Day 28: Herrerias to Fonfria

Why, why, why? I was so looking forward to climbing the steep hills today just for the views. My memory of hiking across the Pyrenees in beautiful sunshine (though windy) has been with me since the beginning of my Camino, matched I was hoping, by a gorgeous crossing into the Galician Highlands. But no. It kept on raining. Why...

There's a view here somewhere.

The path was muddy and the rain came in waves. Between the showers were the clouds that hugged the hills and the fog that enshrouded the path on every side. I could hear cowbells and the whistles and chants of the shepherds but other than the green and red rain covers on the backpacks ahead of me, I saw nothing else. The trail twisted and climbed through old oak forest, past some mighty big chestnuts, and along horse paths to La Faba at the top. A group of French hikers stopped in the middle of the trail to drop their packs. Whyyyy?

Small encouragements helped.

Once around the roadblock, I reflected on my impatience. I was tired of rain. My feet ached. I was cold when I wasn't moving. Yet this was country I so wanted to see. I have dreamed of the Celtic landscapes of Galicia, Ireland, Wales, and Scotland.  Somehow, whether by ancestry or just love of green hills and mountains, I am part of this land and I so wanted to see it. Every now and then a vista would open with a brief splash of sunlight, then quickly close again to the fog.

Brief views.

The smell of cow and horse manure was thick in the damp air. A farmer came singing down the trail with a horse beside him. He smiled. This was his farm lane in addition to being the Camino. Farmers have been sharing the path with us all along. Tractors, herds of goats, rivers of sheep, and farm trucks have been constant reminders that the Camino is a living road, not some relic of the past.

Coveralls and a jacket and muck boots .

The mud got deeper. I was slowing way down. It was a sticky red mud that pulled at my heels as I lifted my boots. It held to my hiking poles. Another farmer passed with his cattle dogs. I could hear cowbells, church bells, and - wait - bagpipes? The mud turned to cobble road and rounded a high stone wall to the old church of Santa Maria la Real, where, legend has it the Holy Grail was hidden. The Galacian bagpipes got louder as I emerged on to a street in the fog. O Cebriero! A pub, an artisan's shop (the source of the music), and a large thatched palloza surrounded me, with the old church clanging it's bells behind me. I stood there and cried. I felt silly but an older pilgrim came up and hugged me. "Hits ho-kay! I did cry too! Thees mud! Thees rain! Then voila! Thees Cebriero!"

St. James looks Celtic in O Cebriero!

A thatched palloza, house and barn. 

The pub where I got warm!

Iglesia Santa Maria Real.

My new friend, Horatio, a pilgrim from Brussels, invited me into a nice warm pub. Celtic music drifted from some hidden speakers. I tucked into a big piece of empanada. I started to feel my hands again. Horatio, an amateur comedian who frequents the comedy clubs in his home city, told me jokes to the next town and on to the Windswept Pilgrim monument at Alto San Roque. He lingered to take pictures for another pilgrim and I did like the knights in Holy Grail and ran away!

A big monument, the Windswept Pilgrim marks the crossing into Galicia.

I half-jogged down the trail hoping the comedian from Brussels would find another victim - um - audience. The clouds looked like they were lifting and one after another small cattle villages sounded off with mooing, barking, whistling, and farmers shouts. I liked where I was. I started to look for an albergue here in the Highlands where I could fall asleep to the sounds of cattle in the fields. Lo! I found one! Run by local farmers and in the shape of the communal palloza! Eureka!

Home for the night!

I checked in as a few hikers were leaving. "Smells like cows!" said one disgusted American. Another hiker turned her nose up at the place. I, however, smiled as wide as I could as I approached the desk where a young man in coveralls (a farmer) smiled back. "You like cows?" "Yes!" "Then you are my guest! Welcome to our family albergue." I was shown the neat as a pin bunk room, showers, laundry, and communal  dining area. The rear of the building was glassed in to provide pilgrims with a panoramic view of the hill and valley where prized dairy cattle were grazing. Home!

Front row seat to bringing the herd in.

A hunting hound! 

When all is done for the day, everyone gathers to eat!

At seven, after the herds had been led home to the barn, the pilgrim laundry had been done, all were showered and changed from their hiking or working clothes into clean clothes, the whole village of 10 farmers and 24 pilgrims ( we more than double the village population each night) gathered in the round barn , beautifully reconstructed as a dining hall. The wives appeared with their tan faces and huge smiles carrying pots of cabbage and chard soup with white beans. Then came the FRESH MILK for those like me who don't drink wine. Then beef, peas and carrots, fresh baked bread, and for dessert - almond cake! My first Torte de Santiago of the trip. Mmmmmmm!

Thoughts for the day:

I just wanted to be somewhere that felt like home. Not being able to see the Highlands upon entering Galacian made me a little sad, but I felt right at home as soon as I had found the cattle village of Fonfria. I was reminded of my Amish neighbors and their prize Swiss Browns, the homey feel of hill and valley, the sounds and smells of a working farm community. As we are all pilgrims, traveling through this journey we call life, there are those places that center us, people who are family or who are familiar. Fonfria was that place for me and though I may never pass through this place again, for at least a night, I felt I had come home to a place I knew like my own. Cows, hounds, and smiling, generous farmers.

Galacian high country at last!

Day 27: Villafranca Bierzo to Herrerias

My feet felt much better after a day of rest, so I decided to taxi ahead 16 kilometers and start my hike from Villafranca Bierzo. It rained. All day. It rained. The hike was along roads almost the whole way to my target town of Herrerias, but with wild rivers running on the opposite side of the road it was pleasant enough.

Greta was my hiking partner for part of the day. She was fast!

There were long sections of trail where I chose to hike alone. The towns were lined up one after the other along the road reminding me of very small Port Deposit towns from home. Logging, iron and metal working, agricultural fields and pastures, and plenty of pilgrim services were found in each village. There was a lady behind me who singing off key to her tunes. I kept trying to lose her, but everytime I ducked into a cafe or park thinking she would pass me, she would slow down. Rule Eight: Don't Sing Out Loud for Twelve Miles!

A tiny church founded by St. Francis.

Lots of road walk-in through tiny towns. 

Tempting. 

At a Casa Rural in Herrerias.

The rain kept coming and I kept walking. The tiny iron forge town of Herrerias was at the end of the road and I had pre-booked a room at a casa rural. I wasn't sure how many beds the albergues might have in this small place, and besides, I craved the quiet of my own space, a long interrupted nap, and a private bathroom. For just a few euro more I decided it was what needed to rest up for the big climb the next day to Cebriero!

Day 26: Forced Rest Day with Donuts and Monty Python

After yesterday's rain slog on the long rocky descent, I took my shredded feet to a handsome doctor who smiled sweetly as he pulled layers of skin from ..... well, I'll stop there because some of you are eating. He then applied the same stuff that Compede is made of, except cut it to custome-fit my situation. A stiff wrap of tape and orders to rest for the day kept me close to the Hotel Des Templarios, but not off my feet. Two also-limping rest day companions and I hobbled to the Castille de la Templar for a visit! We hobbled, wobbled, and shuffled up the drawbridge.

My first castle visit!

Jacob, from Germany, who I've been trailing pretty much the whole way, had pulled a groin muscle. He doesn't speak English, but he made me laugh out loud with his German version of Monty Python's best lines from Holy Grail. I could make out perfectly "You shall not pass!" and the bit about needing a shrubbery. As I admired the Templar knights in the Northwest Tower, he slapped me on the back with "Nee! Nee!"

These guys were just standing around.

The rain was coming down again and pilgrims on rest day or on their way through, began to huddle under everything eave or indoors at the Templar Library, which is where I was enjoying illuminated manuscripts and world maps from the Middle Ages. Michele from Scotland who I hiked with many days ago, came by and alerted me to a donut shop. "Rule Number Five: Never walk past a donut or pastry shop unless it is closed." We've been working on a Camino Rule Book since we met back in Pamplona. Rule Number One states that a pilgrim must never complain, because someone else has it worse. Rule Number Two: Do not look lovingly and longingly at a taxi or bus.

Exhibition from the Templar Library - oy, would I love to work in the archives here!

Another wounded friend wandered up. He'd twisted his ankle on the decent yesterday, but he's an Olympic biathalete so carried his injury well. Since the Orlando killings, he's been one of many European hikers who have been explaining how guns are regulated in countries where guns are part of the culture. Here in the castle, he was schooling me in medieval weaponry. "That is for hurling giant flaming balls of rock at castle walls. This is for bashing in the heads of enemies scaling ladders. This is for pouring boiling oil on approaching invaders." God, we are a violent lot!

Tau Cross above the main gate.

So, the Templars were one of many Holy Orders given permission by Church leaders to organize, recruit, and carry out missions to fight the Moors, Crusade, protect pilgrims, protect and defend church properties. There are still a few of the Holy Orders around, most famous being the Holy Order of Santiago whose mission it is to protect the city and cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, where the remains of St. James and his companions are buried. The Templars were infamous, however, and in their time there was no other order of fighting monks and lay fighters quite like them. They enjoyed immense popularity and stood firm on the teachings of Christ, except the bit about not killing people. Over time the Templars became so powerful and so influential that they threatened the authority of the Vatican. Politics being much the same then as now, there was a controversial disbanding by Rome of these dedicated knights. Many people swear that the order continues on in secret, against Church demands to dissolve. There is a lot of legend wrapped up in all of this.

A study for Guernica by Picasso blew me away.

Everybody moved through the castle, along its high defensive walks, climbing towers, and admiring the exhibitions at their own pace. The rain continued to fall so I found the arts and letters archives and settled in. Soon I came across a study by Picasso of the bombing of Guernica. I was transfixed, recalling a story told to me by a fellow pilgrim many weeks ago about losing a great uncle and other family in this unspeakable crime. I couldn't pull myself away.

Ponferrada from the ramparts.

I think I would like to make another Rule, I thought, and found Michele looking at dragons in a Natural History book of 1225. " What Rule are we up to?" "Seven or eight, I think." " I propose a Rule that states that pilgrims should take up the cause of non-violence as an after-Camino commitment." "That's an excellent Rule!" We left the castle in another burst of rain. Fortunately for us the donut shop was directly across from the main gate and we hobbled in that direction.

Do Not Break The Rule!

Day 25: Foncebadon to Ponferrada

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!

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.

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.

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.

Manjarin, the Templar rest.

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.

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.

Dragon-scaled slate tiles.

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."

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.

Gloomy village street with house-over-barn structures.  

Day 24: Astorga to Foncebadon

I had a hard time sleeping. Dawn came fast. I packed up, my morning routine: bandage feet, stuff three sacks into backpack, brush teeth, put on boots, strap on front waist pack, hoist the big pack, grab hiking poles, go! I stopped by a small chapel on my way out of Astorga to renew my head and heart. Then the pilgrim rush hour caught up with me! Thee are way more people on the trail now as Astorga is a favorite starting point for Spanish hikers.

Lots of new boots on the trail this morning - wow!

The ground is hilly again and this made me happy! I powered up inclines and jogged down the dips. I focused on my footing and the beauty around me, trying to put out of my mind yesterday's conversations.

Second breakfast stops were getting crowded!

The Cowboy Bar!

To avoid the crowds I picked the most bizarre place to have my morning banana and coke. What better hole-in-the-wall than the Cowboy Bar, complete with a banjo-playing bar host! No one else was in there and I enjoyed a break from the rush of fresh hikers. It was a clean, funky, funny place, where the strumming host did in fact know a Willie Nelson song. I hiked the next few miles humming "A Horse Named Music" and trying to stay between groups of people.

Mel and Steven, hiking friends for the day.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a day-glo shirt just like mine coming up alongside. I complimented the hiker on his shirt and we immediately started laughing and talking. Mel and Steven from California were the first two Yanks I'd seen in a few days. We hiked together all the way to Foncebadon, and their company and conversation was what I needed. The Choreographer at work again.

A Scottish pilgrim works on a tune she's been composing.

Interesting and beautiful things kept popping up. A young guitarist from Scotland resting by the trail to work on a Camino tune. A stunning view. A Royal falconer!

My pilgrim passport is stamped and signed by a falconer.

Steven gets to hold the royal hunting hawk.

After a fifteen mile slow climb - into the Cantabrian Mountains!

We came into the Cantabrian Mountains at a good pace, among some of the first to arrive at this tiny Maragato village with a population of 14. The Maragato are cattlemen and loggers and the Cantabrian Range has been their home since Roman times. They were used as gold mine workers for centuries but when the Reconquesta happened, this North African Berber region converted to Christianity so that they could stay. Since 800, the Cantabrian Berbers have been grazing cattle, working slate quarries, logging the mountains, and helping pilgrims across the tricky pass.

The familiar and cow bells greeted us in Foncebadon.

Cantabrian cattle dogs can be fierce protectors - do not pet!

The cattle dog of the mountains is a beast, and not to be treated as a pet. With origins also in North Africa, this big dog has one job - to defend and protect the herds from predators and thieves. At my albergue we were warned not to pet them! They are huge! I spotted several sleeping in the street, next to a pilgrim in her chair ( she was afraid to reach down for her pack), and roaming the ruins of the village. My hospitalliers assured me that they were now used to pilgrims walking around, but that not long ago Foncebadon had the reputation of "wild aggressive dogs" and were written about in several Camino books. Paolo Coelho and Shirley Maclane each had run-in with cattle dogs of this village before the resurgence of pilgrims began in the 1990s.

A huge cattle dog!

The weather was changing in Foncebadon. Clouds raced over the pass and wind swept the single street with rain. My albergue had started the pellet stove in the main house, while our host visited the bunk rooms to turn on the heat. We were told to prepare for storms, rain, cold, and wind for the next day. After communal dinner I crawled into my warm sleeping bag and listened to thunder, driving rain, and wind beating on the slate roof.

Day 23: Mazarife to Astorga

As I write this post I am sheltered in a top-of-the-mountain albergue in Foncebadon a day after the day I write about. M Hart is still heavy, but yesterday's walk though beautiful was difficult. Had it not been for m hiking partner of two days, Colin, who speedily kept us from standing, sitting, or visiting too long in one place. So, the walk from Mazarife to Leon was long, stunningly beautiful, and took us from the Meseta to the foothills of the mountains! Mountains!!

The farmers wives of Mazarife.

The town of Mazarife was so friendly and inviting, the pilgrim gang at our hostel/albergue had a hard time leaving! They insisted on serving us breakfast, so Texas A&M students, faculty, Danes, Austrians, Brits, and me enjoyed a lovely send-off.  But the TV was on. There we all learned the news of Orlando. Another. Mass. Shooting. My heart broke tens ways. The students and faculty sat silently in prayer. The Austrians patted me on the back. My friend Colin just sat there with a look of shock on his face. "Why does this keep happening?!" he said. That was the first of twenty conversations through the day that revolved around the shootings, American gun culture, and our lack of political will to make changes.

The jousting fields of Hospital de Orbigo 

At the Medieval jousting bridge.

Colin and I made good hiking partners. Out pace is similar and we chatted about our country's differences and how life with national health care works. We stopped for second breakfast and were immediately joined by our Camino family from Mazarife and others. I've gotten to know so many people from all over the world and look forward to reuniting along the path from day to day, sometimes stop by stop. But as soon as we sat, the questions came from all sides. People wanted to hike with me to keep talking. I learned so much about other countries and their gun policies. Everything, except what passes for policy in the U.S., made so much sense.

The Meseta ends!

I couldn't help thinking about everyone at home. How they were dealing with the recent violence. I could hear people talking but I was somewhere else in my heart. All my friends at home who were members of the LGBT community, law enforcement, gun violence survivors. I walked faster and faster. By the time the first hill came into view I felt I had outrun the conversations. Colin said "Hills!!!" and a cheer went up from pilgrims fore and aft. Hills! Goodbye, Meseta!!

After some hill climbing, Astorga!

We stopped for lunch. The same crowd gathered. I was schooled in how guns are managed in Austria, based on lessons of the past (Nazi Germany). Colin jumped up and said let's go! The hills were ours! It was good to churn out the miles up and over the foothills, the snow-topped mountains getting ever closer. We topped the last hill, breathless and out of water. Five kilometers to go.

Fresh water!

The Bishop's Palace, Astorga 

Some urban walking and traffic wore we down, but we'd made great time! Coming in to the city Colin's hotel came quickly and off he went for a real bath in a real bathtub. I walked through the city to my room in a hostel on the other side. I stopped to admire the Bishop's Palace designed by Gaudie, a great architect I studied many years ago. He was a hundred years ahead of his time. When I went to walk again, my feet were screaming NO MORE ! I dragged myself to the hostel , checked in, collapsed, woke up in time for a shower and dinner call. More questions from the desk receptionist "What is happening to your country?" Something in me snapped. I waved her off, apologized for my tears, and went into my room for a cry that lasted until midnight.

May I be an instrument of your peace,
Where there is violence, let me bring healing.
Where there is hatred, let me bring love.