Tuesday, September 16 & 17, 2003
Vancouver - Bilbao, Spain
We're starting out on our big adventure. Despite having had a year to plan, the last few hours are frenetic -- perhaps because we spent the last several evenings at parties (about 20 all told), restaurants, or otherwise getting in the mood. In any event, we left the house largely ready for our tenant and the rest she's going to fend for herself!
At about 2:00, we realize we won't be ready for a three o'clock departure, so stow stuff any which place. We eventually head out, throwing our bikes in the back of Dad's pick-up. I head off in Mom's car, Brent with Dad in the truck. Much fuss putting the bikes in plastic bags at the airport, and the usually crabby service from our national airline check-in, and we're on our way, with waves and farewells, at 4:50.
In Vancouver we have a long layover so decide to eat sushi and beer - - at $40+, the most expensive meal we'll probably have on the whole trip! Then, to get rid of change -- who wants to carry all that weight -- we decide to drink as much beer as my coins will purchase. With the advent of loonies and twoonies, that's enough to ensure a happy farewell.
We have to recheck our bikes and bags in Vancouver through Heathrow to Bilbao. At the last minute, Brent realizes the front bike pack he planned to carry on to the plane has tools (screwdrivers and other no- nos) so he has to check it separately into baggage. Its a small bag 8"x5"x5" so the result may be predictable.
After 4-hour layover in Heathrow, and some confusing inter-airline directions, we're on Iberian Air to Bilbao, Spain! It's been about 30 hours since we left home.
Taking the city bus into the urban area with our bikes is remarkably painless; it drops us at the main city plaza and from there its a short skip to our Hostal Begonia, which we had booked ahead. Unfortunately, Brent's little bag didn't make it, so after an hour of explaining our situation several times over to largely indifferent Iberian staff in our non-existent Spanish, we had left the airport with only modest hope of seeing it again. To the hotel, into the old town for a 10:00 p.m. bite to eat, crash into our pushed-together twin beds and don't wake up until 11:30.
September 18, 2003
Bilbao, Spain
A 1:00 start has us headed for the famous Guggenheim Modern Art Gallery. But hunger takes precedence so within a few blocks of leaving our Hostal, we're in a restaurant trying to figure out how the menu works. We finally figure it out. The menu has two specials, each with three items. So, to get maximum exposure to local cuisine, we decide to each order a different one. Unfortunately, the waitress has no idea what we're talking about, so after much fruitless Spanish guesses and gestures, we resort to that old tried and true traveler's method -- point and hope. When Brent eventually got soup and I got fish -- fish, and fish alone -- we realized that in electing to order the special, a person is supposed to get one dish from each of the two menu sections. So we've just split a meal and established a rep as big north American spenders! At least we now know how the menu works...
Another few blocks and we're at the Guggenheim. It is an absolutely amazing building -- made of limestone and glass, with titanium cladding. It sits at the river's edge and uses pools and fountains at the rear exterior. The whole building shimmers -- it breathes light. Open since 1997, it apparently attracted 1.4 million visitors in its first year and is the single-largest contributor to the city's renaissance. With beautiful curves and shapes it is an architectural wonder -- extremely creative. The building is more interesting than its contents, some of which are huge and were designed specifically for the building space. The largest gallery in the world now contains only three pieces, including the main one which is three pieces of 10' high rolled steel shaped like 3 parallel "S". You can walk between them. We paid half price because only one of the two floors with changing exhibits was been altered. Most of the collection we saw was Alexander (Sandy) Calder's work of mobiles. Interesting, but ....???
There is a 25-foot puppy outside, crafted of steel but completely covered by flowers. This was apparently a temporary installation for the Museum opening, but the local citizenry insisted it become permanent. Go figure!
Brent hated the whole thing. Waste of money to build an enormous structure. Think what those $ could do for art. We agree to disagree -- or disagree to disagree -- or something.
Heading back outside, its hot, hot. Mid-30 degrees. We're cooking but persevere, walking along the river back toward the old town. This is a terrific way to see the old-new fusion of the city. Bilbao, now about 400,000 people, was until the 1980s considered an industrial, steel and ship-building area. An active urban renewal rescued it we understand. Now, modern art (everywhere) sits alongside the commercial area which sits alongside the old town. While grime covers some of the old buildings, there is no way to undermine the appeal of centuries-old, solid buildings. Lots of trees, lots of plazas, lots of pedestrian malls, a small but interesting old quarter make this A-OK.
Checking back at our hostal, there is no sign of our bike pack from the airline, but the day-time desk clerk is one of the few people we've met who speaks English, so he understands our predicament and has been hot on the trail. Brent's bag has been located in Heathrow and we hope will arrive tomorrow. Hurray! But just in case, we are dispatched to find replacements at a local bike shop (pedals, gloves, headlamp, tools and front pack itself). Try doing that in Spanish!! But after much arm-waving, "si-si, no, si pequeno (small), bicicletas", nodding, smiling, head-shaking and the help of three people in the store all participating in this game of charades, we have the information we need. Handshakes, farewells, adios. Phew!
Our final stop is to buy all the stuff we forgot in our frenzied departure (adapter, maps, etc.) Again in Spanish. We're pooped. We've earned dinner!
Heading back into the old town, it is much quieter than last night. Its early, but still...? We barely recognize the eatery and street we were on last night, because all the shops are shuttered. We follow some noise for a block or so, and find a small place open with lots of beer and wine flowing and a convivial spirit. We are the only turistas. We edge our way up to the counter and prepare our first attempt at ordering tapas. This seems to be the most popular form of eatery. Hang around the counter and order from a wide selection of displayed appetizer-sized offerings. Our only problem is that we haven't a clue what any of these things are and I can't understand the rapid-fire Spanish explanation. We decide to bite the bullet and use the old point and hope method again. I'm about to make my first selection when the proprietress grabs her ear and starts yanking up on it, speaking staccato Spanish. I've been about to order an ear. An ear of what, I'm not sure. Probably a pig, since ham is so big here. But since I can't be sure, I decided not to take a chance and opted instead for a roasted pepper and potatoe-y thingie.
We settled at a table to eat, when the owners shooed all the patrons except us outside the doors. Down came the shutters and we're trapped inside. These were very friendly people, so this wasn't frightening. But its very confusing. Ten minutes ago there were thirty people talking animatedly; now its dead quiet and just us.
After much unsuccessful gesturing and animated Spanish, we resort to pen, paper and our Spanish-English dictionary. Ah.... tumult, ruckus, riot. Hmmm.
This occurred to us four years ago in Greece. Several thousand demonstrators, a lot of property damage. That time, too, we hid out in a restaurant until the march passed us by, then made a bee-line to our hotel. Even so, it was a bit exciting and our hotel lobby had had a stink bomb hurled into it.
In any event, first day of our journey and here we are again!
Do you want us to leave, we mime? No, no. Stay. Eat. Do you want some more?
Its getting a bit noisy outside now. But we're safe and secure and eating something of unknown origin. A second glass of wine. The noise is unabated -- in fact, maybe growing. Someone tries to lift up the shutter. The proprietor leaps up, says we're closed, but its a regular or family member who insists on entering. He joins the family who are now eating their own dinners at the next table, and we feel quite privileged. But eventually we're going to have to leave, and the rabble isn't dying down.
Brent bravely sticks his head underneath the now slightly opened shutter. There are 10 people in the street, chatting, drinking beer. The noise of their conversation echoes around the narrow cobblestone streets and shuttered doorways. Where are the crowds? Where is the demonstration? Where are the stink-bombs? We say goodbye and saunter out nonchalantly.
The next morning we learned there was a small, peaceful demonstration to protest the six-month occupation of Iran.
Back at the hotel, there is no word of Brent's bag. Its a good thing we are beginning to like Bilbao. We may be here awhile.
September 19, 2003
Bilbao=> Pamplona=> Roncesvalles=> Burgete
9:00. The bag arrives! Its time to head out. We had originally planned to cycle to the coast and along the coast to the French border to begin the trail. But we've already shortened our stay in Spain by 6 days and now have lost another. In addition, we're not as fit as we should be, and we have only four days at the end of this leg of our journey for Portugal. So we elect instead to bus it to Pamplona and then on to the start at Roncesvalles. We cycle (yes, this is a cycling trip!) to the bus station where we undergo the usual can't figure anything out, oh, the bus number and bus bay number match neither of the numbers on our tickets. But they can't fool us that easily. We still make the bus and settle in for the 2- hour ride.
There is a lot of traffic. The hillsides are dry and grassy. But as we gain altitude, imperceptibly, the temperature moderates to 29 degrees. In Pamplona, a busy, noisy city, we switch to the bus to Roncesvalles. Here we see the first evidence of other "pilgrims" setting out to walk the "Way of Saint James". About half the people on the bus are walkers, a half-dozen are other cyclists and the remainder are locals undoubtedly scratching their heads.
The route is picturesque. Most of the towns have two names -- the Spanish name and the historic Basque name. In the urban areas, the Spanish name is shown first; in the more rural areas, the Basque name has place of priority.
While scenic, the road is narrow, winding and steep in many sections. We gradually climb to 3000'. I am glad we're on a bus! At the end of this 2 hour ride, the bus disgorges us into Roncesvalles. This is a monastery complex, not a town. It dates from the 13th Century and sits in a mountain pass where for centuries pilgrims have crossed the Pyrenees from France into Spain, to complete the last 800 kilometers of their pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, the resting place of St. James.
A wedding is going on when we arrive, so all the finery seems both fitting and out of place at the same time. The bride and groom mingle with the dressed-to-the-nines guests who in turn are forced to rub shoulders with the hiking-boot-clad, walking-stick-carrying, pack- laden walkers. The walkers head to the monastery complex to get our "passports' and most to register for a space to stay in the monastery, which offers 52 mattresses and 16 pairs of bunks. Too bad I don't have a sheet and bedroll -- we'll have to head to a hostal!
A "passport" is a small document which one gets stamped with an official seal of each cathedral, monastery or pilgrims' refugio along the route. Its gimmicky, but its a great record and becomes a point of pride to go off the beaten track to get "the stamp".
It's now 8:00 and starting to get dark, so we hop on our bicycles and head our first three kilometers on the trail!! We ride easily on a wide path through a beechwood forest to the tiny town of Burgete, where a handful of houses line the only street. Its therefore easy to locate our hostal.
Since we're right on the border of France, as many or more people speak French as Spanish, so Brent's high school French comes to the fore and he chatters away to figure out where to store our bikes, etc. A short evening stroll and an early night. Tomorrow is our first REAL day.
September 20, 2003
Burgete => Pamplona, Spain
40 kms today/43 kms to date
The sun rises at about 8:00 and its mighty chilly. But it soon warms the air so we're ready about 9:00 or 9:30. This is hilly country and more rural than farmland, but there's plenty of grazing and it manages to seem agricultural.
We pass through pasture land and then hit some heavy going through beech, hazel and boxwood. We're managing to ride our bikes most of the time, but there's lots of climbing off to push them up steep and/or rocky and/or lose rock sections. This is VERY tiring. But wait, more to come!
We now must climb the steep Erro Pass. There is no cycling here. Roots, rocks, gravel, roots, gravel, roots, rock. Hikers carrying their 40-pound packs make sympathetic noises as they pass us while we push, pull, haul our weary bodies and laden bikes over gravel and rocks -- and I believe the occasional boulder! Who put all these guidebooks for South Africa, Sri Lanka and Asia in my pannier? Who put a laptop and binoculars in Brent's?
Hurray - the top! Oh, no! it's too steep to ride down? Gingerly we edge our bikes over the steep sections of descent with the heavy back end ever-ready to fishtail. Tiny steps, clutching the brakes. Reaching a not-too-steep section we venture onto our bikes. OK. We can do this. Carefully. Slowly. Nope -- face plant! Hikers come running with their giant packs to disentangle me from my bike and the rocks. They don't speak English, but I think I know what they are saying!
We have now travelled about 15 kilometers in 4 hours and are exhausted. We have another 750 to go and 13 days to do it. This is going to take some kind of miracle!
In other respects, it looks like many miracles will be required. A few hiking pilgrims started in France (or some even further away in Belgium), so have been on the road for a few days (or weeks or even months), but most started in Roncevalles. They come in all shapes and sizes. Many look fit and experienced, but many others look like they are in the same shape we are (or worse, in a few cases!). Virtually all use walking sticks, and many carry either a gourd or a shell, both of which are emblematic of the pilgrim, although we have not yet learned of their symbolism. I suppose if they can all do it, we can do it. We forge on.
The route becomes somewhat easier and, as we get close to Pamplona, it relies on city (i.e. paved) streets. While we continually get lost, because the route markers are located for the ease of walkers (e.g. arrows on the sidewalk pavement on the opposite side of the street), its still easier than rutted, mountainous trail.
We have followed a river valley for some distance and crossed the 13th Century bridge to pass through a green park as we approach and walled city of Pamplona's old quarter. As luck would have it, its a festival day in Pamplona and our route is blocked by, of all things, a bicycle race! To find our way past we retrace our route and end up in the town plaza just as a parade passes. The narrow streets wouldn't permit floats of the kind we have in North America. Instead, giant papier mache (I think) figures are carried in procession. There were about 10, several feet apart. A big band plays, they all move forward. The band stops, they all stop. People throng around them. Kids point. The 20' figures tower above, so everyone can see them. The band starts again. On they move. Thousands of people. This is terrific.
We have to wait until it passes, because I'm determined to see the street where the bulls run. It is easy to locate and, disappointingly, looks like any other street. Our guide book points out that the running of the bulls is neither specific to Pamplona nor a recent phenomena. In a country of bull fights, it has always been necessary to somehow get the bulls to the bullring. But when this became a spectator sport no one is sure. I think I prefer the route empty of bulls.
September 21, 2003
Pamplona=> Puenta La Reina
33 kms today/ 76 kms to date
Pamplona to Cizur Mayor is across a 5 km plain which lulls us into a happy state of complacency. The original shelters along the Way have long since vanished, but we get the stamp at the 12th Century St. Michael's Church and chatted briefly with a Canadian -- of which we have now met about eight. Most are from Quebec and when a Spaniard hears we are Canadian, typically asks if we are Quebecois. The intermingling of Spanish and French in this part of the country perhaps makes it easier for Quebecers to travel here. On the other hand, a Frenchman we chatted with had walked 965 km with a Quebecer and they conversed in English because their accents were so different.
Leaving the plains we begin a hill. This time we've planned ahead and in order to avoid the brutal Perdon Mountain by bike, we plan to deke onto the road for that section and use the road as a bypass. In fact, our walking guide says the trail is so bad that it encourages even walkers to use the road. Alas, we miss the turnoff. So yet again we are pushing, pulling, hauling our 25 pound bikes with 50 pound panniers over rocks, ruts, loose gravel. We are sweating like crazy so the flies love us. There are so many flies there is a buzz around me -- I hum! I hate this!! Count 100 steps. Rest. OK - then count 50 steps and rest. We are climbing 1000 feet of vertical, almost a Malahat. Bad enough on pavement, almost impossible on rutted track hauling tonnage. One more fly tries to get into my gasping mouth and my bike will get hurled down the hill! Its now 3:00 and we've gone 12 kilometres! Calling for another miracle....
Yahoo! We've reached the top! The view is terrific -- the Pyrenees distant in the background and a lovely valley with scattered villages ahead. Rural Spain is so beautiful!
All along the ridge there are windmills. This is only one of several wind farms we've encountered since our arrival. The economics of wind farms change in a country of higher-priced electricity, so here they are prevalent. Tall, clean, almost majestic, a soothing, gentle whooshing noise. The future.
There is a side road to the top of this hill -- and hence to the bottom. Down it we go! This is more like it! We cycle easily the rest of the day and roll into Puenta la Reina, a quaint, quiet, town of 2400 people. Brent spotted a menu with pasta and were there in a flash. So much for tapas when spaghetti is offered! Oh, carbo- loading, I am corrected...
September 22, 2003
Puenta la Reina => Logrono
76 km today/ 153 km to date
Puenta la Reina is where three alternative routes of the Way join into one, so perhaps this accounts for the seemingly larger number of pilgrims. Over the course of the day we will see maybe 60 or 70. We were told yesterday that 30,000 or 40,000 walk this 750 km annually. Apparently its much tougher going in France and there are fewer amenities, so far fewer people. Folks who have done it tell us it is quite a surprise to hit the Spanish part of the pilgrimage and find 10s or 100s of walkers.
We follow the trail in part, but after some tough sections (and after crossing a crumbling bridge from Roman times) take to the road.
It is overcast today, with even a few drops of rain, but after the heat and exertion of the last few days, the cloud cover is welcome.
In a quick diversion into the town of Estella, we meet two Dutch cyclists who have made the whole trip starting in the Netherlands and are now doing the return! We are inspired! But they've done the whole route on asphalt. Its possible they think we're crazy. Its possible they are right. Its possible we are about to change our ways!
On entering Logrono, we find there is a festival. So everything is closed. Yesterday was Sunday so everything was closed. The day before we were in Pamplona on its festival day, so everything was closed. There is something to be said for this.
However, earlier today, we ran into bad, bad mud. It caked our gears and chain and actually gummed up so much underneath our fenders that the wheels wouldn't turn. Ever wondered where that beautiful red clay used to make Spanish terra cotta pots comes from? I'm not sure, but I have a guess. In any event, we need oil from a bike store, so will need to do some sleuthing tomorrow.
Our evening hence being free, why not join the hundreds of people enjoying the festival in the old town? We had a beer in a sidewalk cafe, listened to a band that was part of the festivities, sampled Pakistani, Arabian and Columbian food and generally people-watched. Extended families -- so often three generations -- spend time together. It seems such an admirable European characteristic. Come to think of it, a global characteristic outside North America. Children are out on their bikes, toddlers stagger around, and tiny ones are in strollers. Grandparents participate. They actually talk and play. Everyone is strolling around in the evening and on Sundays the countryside is full of local walkers. There must be a shortage of TVs.
September 23, 2003
Logrono => Santo Domingo de la Calzada
54 km today / 206 km to date
Logrono was founded in Medieval times so is relatively new, and newer than the Way which crosses through it. With only 130,000 people it also would not seem that large. Nonetheless, it has the typical spaghetti of roads, highways, overpasses, underpasses and general complexity. Perhaps that's how we found ourselves cycling into town on an Autobahn. In addition to being illegal, it is also mighty unsettling. The shoulders are wide and there are no distractions (aside from two dufuss cyclists), so its probably as safe as anywhere, but I still couldn't rectify that error fast enough. Although going backwards up an on-ramp perhaps shouldn't have been our first choice in corrective action.
Having survived entry into town yesterday, we were very careful about our departure route this morning and had a terrific gentle ride along the Way. We are now, though, seeing more signs of struggling pilgrims. Most stride bravely along, but there is the occasional limper. One fellow lay on a bench, while another meditated with his hands above the other's hips, presumably to heal him. One gent with one too many blisters tore off his boots and socks and bounded off on a dirt track in bare feet to the dismay of his soon-to-be-ex-wife. Yet another had blisters on the bottom of his feet, which seemed not to be as bad as the pus issuing from the blisters on the sides. One wonders...
At the other extreme, we met an English mom with her 11-year old son. He schools for a term, she home schools him for a term and each year they walk a section of the Way.
Today we rode through vineyards and agricultural land. It is gentle and rolling; every square inch is used. Yet there are no farmhouses. Clearly tradition favours village life, with owners/workers/hands heading out to the fields daily. Gorgeous countryside.
We passed caves carved into the red clay at Najera, climbed a hill or two (1300' vertical), then coasted into Santo Domingo de la Calzada. We booked into a hostal run by nuns. Peeling walls, shared bath smelling more-than-faintly sewerish, and noisy neighbours rising at 5:00 a.m. to get on the trail (as most do, in order to avoid the heat). For some reason at $40 a night it makes sense to support the nuns! Still it beats the 60 mattresses thrown on a floor in the common room where the real pilgrims stay!
September 24, 2003
Santo Domingo => Burgos
74 km today / 281 km to date
Most of the land in this area is wide open spaces, few tress and fields of cereal grains. We pass through Redcilla del Camino, Belorado, Tosantoa (where the Chapel of Our Lady of the Crag is carved into the rock, high on the hillside), and then begin the steep climb up Mount Oca. Its 3 straight km of 6% grade and, in deciding to do this section on the road, we share it with many, many freight trucks which, although noisy, are moving at a crawl. And, hey, anything is better than heaving bicycles up that grade on the trail.
We rejoin the trail and ride for about 15km to the monastery of St. John of Ortega along red dirt and through a pine forest. En route, we pass a tour bus which drops a few folk about 10 km from the site and more about 1 km from the site. We, or course, feel far superior, having slogged our way here. Brent calls these folks "fake pilgrims". I usually think that's a bit cynical; on this occasion I think its very fitting. How fickle! But then imagine what the rest of the REAL pilgrims think when we zip past on our bikes to check into the nearest 2-star hostal. It's important, Brent assures me, to leave the refuge space available for walkers who really need it!
The church at the site has a special solar event on the equinox and each day before and after. On these three days, the sun shines through a window high above the entrance door and illuminates a scene of the Virgin Mary holding a baby. As luck would have it, today is the 23rd, the day following the equinox. So the place is hopping - especially because there is food and beer close by! The phenomena is at 7:00pm so unfortunately we weren't able to stay. Must be quite cool.
We met two fellows along the way -- the only two we have met who are doing the trail with fully loaded mountain bikes. Young, healthy, strong -- and resembling us in so many other ways. Their friend had covered the next section of the trail a couple of years ago and had assured them, and now they assured us, that it would be manageable on bike. Do we never learn? As I push and pull and lift and haul my bike, acquiring more bruises and swearing mightily at all the flies trying to drive me crazy, Brent thinks its very funny to call me Saint Brenda. I'd have whacked him if only I had been able to catch up!
But the last 20 or so km into Burgos is flat and the trail avoids the city traffic (and the autobahn), so by the time we check into our Hostal and head out for dinner, we're happy campers (or, rather, hostal-ers).
September 25, 2003
Rest day in Burgos, Spain
We had planned Burgos as a rest day because we had read that it is a terrific city. Actually, our legs aren't particularly tired. But my neck and shoulders, of all things, are muscle-tired. Who imagines a cycle trip where you push your bike so much that your legs are fine, but your arms hurt? We'll see what a day does.
Burgos is indeed interesting. It was founded in 884 and became a strategic fortress with small villages, or burgos, around it, which eventually melded into one city. It was also an important stop on the Pilgrim's Way, sporting many hospices. It now boasts Spain's greatest Gothic cathedral built, starting in 1221, in the lightening speed of only 40 years for such an enormous structure. Although the defining two towers were added in the 15th Century. It also houses the mausoleum of El Cid, the legendary opportunistic soldier of the 11th Century. The cathedral is enormous, with ribbed vaulted ceilings and chapel after chapel around the main transept and altar -- maybe 20 chapels. Both inspiring and depressing -- all this grandeur in the name of religion but in the spirit of power. But you've gotta love the Gothic architecture on the outside -- the amazing ornate spires create a skyline for Burgos that could be mistaken for none other.
The rest of the day we spent strolling the leafy promenade, sitting in the library writing this journal, going for dinner at the same restaurant as last night (already feeling well seasoned) and attending an Internet cafe which doubles as a games room and caters to a university-age crowd playing cards and board games while loud music and rock videos blared in the background.
September 26, 2003
Burgos => Boadilla
70 km today / 351 km to date
Because we are now at about 2500' elevation, the mornings are cool (15 degrees) but the sun quickly warms the air so by 11:00 its hot and by 2:00, if there is no cloud cover, it is sweltering. Consequently, we always plan an early start -- although we rarely achieve it.
Today we got going at about 8:45, joining en route the walking pilgrims who normally start in the dark (and some as early as 5:00 a.m. with flashlights). Before long I had a flat tire. And here we had predicted no flats for our entire 8-month sojourn. Brent good- naturedly patched the tube, demonstrating once again that he is indispensable. He found it slightly less amusing when the tire flattened within about 5 minutes because we had failed to pinpoint (ha, ha) the sharp tiny rock sticking right through the tire into the tube. It's a good thing we figured it out because at this point we were on a dusty lane way sharing the gravel trail with sympathetic walkers (who, let's fact it, have very few other opportunities to feel great about their chosen method of transport!) and the occasional tractor passing and coating my repair guy with a fine layer of dust.
But the rest of the day cooperated in spades. We were into the plains, with all the traffic diverted onto the autobahn. Its very flat, very dry, very quiet. All back roads, only a rare car and mile after mile after mile of fields of grain. No one about for miles and then we'd pass through some tiny village of 30 or 40 homes, calling "Ola", the universal greeting to anyone we saw, then back out into the wide open spaces. The day flew by, the miles flew by. Through Taradogos, Yudego, Castrojeriz.
When we headed into the tiny village of Boadilla del Camino, we had no idea that hidden away was a little piece of paradise. We were searching for the refugio to get our passport stamped and came across an arch in the stone wall, through which we could see such green grass. The countryside here is beautiful, but there is not a blade of grass within a hundred miles. We had stumbled across a locale apparently well-known by the pilgrim crowd. Its a compound with big dorms, a few private rooms, lots of grass, tables, artwork, a common area for common dining and the friendliest staff you could hope for. In fact, the guy-who-does-everything around the place speaks English and speaks sentimentally of his girlfriend who lives in Victoria. We later learned that he "has a story for everyone".
This was quite an event for us because, in addition to be being an amazing oasis, it was the first opportunity we had to mingle with walking pilgrims -- up close and personal. In particular, we met and shared a dinner table with Dorothy and Bob from London, Ontario. They were full of pilgrim tales. But equally interesting was a side trip to Santo Domingo de Silos (70 km from Burgos) they had taken to hear the Gregorian chant of the Benedictine monks. This is a popular spot since the monks made the pop charts in the 1990s, but the 7:00 a.m. service had only five people in the congregation, so all five were invited to join the choir. I can only imagine standing in the midst of monks performing a Gregorian chant, and soaking up the sound. What a rush! Next trip for sure!
Over a meal of garlic soup, green beans, fish and ice cream, we sampled the local wine. This was the 1 Euro vintage which we had not yet been brave enough to try -- for good reason, it is now clear. But we hear the 2 Euro stuff is tasty -- amazing if true. We are in wine country (or rather, were in wine country yesterday) so its possible.
After dinner we were in for another treat. The proprietor traipsed us across the town plaza to the (as always) gargantuan local church and, in Spanish, told us the history of the area, with a reluctant pilgrim pressed into translating into French (for about 15 people) and English (six of us). While much of it we had read, it more truly comes alive when told directly by a local in the cavernous recesses of the church.
In short, the area had been of strategic importance in the 9th and 10th Centuries, occupied by any number of nations (Celts, Iberians, and so on) through the ages. In addition, it was an important stop on the Pilgrim's Way and on a trade route to the west. The village grew and prospered. Until a few decades ago, the area was fertile with grapes and forest land. In the 20th Century, however, after the war, the government paid the locals to turn the land into grain fields in order to feed the population. Mechanization reduced the need for labour, especially in this non-labour-intensive industry. The young people left to find work. Now five families own all the land in the area, 80% of the population is over 60 and the town has shrunk from 1,000 to 200 people. It would appear its days are numbered. He pointed out, only half in jest, that in another decade, there would be only pilgrims in the village. And, judging by the demographics we have seen in so many of the small villages we have visited, it is a familiar story.
One additional story is of particular interest -- the pillory. Our proprietor told of how this monument in the square is where the population meets to resolve differences. It was used as late as 1956 when two villages in dispute met to have justice meted out. What he failed to mention was that in the 15th Century it was also used to tie offenders to it for public scorn and execution. No wonder the villages resolved their differenced.
September 27, 2003
Boadilla => Sahagun, Spain
66 km today / 417 km to date
More wide open spaces, with wheat fields and the occasional sunflower growing area. I've not seen this before; it had never occurred to me to wonder who grows sunflowers. And I'm still none the wiser about how they keep the birds away, since there are no visible signs of deterrence. Some corn, a rare cottonwood stand. It's all back roads, flat, quiet, no cars. Its warm but not hot. We are happy. Contemplation.
We pass through Fromista (with its 1066 church), Carrion de los Condes (which amuses me with it's mechanized candles. Put in one coin and light illuminates on a fake electric candle -- looks like a casino game) and Ledigos before rolling into Sahagun. Today we passed 50-odd (that's 50ish, not 50 weird) pilgrims, another 17 in a German tour group and 6 cyclists. We had a beer with an Australian 30-year-old who walks 40+ km per day (51 is his top distance to date) and a French-born Chicago woman who walks 35 km per day. She was missing her husband because he recently started his own company so is unable to get away for long stretches of time. At 35 km per day, no wonder!
A local wedding had all the young folks out partying, so no one in the village got much sleep. Only one car ended up in the ditch.
Sahagun marks the half-way point, more or less. This is some moment of note because, for our whole trip, aside from this one route, we have no specific plans. Hence, we will never again know when we are halfway to wherever we are going.
September 28, 2003
Sahagun => Leon => Hospital el Orbigo
93 km today / 511 km to date
Another beautiful, zippy day. Quiet, flat. About half the time lately we are on the trail or alongside it on quiet country roads. Some might find the plains tedious and I daresay if you were doing it on foot for 10 days it may be so, but on bike its hard to beat blue sky and golden wheat fields. We also have a cyclists dream -- a gentle tailwind. The prevailing winds are normally west to east, with the cool air of the Atlantic warming and blowing across Portugal and Spain. But we have been generally lucky with only one day of moderate headwind and the remainder either still or sideways from the south. Brent is doing some birding, as always, and while there's not a whole lot of variety, it makes for a nice pace. We actually passed one wetland up here in the plains -- now that's a cause for a birder's celebration!
Every 4 or 5 kms we pass through a small village, including Calzada del Coto, Reliegos (with some new houses built into the hillside), and Mansilla, before entering Leon. Leon is everything it is billed. Of Roman origin (around 70 AD), the old Roman wall has since undergone many alterations but now is clearly visible in its Medieval form and is in remarkably good condition. The cathedral is spectacular -- enormous and extremely grand -- and the basilica is ancient.
Either there are a lot of celebrations in Spain in September (it is harvest time) or we have a knack for stumbling into festivals. Hordes of peoples crowd the streets. Decorated carts pulled by oxen wend their way down the narrow cobblestone streets, preceded by a large number of men, women and children in traditional dress with beautifully embroidered shawls and aprons on starched dresses with touches of lace. Eventually all the oxen and carts line up in the square, presumably to be judged. Its note clear what one looks for in judging oxen, but the experts must know. Its serious business, but the air is full of music and chatter.
In making our way out of Leon we got hopelessly lost and eventually ended up heading back to where we had started. We spotted a group of German septegenarian cyclists with whom we had crossed paths earlier in the day. They waved and wished us "Bon Camino" as they whistled past in the opposite direction. Since we have no pride, we wheeled around and followed them. The only problem was, they motor!! We consoled ourselves that they had no pannier weight (there were 25 of them and they had a sag wagon bus), as well as the fact that they had travelled further than us and are older than us -- must be that extra experience! Earlier in the day I had been passed by a Spanish Lance- Armstrong-wannabe who zoomed past at about 35 km/hr as I crawled up a hill at about 10 -- but this was ridiculous!
We eventually drifted into Hospital de Orbigo which is joined by the Orbigo Bridge to El Puenta de Orbigo across the now-small river. The bridge is huge and one of the most famous along this route. It is low, but very long - maybe 200 metres? The river must at one time has been awesome. It would appear it has been diverted since homes and trees now occupy the floodplain. All the better to see the architecture of this stone monument.
Our hostal is one of fading glory, with only one other pair of guests, so destined to fade further pretty quickly. But a local restaurant feeds us fine Spanish cuisine in a noisy, smoky room, and all is well.
September 29, 2003
Hospital el Orbigo => Ponferrada
77kms today, 588 kms to date
We're going to do some elevation today (2100') so plan an early start and, as usual, are probably the latest pilgrim starters hitting the road at the near-dawn hour of 9:30.
We first pass through the dying village of San Justo de la Vega (not a new sight, but still sad and thought-provoking) and then enter the underrated Astorga, with a preserved dig of a Roman mosaic, an inviting town plaza with ornate edifices and a clock on high which rings when huge mechanized figures seem to hit a gong, and a truly beautiful and well-preserved cathedral. Shortly before the big hill, we pass through the tiny town of El Ganso which sports an extremely eccentric-looking "cowboy bar", complete with music and artifacts. You have to stop and look just because its so out of place.
We're well stocked with energy food (peanuts, raisin, chocolate with almonds and eight Mars bars! Not the bite-size cute little things, but the full-fledged honkers) so are ready for the climb! There is no question its uphill, but its not really as bad as we've been expecting. The six km slip by. We pass a couple of round stone huts with thatched roofs that are apparently typical of this high-altitude windswept land, and cross over the crest where an iron cross marks the high point (4500 feet). It is inelegantly festooned with ribbons and scarves and rags and other symbols of pilgrims' successes.
We're forced to hide out from the sudden shower are are lucky we just happened to be near the only shelter for miles around when the rain starts. Here at the top, the scenery is very different from the plains we spent three days crossing. Rolling hills, trees below, villages nestled in valleys and vales. A bit bleak, but quiet and serene, were it not for the two tour buses!
At Manjerin, a village of one remaining establishment amongst scads of crumbling stone buildings, we chat with a Dutch couple who plan to brave the elements sleeping in the loft of a stone hut, which looks mighty drafty, if not outright wet. But they're cheerful and tell us this place of sticks and strings and wire and chicken and geese is managed by aging Spanish hippies.
We're about halfway down a 15-km coast when we catch up to the tour bus at the ramshackle town of El Acebo. The sheep are being herded from the hills down the main street (that is, the only street) past the tumbling down 2-storey stone homes which line the road. No amount of honking by the bus is going to hurry the sheep -- or the herder. He herds by shaking a plastic container with rattles at the rear of the 150 or so collection of sheep and every so often hurling it at a particularly recalcitrant cluster. Its far from evident that this makes the sheep move any faster, but it gives him something to do.
After this half-hour interlude, we coast the rest of the way past the picturesque town of Molinseca (stay here next time) and into Ponferrada.
We had some difficulty navigating the town so when, after several false starts and a couple of dead-ends and a couple of circuits of the old town, we eventually found a 3-star hotel, it was a no- brainer. Go ahead! Spoil me!
On to Brenda's next Spain diary.
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