6/3/15: Fourth Day walking: Arre to
Cizur Menor
I had a good night's rest in Arre, on the outskirts of Pamplona so this began as the easiest
walk so far. No hills or valleys, though I did manage to get off the
recommended route. I ended up walking along a busy road instead of the tranquil
river my guidebook spoke of. It is so easy
to lose your way. Especially in the cities. The cars rushing past. The crowds
of pedestrians. The strange looks you get with your backpack and wrinkled
clothes. You feel self-conscious. You try to watch for the Camino signs. You see some
of them, but can’t always tell if they are marking the “recommended” path, or
just one of the paths. And after
going a kilometer or so the wrong way it is really, really, hard to go back. Much
like life, doncha' think? When we make a mistake we just keep bulling our way through and hope for the
best.
And then sometimes through pure grace
the
wrong
way does turn out to be a
right
way. As I walked through the
suburbs of Pamplona looking for a telephone store I bumped into Anne and Philomena from “my
first family” in
St Jean Pied du Port.
It
was like meeting up with long lost relatives. We tried to catch up with each
other as a torrent of pedestrians flowed by on either side. We compared
blister-stories, and talked about others we had met. They said they had seen
Max, and that he was hurrying on ahead so that he would make it to
Santiago
in time to see his wife, who
was flying over from Brazil to welcome him. I told them I needed a phone to
call Georgia, and so we hugged and parted again. But instead of saying
“goodbye,” we said
Hasta luego,
“until
we meet again.” That became our preferred “farewell.” I found a phone store,
bought a phone for 25 euros and put 25 euros worth of minutes on it, then sent
a text message to Max, who would never travel
anywhere
in the world without his smart phone! He told me that he
was on his way into
Villaturerte,
which
was at least a day ahead of me, and told me I needed to stop and see the campus
of the University of
Navarre
, before leaving
Pamplona
.
He was right. They gave a lovely
sella.
Those are the stamps we had to
get in our “
Credencial
” each day to
prove we were walking the
Camino
. We’d
present it when we reached
Santiago.
And as I was walking along I happened
upon a glorious monastery,
Convento S.
Valentin de Berria Ochoa.
There were monumental
dalle de verre
windows sometimes called “faceted glass.” In the
United states the largest blocks you can find are 12” x 8”. Some of
the blocks in these windows were 2’ x 2’. I can’t image where they got them, or how they were able to work with pieces that heavy. The matrix
holding the glass was impregnated with sand and tiny seashells. Hard to believe
that concrete would be strong enough and resilient enough to support that kind
of weight. I photographed some of the rebar you could see
embedded
in the
matrix. The design was modern—probably 1960s or later—and I stood for quite a
while studying the panels from the outside. The door, however, was locked. As I
stood there, wishing I could see them from the inside, the chapel door opened,
and an white-robed Dominican friar motioned for me to come in. He was tiny;
just over 5 feet, white-haired and slender but with a beatific smile. So
welcoming. In broken Spanish I told him that I made stained glass windows like
these but have never seen any using such large blocks of glass. One of his
other elderly brothers was practicing the organ but my kind host just showed me
from panel to panel throughout the chapel, talking the whole time as if I could
understand Spanish. And I did understand enough to know that he was explaining
the symbolism in each one. Then he showed me the signature block and gave me to
understand that the design and fabrication was done by one of their brothers.
The name was
Domingo Iturgaize OP
(order of preachers), and the date was December 1984—to May 1985. I was very
impressed with the design-skill and the use of color. I wish I could have
access to blocks that size. I learned later that Brother Domingo had died just
three months earlier. But God bless him, he made the world a more beautiful
place with his glass, and mosaics, and paintings. It’s something we can all
aspire to. Leave the world a more beautiful place than we found it.
The Cathedral in Pamplona was also beautiful,
especially the alabaster windows and ancient carved saints. The stained glass
was good—as you would expect in such a place, but having seen so much old glass
in so many places I’m becommimg quite jaded. I’ve seen windows like these in
many other places, but not windows like Brother Domingo’s. Just as I crossed the Puente Magdalena in the park near the
Cathedral I saw two old women trying to step off the curb. One of them stepped
wrong, and down she went, shopping bags and all. She landed on her hip. I’m
almost sure she broke it, but she absolutely refused to let anyone call a
doctor. I gathered up her bags while several other bystanders half-helped,
half-carried her to a park bench. She sat there ashen-faced but stoic. She had
a scrape on one of her arms. I put some of my triple-antibiotic ointment on the
scrape and a bandaid. She smiled at me. But she refused to let anyone call a
doctor. “No medcin!” She was
emphatic. I guess there comes a point when the elderly are afraid of doctors
and hospitals. Instead of being a place of healing, they come to be seen as the
enemy, and bearers of unbearable news. Places where you go, never to return. Pamplona’s ancient
stone walls are enormous. One portal still has its working chain drawbridge. A
sign said that it was used once a year to let the three kings into the old city.
As I entered the old city the first
thing I encountered was a mime—panhandling. Kind of creepy—couldn’t actually
“ask” for money, but could walk along beside me being obnoxious. I can
certainly understand now why some people have nightmares about mimes. I’m
afraid that the the falling woman and the discourteous mime became emblematic
of Pamplona for me. I’m glad I didn’t
try to spend the night there. On the outskirts I did stop to get a sello from the University of Navarre as Max recommended. Both it and
the campus were beautiful.
But,
I found that I was really glad to get back into the countryside. The path was
flat and quiet and the weather was perfect. Not too hot or cold. I limped along
happily and only struggled when I came to a slight hill into the town of
Cizur Menor.
Stayed
at the first place I came to on the left:
Sanjuanista
run by the Knights of St John of Malta. Beautiful red Maltese Cross on the
door. Took a welcome shower, washed my clothes and hung them out back to dry,
then went to look for a mass. Found one at a stone church at the top of the
hill. Hurt like the dickens to walk there but the view of the little town was
glorious and there was another alabaster window inside. After mass I went
looking for something to eat. Learned from another pilgrim that Philomena,
Anne, and the others were staying at an alburgue nearby and went in search of
them. Anne was exhausted but decided to come get a bite with me anyway. We sat
outside and talked. Steve came by and joined us. Anne left to go get some sleep
and Steve and I continued our conversation. He was miserable. Frustrated at
having to walk so slow to keep pace with all the others. Seven of them were
trying to stick together and Steve, with his long legs and fast pace, was
hobbled. I suggested he pick his own pace and plan to meet the others somewhere
along the way. He said Anne was afraid they’d all get separated and Cerys, who’d
first persuaded Steve to walk the Camino, was hurt that he would want to walk on
ahead of them alone. Poor guy. First time I realized that everyone should walk
their own camino—not the camino someone else wanted you to walk.
I
had heard that the walk was entirely different at night with all the stars so decided
to get up
early
and walk in the
morning. I said good-night early and went back to the albergue to layout everything for an early morning walk. I had no idea it was going to be such a LONG one.
6/4/15: Fifth day walking: leaving Cizur
Menor
The church bells woke me up at 3am
and I started walking by 4:00. Would have started sooner, but got dressed in
the dark trying so hard not to wake
anyone else I left my poles in the room and had to go back for them, then
realized I couldn’t lock the Albergue door after me. Waited for someone to get
up to go to the bathroom and asked them to lock the door behind me.
Luckily there was a three-quarter moon,
but it was still really dark. Haze hid the stars. Had a little flashlight that
mounted to my hat. It gave enough light to walk by but not really enough to be
sure of the signs. Ended up walking down a path through a forest of weeds. Came
to a junction with an arrow painted on a small stone. It pointed one way, but for some reason I
thought someone must have moved the stone, so I went down the other fork. I
walked a hundred yards or so then decided I must be wrong—there were too many
weeds growing in the center of the path. Surely the number of pilgrims on the
Way would have trampled any weeds, so I went back to the intersection and
started down the path indicated by the arrow. It seemed much more like what I’d come to expect. My pig-headedness
and lack of trust for my fellow pilgrims should have warned me that today was
not going to be a good day.
As I walked, climbing toward the Alto del Perdon, (the Hill of Pardon,
where the famous pilgrim statues are located) the sky began to lighten. I loved
watching the moon and clouds playing hide and seek behind the waving cypress
trees. It was like walking in a Van Gogh painting. Magical. And then the
reddest dawn I’ve ever seen: “Red in the morning, pilgrim take warning.” I
should have paid more attention.
Arrived in Zariquiegui, halfway up the slope to the hill of Pardon at 6am
before the local tienda was even
open. I begged him to get me something to eat; he grudgingly made me a
delicious cup of café con leche, and a
perfectly burned piece of toast. Nevertheless it tasted good when I scraped off
the charcoal, and it felt so good to
sit down. About an hour and a half later I
arrived at the statues and had someone take the obligatory picture of me hiking
along with the iron-plate pilgrims. Donde de Cruza el Camino del Viento, con el del las EstrellasWhere the path of the wind crosses the path of the stars.
And where I managed to get horribly
lost.
The Brierly guide warned me that
right after the statues I would: “Descend [!] carefully over the loose stones
and through the scrubland to the rich red earth . . . .” Unfortunately I didn’t
read that passage until I was about one and half kilometers down the road that
ran perpendicular to the path I should have been on. In my own defense I can
only plead that the Camino
should
have followed the base of the wind turbines I
was following. They were like the Don Quizote’s giant windmills, and their
constant hum and faint clanking was a perfect backdrop along this “path of the
wind.” And the views from the ridgeline were gorgeous with the lifting fog. In
my arrogance I congratulated myself for having found the “real” path. It was
sort of hidden in the brush and I was sure that all the other
losers
were probably hiking along the
gravel road. They weren’t.
By the time I suspected I might have gone the wrong way I had come
down several hundred meters in altitude but thought I was probably now on a
road that was going to carry me Uterga, one
of the villages I was going to have to walk through on my way to Obanos, where I planned to spend the
night. My feet were killing me. The soles of both feet were blistered and I had
several blackened toenails. The little toe on my left foot was inflamed and
horribly swollen. I was afraid that I might be doing some serious damage to it.
The thought of walking back up the hill to get onto the right path was just too
disheartening. I would make my own shortcut. I’m good at pig-headedness.
My shortcut didn’t pan out. White
arrows are not the same as yellow ones. The road I was on carried me across a
high bridge then over the A-12—a Spanish superhighway—then continued for miles
along the base of dozens of other wind turbines. I thought it was probably a
main country road and would carry me somewhere,
but it kept getting smaller and smaller, and was obviously just an access road for
the turbines. There were no signs. No arrows. No people. There were beautiful
red poppies and other wild-flowers, and beautiful views down into the valley
below, but that was cold comfort as I limped on and on.
Eventually I came to a tall rickety
watchtower and a sign with a large arrow on it, but the sign had fallen over
and there were several spooky looking overgrown paths radiating out from here.
I have no idea what it was. Maybe a campground of some sort. Didn’t look like a
Camino arrow, and the paths were obviously little-traveled. I rested, tried to
re-bandage my aching feet, drank the last of my water, and felt sorry for
myself, then continued down the narrowing road. Surely it would lead somewhere. Around the next corner I could see
the A-12 in the far distance and from my map I could tell that I was on the
wrong side. I was north-west of it, and the Camino was south-east of it. The
road continued in a northwesterly direction and would carry me farther and
farther from where I wanted to be, so I felt I had to turn left, go down the mountain and find some way back to
the Camino. So down-hill I went, over rough rocks, loose gravel, generally
following a eroded gully. It was agony.
At the bottom I found myself in a
field of what I later learned was called Avoine,
a cereal grain fed to cattle and livestock. The field of was enormous.
Surrounded on three sides by steep hillsides of scrub pines. The field was
actually a finger several hundred yards across. I had no choice but to walk
through it. The grain was just over waist-high and the ground was hard-pan, but
with ridges left by the plows and rain storms. Like walking on dull knives. I tumbled
down in a ravine thinking it might be easier to follow the little creek bed.
Wrong. There were brambles and fallen trees and broken limbs. It was
impassible. I climbed out the other side and found myself back in another gigantic
finger-field. There was no hope for it. I would just have to walk until I came
to something. I walked for about 45
minutes before the terrain changed. The grain became more stunted and looking
down I could discern tractor treads running perpendicular to the direction I
was walking. I turned and started following the tractor tracks. They lead me to
a narrow farm path—obviously made by farm equipment traveling to and from the
field. And then to a small farm road, and then past some tumbled-down farm
outbuildings, then to a proper gravel farm road. Civilization! I wasn’t going
to die in the woods after all! After another 30 minutes of walking I saw a car up
ahead emerge from a cloud of dust. I was saved! They would stop and give me a
ride some place where I could get some water, and sit down for a while.The lady smiled and waved as she barreled past. (to be
continued)