Day 10: Najera to Santo Domingo

After the twenty mile trek yesterday into the red cliff town of Najera, I feeling a bit slow and ouchy today. Trying to avoid a shin splint, I took it slower and gawked at the red rock formations, the red grapevine soil, and the red hills.

Wet from last night's thunderstorms, the red clay soil colors the air.

Fourteen miles to the city of Santo Domingo. There were new people among those pilgrims who had travelled a long way together. I learned that Najera is a drop-in point for some package deal companies that pre-attange everything for a five to ten day walk. Three older Italian men passed me at a fast clip, all dressed the same, same hats, same packs, poles, jackets. They hadn't quite figured out the cadence of the hiking poles and they tripped a lot.  They were a package deal, my hiking friend from Milano explained.

White wagtail.

Town limit marker, 13th century.

Red everything.

We crossed valley and hill terrain, rolling along until second breakfast at Azorfa when I realized I hadn't had first breakfast! I was so hungry! The people in these small rural towns operate small bars that turn into breakfast cafes for pilgrims 

and many order a beer along with their egg and potatoes. 

Coming into Santo Domingo I remembered I had laundry hanging off my pack that included underwear. Hmm. I stopped to put it away and a pilgrim passed me and said "Nice undies!" I looked up and saw it was a Camino friend from way back in Zubiri when my first outbreak of blisters happened in a downpour. We laughed about our shuffle, limp, and gait. We walked into the old city together, hobbling and laughing.

For those of you following this blog day by day, thanks for reading.  I'm writing this on a small 7" tablet and haven't quite figured out how to manage font size and corrections. Sorry for inconsistent type. I plan to add more photos when I get home, and will update posts from my journal notes. At the end if the day I've been really too tired to do each day justice, and I hope you will check back over the summer for more!

Wifi access is everywhere except for the most remote rural ghost owns, and there are lot of them. I haven't come to an albergue or pension, however, that doesn't have wifi or a public square hotspot. I've had no need to even turn on my phone.

One note to those reading who have concerns for our safety or are fearful of foreigners - I have never felt safer,except in my home mountains of Pennsylvania. Crime is extremely low. There are no guns, except for those used by hunters. People here do not understand the American obsession with gun rights, and they are equally appalled at the level of violence we consider normal in the U.S.
I often wonder as I hike along, how our society could learn from the cultures who walk and host the Camino experience.

There are many American students walking this month. Some from Texas A & M and others from Ole Miss. I've had the pleasure of walking with them as they string out in small groups for each days hike. To a person, including faculty, these American hikers are grateful for the kindnesses shown by the people along The Way. One student, Luke, mentioned to me that he thought it was a good idea to offer this trip as a semester abroad experience if for no other reason, than to "get rid of our arrogance." I agree 100%.

Day 9: Logrono to Najera

Colin from London, and one of my original Camino family from St. Jean Pied du Port, was sleeping in the room above our dungeon- like bunk room. He told me later that it had been a sleepless, spooky night with footsteps up and down the room, doors slamming, and pilgrims huddled together in fear. All I can say is that my own experience of the night in the refuge was maddeningly loud. The street parties were still going on at 5am and the smell of urine seeped through our one barred window. At first light I raced to pack and made a run out of the city!

Poor St. James gets stamped in Logrono street art.  

Street drunks formed gauntlets of passage for us fleeing pilgrims. Anna and Kurt were already gone in the dark, but Sugire and I jogged through the taunts and teasing until we came to the city park and the trail out! A pick-pocket tried to jog along, offering us sunglasses to view the moon while he patted my pack for "friendly encouragement" and the chance to lift a treasure. All my possessions, however, were safe inside my pack and I jogged to lose him. Sugire was far ahead and I felt a little afraid. So I jogged faster. Finally, out of the city and alone on the dark path, I could turn and see that the sun was about to rise.

Out of the city and back to the countryside.

This was going to be a long day. I was already exhausted but knew that another 16 miles of trekking was in store. This is the hardest thing about this hike - the part where your brain argues with your body. But the birds were singing, a few pilgrims passed me with cheerful greetings, glad as I was to be out of that awful place.

Approaching the tablelands of La Rojia.  

Almost ten days into this hike across Spain and nearly 175 miles on my dusty boots, I can say that for a solo hiker, it is not easy. Although solo hikers can choose to be alone, nobody really is. A look far ahead are friends, a look behind and the groups of pilgrims walking together are crowding the trail. The constant shifting of pathway from paved roads, gravel paths, tractor lanes, and the dreaded cobble trail, cause my feet to ache. But I am used to the weight of my pack and it feels good to carry. I look forward to second breakfast and catch up to the Austrians, Danes, and Germans. Then off again across ten miles of open tablelands with wind blowing so hard I had to stoop forward and pull my neck scarf up around my nose and mouth.

My muhadin look.

Hiking hard into the headwind I tried to think about other things than how far I had yet to go to Najera. There are the constant introductions that include your name, where you are from, and why you are doing the Camino. I've stopped saying I'm from the United States, and say instead Pennsylvania. This keeps the Donald Trump comments away. Europeans are amazed that this reality TV clown is an actual contender. There are many parallels drawn between Franco, Hitler, and Mussolini. My Danish friends say that the U.S. electon cycle is a laughing stock for northern European people. We talk politics only at dinner, and quietly among ourselves. I wish I knew what to say to explain things, but I don't understand it myself except to say, that with history as a guide, a big ego and playing off people's fears is a recipe for diplomatic disaster.

Snow pack still visible on the highway peaks. 

Five miles to go to Najera and I was hiking hard into the wind with so much to think about. Black kites soared over the fields and the high peaks of the mountains framed the plateaus on either side if me. A lone hiker stayed with me about 50 meters behind, drafting me it seemed. I imagined camels and horses trotting across this long, lonely stretch of red clay soil long before the endless fields of grapevine and wheat.

Roadless crossing.   

Finally within a few miles of Najera the lady drafting me catches us. She introduced herself as Maria from Milan and complimented me on my fast pace. She noticed my Camiga patch back at second breakfast and thought it would be wise to follow me across. We finally arrived at Najera, the city built into a high cliff of red rock full of caves and the ever-present Virgin Mary statue stories. These kinds of stories are as common as the "Indian Princess and Warrior" cliff jumping to their death stories from the U.S.

After 18 miles, Najera!  

I found a beautiful hostel to stay in and was soon joined by Colin who told me all about the ghostly night in the refuge in Logrono. I found Anna and Kurt for dinner, but was happy to fall into my bunk bed for a good night's sleep as it thundered and rained outside. Click told ghost stories from his work as a restoration carpenter until we both conked out.

Day 8: Torres del Rio to Logrono

The path is teaching me to walk with intent. But it is still painful. Old blisters have healed as new ones form. I have no complaints, however, as I watch others struggle across the miles. A husband with Parkinson's is walking short ten mile sections each day as his wife drives ahead to arrange for a room and meal. A mother with her adult Aspergrers son grind out the miles as he joyfully translates every word spoken and written in Spanish for her. She limos with a bad knee, and he knows he is going too fast, so he waits for her at every hilltop with a drink of water.

Hills roll on. So do the pilgrims.

The walk to Logrono began early, before the dawn. I wandered out of the town of Torres del Rio by street light, squinting to find yellow spray-painted arrows on curbs and stone walls. I love walking up the sun rise and being alone for the first few hours. But a few have left before me- Anna and Kurt from Holland, Jacob and his brother Christian from Austria. I'll meet them at second breakfast in some roadside cafe and listen for Jacob's deep baritone voice "Vast have taken you so long!" Behind me the man with Parkinson's shuffles to a plastic chair, orders his coffee, and calls his wife.

An elder armer checks his wheat.

Honestly, I'm getting a little tired. The albergue scene has played itself out with me. Little sleep, morning commotion to pack, and grumpy hikers fussing over a single toilet, make for a quick, though groggy departure so it us nice to sit with the early second breakfast group and enjoy their smiles. The ext few hours I hike alone through the Valley of Hermits, a vast ravine where the bird life is rich and wetlands trees and shrubs cool the air. Stone huts line the hillsides where Christian Hermits lived in extreme poverty and discomfort.

One of dozens of 4x4 stone hermit huts in the Valley of Hermits.

No room to stand or lie down. 

I felt queazy. Then my stomach churned. Then I got sick along the narrow valley trail. Up came last night's pilgrim meal, the greasy bean soup the obvious culprit. A hiker scurried past me with a terrified look. Oh well, I thought, it's all out here for everyone to see - our health and our sickness.

Horseback riders wish pilgrims a "Buen Camino!" 

Feeling much better, despite a steep, breathless climb out of the Valley of Hermits, I continued along busy highways, through industrial wheat land, and over a series of rolling hills. Word traveled to pilgrims in the beautiful town of Visa that our destination for the night, the city of Logrono was having a festival. There were no beds to be found. The ups and downs o the Camino. I ate a very fast lunch and picked up my pace, hoping that I could beat the big bubble of pilgrims coming along behind me. Maybe I could find a room, a bed. A doorway?

Sugire and I claim our doorway with ice cream. 

Coming into the city the traffic was intense and it was only noon! I caught up with a Camino friend from many days ago, Sugire from Paris. She had spent her first day in the Pyrenees pushing her disabled sister across the mountains and over the Col in high winds and fog. Exhausted by the time she and several American hikers had completed the journey, she and her sister were rescued by firemen on a rainy, exposed road coming in to Rochesvalles. She and her sister received a special at the Pilgrim Mass the next day, the day I was hobbling along out of Zubiri. But here we were. Her sister, safely home in Paris, Sugire was enjoying the challenge of hiking alone but we were both discouraged to find no beds in Logrono. We sat eating ice cream in a doorway next to the Cathedral when along came a monk carrying two large bags of toilet paper. He smiled at us, dug a key from his pocket and invited us inside. "Please stay here," he said in broken English. Inside he opened a second door to the basement bunk room. We could have cried.

Street musician roams the Square. 

The priest said that we could drop our packs , claim a bunk, leave and come back after we'd had a good lunch. A few more pilgrims arrived by the time had changed clothes. Then a few ! more. We returned at one to register, bellies full, to find the refuge overflowing with pilgrims. No one was being turned away. Priests brought out stacks of thin gym mats. Rooms above, the hallways, and offices filled with over a hundred weary pilgrims. I was happy to see my friends Anna and Kurt had claimed the last two bunks. By three, the whole city was on siesta and a hundred tired pilgrims, me included , slept in their creaky bunk beds or on thin mats. By dinner time, late by American standards, at eight or nine pm, the city was booming with music, cheering at big screen soccer matches, overflowing bars, huge groups of celebrating young people, families with young children, and exhausted pilgrims trying to find cheap food.

Day 7: Villamajor de Monjardin to Torres del Rio

Sanitary napkins make great dressings for badly blistered feet, I assured George, the cop from Ireland. After a short hobble around own to try and find a beer, my Irish Camino brother and I planted ourselves in an outdoor bar. Soon, our Camino family assembled, all rested from an afternoon nap in one of two nice albergue.

Michael the Welshman holds Camino court with Kurt and George. 

The next morning I left the town of Villamajor de Monjardin with the up-before-dawn Austrians, Danes, and Germans. I've found my hiking pace is fastest with this crowd and I love hiking as the sun rises and the birds begin to sing. I knew, however, that I probably would not see George again. He planned to take a rest day or two. I left him with plenty of panty liners!

Mud and stone home.

The walk was long and warm but through such stunning topography that I forgot about coming into Los Arcos, so the sudden entrance into another Medieval town was a stunner. Religious symbolism abounds and the long history of multicultural neighborhoods is written across lintels and coats of arms.  For thousands of years Jewish, Muslim, and Christian people have lived within these city walls, sometimes at war with each other and sometimes at war with the outside world.

Muhadin stone carvers employed by Templars left their mark.

The town of Torres del Rio was the same - all of sudden, there it was. The origin shaped Templar church was right outside my window at the albergue. At one time a mosque, then a synagogue, then a church, this is an odd place full of symbolism to confound even an expert.

Door lintels in Torres del Rio.

Although it is our stop for the night, there is nothing to see or do in this almost-ghost town. A local tells me that the Spanish Civil War is still with the old folks, and that the Franco dictatorship has left an indelible mark on their hearts. I am prepared to study Medieval history, but this brings me up short. Anna and Kurt tell me about the international armed forces that rushed in to send mercenaries to help in the 1930s, Holland especially. An old women sat next to me on a bench. She sang a song over and over again, rapping her cane on the pavement. Did she lose a husband? A brother? A father? Was she made to work for one of the brutal agricultural co-ops?

Mystery and hidden history - some distant, some recent.

Day 6: Lorca to Villamajor Monjardin

I passed through the Medieval towns of Villatuerte, Estella, and Irache. Everything is so old. Like really old. Narrow streets and fortified churches. All of these towns were fought for by Moors, Basque, Spanish, and French. It's all a bit claustrophobic for me and a hurry through to get to the countryside.

Fortified church in Estella 

Blacksmith shop door, Estella.

Cloister of Irache Monastery.

This walk has reinforced my desire to travel by foot through the rural landscape. As interesting as the middle ages are historically, I much prefer the reading of the landscape much more. Miles of olive, olive, and fig orchards attest to the loving care of farmers for thousands of years. I saw olive trees that are hundreds of years old, still bearing, still growing. Vineyards with grape trunks three feet around form massive latticework across the terraced hills.

A terraced hill landscape with grape, wheat, olive, almond.

Donkeys graze inside a small holders farm fence.

The green hills of Basque Country are far behind me now as the climate becomes more like the tablelands of the Mediterranean plateaus of central Spain. By noon the sun is intense and I am getting grumpy. I don't handle hot weather very well. Neither, it seems, do my Camino mares, now far apart along miles of dusty trail. A castle on a hill points us to our destination for the at Villamajor Monjardin.

The castle at the top of the hill marks my destination below.

The Moorish Well

In view of the castle, the Camino winds through wheat fields, up and up, past an ancient well built by Moors. The town atop the rise is beautiful and all if the same pinkish orange stone. I collapse in a shady picnic area on a hot street, buy some cheese and salami from a small store, rest, then check into the local albergue. Cold shower time!

Day 5: Obanos to Lorca

The landscape has really taken on a Medieval feel, as hill and ridges roll away like solid waves of stone. Each hilltop has its fortress village and I passed through several city gates, across drawbridges, and over arched bridges. Bells of ancient churches rang the hours.

Storks raise young atop the Templar church of La Iglesias del Crucifijo.

 I took my first break in the shade of the arched gateway to Puenta la Reina. A kind Brother invited me inside the cloister of the seminary and stamped my credential. He showed me across to the door of the church and led me inside. Here hung a Y-shaped crucifix carried here by German pilgrims. The symbol of the Holy Order of the Knights of Malta was everywhere. The warrior monks, he explained, who, with the Templars, protected the pilgrims on their way to Santiago.

The crucifix carried from Germany in the 14th century.

The Malta Cross is everywhere. Pilgrims are safe here.  

The streets are so narrow that pilgrims must duck into doorways to avoid being pinned by passing delivery trucks. I was greeted by more people, given "Buen Camino!" by Christian and Muslim alike. I was craving meat. I needed fat and protein, and ducked into a butcher shop for some delicious fresh sausage that I ate all the way to Lorca.

Leaving town by the 11th century Pilgrims Bridge 

In fort towns of Maneru and Cirauqui, evidence of both Christian and Muslim influence were obvious. Blue-tiled doorways laced with the intricate carving of Moorish woodworkers from the 800s were set side-by-side with heavy wooden doors of Christian homes, hung with black crosses and symbols. Large coats of arms hung on the homes of rich merchant families of the 12th century. Everywhere the influence of Basque traders and horsemen. I was immersed and awestruck.

A fortified city gate.

Templars and Knights of Malta stood watch over pilgrims here.

Between the ancient towns were the ever present symbols of the Camino. Sculptures of St. James the Pilgrim stood watch at major intersections and the scallop shell was embedded in the sidewalks, streets, and waymarkers. You simply cannot get lost.

St.  James the Pilgrim.

Scallop shell marks the path through a suburban area.

11th century sidewalk marks the entrance to a safe haven.

The path for the Medieval pilgrim, however, was not so easy. There were thieves in every dark woods, and corrupt bridge keepers. Women riding or walking alone, like me, would dress as men and arm themselves as soldiers to intimidate the untrustworthy. There are many, many tales of families robbed, persecuted, and children kidnapped to sell into slavery. The role of the Holy Orders, the warrior monks, was an important one as guardians and hospitalliers.

Imagine the courage it took to pass through remote country like this.

There were stretches of path that were very remote and I tried to imagine a family of pilgrims bravely making their way though the forest or over rough country. On this modern pilgrimage, we happily celebrate our Camino family made up of hikers from all over the world as we meet along the trail and gather at night, safe in our albergue. In the Middle Ages the concept of pilgrim family was a mater if survival and every bit as diverse as it is today.

My albergue for the night in Lorca.

I am falling into the rhythm of the way. Rise early, start at sunrise, walk for 10 to 12 miles, find an albergue by mid afternoon. Shower, eat a small lunch of cheese and bread and sausage. Nap or read or write. Reawaken refreshed as the town comes alive for the evening.  I meet new Camino family, learn their stories, and share a late communal meal. I also reunite with Camino family from the previous week and we share our adventures. Tonight's albergue at Lorca was particularly pleasant, tucked into a narrow street of cobble stone and alive with chatter, singing pilgrims, and our host's own affection for German and Italian opera.

Day 4: Pamplona to Obanos

From the hurrying crowds of morning rush hour in Pamplona to the wind-driven summit of Alto de Pedron, my pace and spirits were good until about 1pm when I hit the physical wall. But until then, the walk had been pleasant and cheerful. Singing pilgrims, meeting up with Camino family at each rest, a beautiful day. I was most aware of the bells. They rang from every village and marked the hour and quarter hours, reminding us all the time does not wait.

Pilgrim rush hour leaving Pamplona 

With the high peaks of the Pyrenees behind me, the landscape became a sea of rolling hills and impressive ridges. The large group of walking pilgrims began to string out. Small hiking parties form. There are so many elders on this trail, I feel really young - until they outpace me, and I feel silly.

Wind towers line the summit ridge of Alto de Perdon

The trail got steeper and steeper as the Camino approached the summit of Alto de Pedron where during the Middle Ages millions of pilgrims streamed over the ridge towards Santiago. Many died in this area, and many of the small towns contain graveyards filled with the exhausted souls for whom the Alto was too much.

Alto de Pedron memorial 

Coming down off the summit was painful. My blister from the big rainstorm a few days ago was screaming with every footfall on a washout of large river cobbles. I was in tears. Then I saw a woman from Australia going so slowly and in obvious pain. I asked if she needed me to carry her pack. She said no, but that her knees and hips were killing her. I stayed with her for two painful hours, and was sorry I had thought so much about a few blisters.

Some enterprising pilgrims decided to make art from the cobbles.

Many pilgrims veered off for the first albergue they could find. I kept hobbling along alone. Hours later I shuffled into the outskirts of Obanos and stopped at the country house albergue with a kind host and a shady porch. I could barely stand. But she showed me to a private room in her home that had its own bathroom and shower! Spirits lifted!!

Elysia my host at her country house albergue 

This had been a tough day and my head was in a bad place. I realized that this hike would be about endurance and patience as well as the history and horses. But Elysia saved my day. The kindness of our hospitalier, the smiles from villagers ( and a hearty 'Buen Camino!'), and that really cold beer before a home-cooked dinner would serve as all the fuel I needed to recenter my focus.

A very painful descent for this pilgrim, and a prayer of thanks.

Waymarker 

Navarra horse, a mixed breed, all -purpose beauty.