The rain and wind continued through the night and by first light the clouds were wrapped around the ruined village of Foncebadon. I imagined St. Francis on his pilgrimage of 1214 coming up over the pass, reaching the highest point on the Camino. He wasn't wearing hiking boots or rain gear! I made it to the summit at Cruz Ferro just in time for a gust of rain so forceful it went up my rain jacket, through my pit zips, and out my collar! So much for rain gear!
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| Pilgrims saying Rosary at Cruz Ferro. |
I waited a long time for my turn at the cross. I had figured out how to attach the Harford County Sheriff pin to a medicine bag that my friend Jacke had given me for the journey. But the longer I waited in the cold the more useless my fingers became. Those pilgrims must have said the whole damned Rosary! I was getting so cold standing there. When they finally came down, their lightweight ponchos were ripped up. I had to have help from a French cyclist getting the pin attached to the pouch. I went up and tied the pouch to the pole, said a prayer in memory of my friend Pat Daily.
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| Jackie's medicine pouch contains Pat's lapel star pin. |
A word about the Spanish police force, mainly the Civil Guard. They are professional, very fit, and there when needed. When I hiked into Burgos looking for the district station for enstampa passaporta, I was treated with utmost courtesy. When I observed a response team to a small village church break-in, they were incredibly kind to the worried villagers. But in all these weeks hiking, these are my only encounters. But as I stood shaking cold. at the summit, the Choreographer was again at work. A Civil Guardia patrol car slowly made its way up the summit road with its blue light bar lit up in the rain. It slowed as it drove directly below Cruz Ferro, and the passenger side window went down. A smiling police officer waved up at me as I was wiping away some tears.
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| Memorials tied to Cruz Ferro. |
Now the descent. All seventeen miles downhill into the river valley that holds the Bierzo region's only city, Ponferrada. Most of the trail was dry, the rain coming in scattered storms that were hit or miss. But there were sections of slippery shale and slate glistening with rain and very slick. I was very thankful for my hiking poles! I pulled into Manjarin, a tiny three house hamlet that contains the Templar rest area. Several men, claiming to be the last of the Templars maintain this wind-battered hut in the tradition of Tomas, who began the rest stop many years ago but has been recently very sick.
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| Manjarin, the Templar rest. |
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| The Templar banner at Manjarin. |
I went inside the tarp-covered hut and was greeted by a man in Templar tunic. He stamped my pilgrim passport and I played with a very loving cat. A big cattle dog laid curled in a huge round mass of fur in the corner. The man said I carried the spirit of St. Francis because I noticed and gave attention first to the animals, despite all the distractions of the place. I received a tau cross made of wood, the sign of St. Francis and Templars. Then after a little more kitten play it was time to hoist my pack and continue down the mountain.
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| Above the trees, across the heath balds, past Roman mines. |
The rain was intermittent and as long as I kept moving I was warm. I passed through several small slate -roofed Maragato villages, each one in some state of ruin or repair. It is very clear that the business the Camino provides is what keeps all of these villages from disappearing.
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| Dragon-scaled slate tiles. |
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| Approaching the Maragato village El Acebo. |
Each village glistened in the rain as the slate roofs reflected sky and light. I could hear cow bells at every approach and even met some big goats crossing my path! The typical town architecture includes variations on the house-over-barn, with stable doors replaced as garage lift doors on modern renovations or left as historic pieces with their massive slide bolts. Maragato custom is still observed with keys left in the door locks if the owners are away - an invitation to neighbors and pilgrims to come in if you need anything. I saw several stable doors with gigantic keys hanging as gestures of hospitality. I stopped at a tiendo or village shop to take sit down break on massive log benches out front. The handsome shop keeper told me about another Maragato custom that I liked very much! "Berbers in Africa still abide," he said in broken English, "Chocolate before any meal!" He sold me a bar of thick, rich chocolate to last me a week! He also told me that because Maragato culture is quickly disappearing, the Spanish government gives shop keepers and other small business owners in these villages significant incentives to stay. "It is very hard in winter, though, without pilgrim traffic I work logging and snow removal."
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| Stunted, lichen-covered oaks. |
I finally came down below treeline, into a stunted oak forest draped in lichen and moss. It reminded me of hiking the boreal woods of Vermont and Ontario. Only no moose. Rain, wind, a peak of sun, and steep trails down, down, down towards Ponferrada. I could tell my feet were going to be a mess. I could no longer feel my toes, all gone numb. My right knee was twinging in pain. But what could I do? I kept at it! Just as I came into the city the skies opened in a torrent of rain. Thunder rolled, a flash of lightning. I was drenched despite my rain gear and now not waterproof boots. At least my gaiters protected my lower legs and kept rain from leaking down my socks. I slogged in to the old city and found the Hotel Templarios with a gaggle of drenched pilgrims in various stages of limp and stumble.
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| Gloomy village street with house-over-barn structures. |
