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.