from you, Jane. This is so evocative, detailed, emotive and full of 'you'.
I also think it's a lovely gift for your future self to come back to.