Day 12: Belorado to Villafranca Monte de Oca

I walked through cave country imagining tens of thousands of years of human occupation, scanning the cliffs for openings that would make a good home, a church, a retreat, a trap. I was not disappointed! I only did seven miles today, partly to spend those precious morning hours birding along river banks and woods, and partly to just take in this great landscape of rock, field, and hill.

Cave country! 

Most pilgrims respect another's preference for solitude, but today I met the one, a fellow American, who didn't quite get the idea that the Camino is a deeply personal experience. Sure, early Catholics went in their search for relics and collected indulgences, and modern pilgrims can check boxes off as they encounter religious sites of significance (travel companies will give the check-off list). But for most pilgrims I met, the experience of the Camino is to enjoy this rugged country with its reds, and browns, and greens - it's unbelievabley kind people who greet you with their handsome smiles. But this particular pilgrim from America wasn't buying it. "Nobody speaks American here." And so began my one hour of penance...

Rock shelters and a Hermitage.  

She was my age, accompanying her 25 year-old daughter to "protect her from Mexicans." I thought I was hearing things. Her daughter, plugged into her iPod was oblivious to the conversation. She didn't think it wise that a young girl travel alone in a foreign country. Never mind the hundreds of women who do the Camino alone each year. She talked about being concerned because a woman from Arizona was killed here last year. "Yes, on average 17 people die on the Camino each year, " I said helpfully. " My god what a violent place!" she said.

I check another stork nest for my tally - up to 32.

I explained that last year's murder was an anomaly, that this kind of crime was really quite rare. Most people are hit by trucks and cars crossing busy roads or have heart attacks or strokes due to the excursion. "Well," she said, " I didn't know that. No one tells you anything. They can't speak American. " I tried looking for birds, walking painfully slowly, hoping she would want to catch up with her daughter. But....no.

Cliff-built church.

"This place is pretty empty, don't you think? Wouldn't it be a good idea to deport all those illegals here where they understand the language? It's a Mexican country, right?" I wanted to run and hide. Was she serious? Meanwhile the beautiful cliffs and ornate cave churches passed by, unnoticed by this woman, even as I tried to point them out. I offered her my binoculars. She looked up through her head net and squinted into the sun. I suggested she enjoy the landscape. " Human evolution is an incredible story," I said, maybe too enthusiastically. "Oh no! That's what Common Core wants to teach our kids!" I was done. I started limping. Totally faking it.

Gothic churches mark every town.

I had to ask. "Do you have a reason for doing the Camino, besides protecting your daughter from Mexicans?" She gave it some thought. A huge, massive gothic church came into view and she pointed at it. "Jesus!" I wasn't sure if that was her answer. By now my fake limp had become worthy of a Hollywood movie stunt. I hobbled to the church where there was a bench. I collapsed on to it and said "Oh, this tendonitis!" She looked at me, then ahead to her oblivious plugged-in daughter now a good half mile ahead. "Jesus and Donald Trump will make America great again." She left me fake-groaning on the bench and fast walked to catch up. I ducked inside the church and asked God for forgiveness . Then I went back to birding, blissfully alone all the way to Villafranca Monte Oca.

So here are my thoughts for today:

All of the Americans I've met so far on this hike have been intelligent, aware of Spain's complicated history, and very excited to meet and be with people from all over the world. When we visit another country, even if we can't speak the language, we learn something valuable about each other's cultures, values, and hopes for the future. The lady I met today was, like the murder of a pilgrim last year, an anomaly. She carried all of her fears and biases heavily on her frame like an extra 60 pound pack. This weight is unnecessary and most painful. I prayed that she and her daughter might shed some of their ignorance and open their eyes and ears to this incredible experience.

The Camino pilgrim experience is meant to be highly personal -some like to say spiritual, others say religious. The top three questions when meeting someone new ( this can mean a dozen times a day) are:

What is your name?
Where are you from?
Why are you doing the Camino?

I haven't heard anyone say they are doing it to gain access to heaven, or to see relics of saints, or to do penance - though there is one young man walking with a social worker from Norway who was given the Camino as his alternate prison term. What I have heard a lot of is to find themselves again, as if they've become lost. I can relate.

The Camino is not easy. It is not a fixed trek from point A to point B everyday. You have to make decisions and prepare. Sometimes the way is brutally long. Sometimes you run out of water. The next town might be deserted when you thought you might find a place to eat or sleep. There are hard days of hiking steep ups and downs, long boring days of dust and sun, or mud and rain. There is no tour guide to take you to your hotel and seat you at the restaurant. You don't understand the menu and you find your stomach rebels at certain foods.

Spain is a country that can barely contain itself. There are the fiercely independent autonomous regions. There are four official languages. There are as many ways to say Hello, Good Day, as there are innumerable dialects and you will always pick the wrong one. But here's what the Camino teaches you, stumbling, shuffling, aching pilgrim: the Spanish people love you for trying, and happily answer with a smile as big as the sky "Buen Camino!" They invite you into their homes (casa rural) and offer their kitchens to cook a dinner. They don't care if you are German, Italian, Brazilian, Canadian, Danish, Irish, Scottish, or Hungarian. They really don't give a rat's behind if you think your country is the greatest or the most powerful. They want you to rest from your hard day, come sit and read, relax. Stay today and if you like, tomorrow. But don't wear out your welcome. Keep going.

The Camino is not about Santiago de Compostela at the end. It's a powerful stop along the way, yes. But it's about the continuation of this journey beyond the Cathedral and the Pilgrims Mass and the mighty, smoke- belching incense burner that flies high over your head. This is how God wants us to be - in and of the world, to love it now, here, the hard parts especially. The Camino is a metaphor for our journey here on Earth. A journey from hiding in caves from packs of wolves and running through gangs of thieves-  to realizing, as I hope lady in her head net does, that we are all in this together.   What better way to walk the path of life than in kindness and humility for all we are given every day.

Day. 11: Santo Domingo to Belorado

Santo Domingo offered this pilgrim a wonderful experience of a kind, unhurried city. A shout from a Brit friend on a balcony three stories up alerted me to the Corregidor Hotel, a famous backpackers hotel right on the narrow street to the church. I couldn't resist the idea of my own bathroom, fresh towels, and private room! For 30 euro!

Crossing Rio Oja out of Santo Domingo.   

After a luxurious bath in a tub where I actually could stretch completely out inside, I went out for homemade pasta and a beer. Outdoor cafes are everywhere and I enjoyed the time watching elders stroll arm-in-arm, parents walking their children home from school, and fellow pilgrims laughing over stories of the day.

Restored to life in Santo Domingo!  

You can look up the legend of the chickens of Santo Domingo yourself, but the tradition of regenerative kindness is real in this city. It is true for all of the Camino for me. The power of a kind word, the offer to carry a heavy pack up three flights of stairs, a free Coca-Cola passed across tables at a cafe to a tired pilgrim - this is my experience on the Camino. Boundless kindness and hospitality. There is no fear of the stranger. There are, quite simply, no strangers. All are family.

Endless wheat.    

The next morning I hiked across the Rio Oja back into the tablelands of wheat and bright fields of snow pea. I passed through the last of La Rojia into the next autonomous region of Castillo Y Leon. Like the Basque Country there is a new language to learn (Spain has four official languages!) I had to consult my Google Translation app to learn Catalan for Good Morning ( Bon Dia!) and Thank You (Gracies).

Welcome to Castille y Leon!

The terraced hills show more exposed rock and I notice hints of caves and canyons. This is getting exciting now. I'm coming into country that I've read a lot about - where our own ancient human origins are even now being discovered. The tablelands and their endless fields of wheat begin to show their roots.

Catalan color and mud and stone architecture.  

I caught up with some of my original Camino family from SJPP!  Bob, Marie, and Claire from Vermont made for excellent hiking partners all the way to our night's rest in the cliff-town of Belorado. We met a Camino dog who stole our hearts with his clever game of catch.

Camino dog!   

Belorado is a stunning town. It dates to Roman times, BC, yet it is vibrant, magical, happy, and full of fun. You can go to YouTube to find some of the traditional dances held here. The church and Hermitage are built into the cliffs, and caves - some used by early hominids tens of thousands of years ago - are easily hiked up to.

Storks nest on the bell tower of the cliff-built church.  

Hermitage from 11th century. 

Cave country! 

Medieval castle ruins - Moors and Christians battled here. 

Gilded retablo of the church. 

Belorado plaza with grafted sycamore arbor.

Now I'm coming into country I really want to slow down for. The area has been declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site for its spectacular paleolithic and paleontology digs. I'll take the next few days a little slower, reading the landscape more closely as I approach Burgos. I love geology, archeology, and paleontology, and I'm a great reader of human evolutionary science. Between the great birding and ancient landscape, I plan to take it all in before my rest day in the city and a visit to the Museum of Human Evolution in a few days!

My thoughts for the day:
Many pilgrims report that after the pain of the first hundred miles, they begin to talk to things like animals, trees, rocks, and clouds. I always talk to these things when I hike. It's nice to know I'm not alone! I said Buenos Dias to a sheep today. She had a bell around her neck and her shepherd with his very big dog waited politely at the crest of a hill for our conversation to end. She looked into my eyes and seemed to say "How nice of you to stop, pilgrim!" She gave her bell a shake. The shepherd waved to me, I waved back, and the sheep ambled back to her flock.

I know of a pilgrim far ahead of me, maybe finished by now, who has been talking to trees.  "I can hear their conversation in the wind, " he wrote on his FB page.  Only his non-hiking friends left teasing comments, but his Camino friends responded with agreement.

"Wait for me," said St. Francis on his pilgrimage, " I must go preach to my sisters, the birds." For me, it is the birds each morning who sing up the sun. "I've never heard birds like this before, " said a hiking friend today.

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!