I left Pampalona thinking I would head for Puente la Reina. Right off the get go I had trouble finding the way out of Pampalona due to all the new sewer construction but soon found myself walking through the university grounds and out into Cirze de Maur where I could see the broad ridge of Alto de Perdon, lined with windmills. It was a climb of 1200 feet and while I experienced some difficulty again I realized when passing others that they were in most cases struggling even more than I, which put things into perspective. Three hours later I was at the ridge and standing under the tall metal pilgrim statues with a view looking back to Pampalona and onward towards Santiago. I'm sure the pictures don´t do it justice. The entire ridge is well marked by hundreds of windmills. It made me contemplate our one lonely wind generator in Toronto which we treat like some kind of national monument. I headed down towards Obanos and took a lunch break at Ortega where I had a great hot pork with red pepper bocadeo washed down with cold cervsea. All the food here is loaded with salt and with the heat and sweat I can understand why. Feeling totally refreshed and geared up I headed out again with only seven kilometres to go till Puente la Reina. Along the way I fell in step with two young Frenchies I knew from sight back on the first day and we soon had a lively conversation going about Spanish food, Neil Young, Sean Penn and finally coming around to Van Morrision. They wanted to know what I felt about his music and I told them I consider Astral Weeks one of the masterpieces of my generation and then we discussed how Van the Man had just walked into a studio with several jazz musicians totally unknown to him and cranked it out in a couple of sessions. One of the Frenchies said he had heard the new Los Angeles concert version from last year which I hadn´t and he said it suffered from his voice and technically. We finished off with them telling me they wanted to buy a van and drive off into the american frontier like Sean Penn in his movie Into the Wilderness which I hadn´t seen and I figured I would just leave it at that with out telling them Alaskan cold was only romantic in the movies or Jack London tales. I left them at a bar and wandered in Puente la Riena half an hour later where I found a crowd gathering to sign into the nice alberque which also has a hotel and pool. It was still early and not really my cup of tea so I decided to push on since I was feeling good. The town was very old with a long history and narrow making the cobblestone streets dark. it was also very quiet becasuse of siesta which these guys take very seriuosly. After passing through the 800 hundred year old gate and bridge I read a sign wrong and after another steep but short climb and a walk of a kilometer I realized I had zigged when I should have zagged. The prudent thing to do would have been go back to the alburgue and check in while the getting was good but vanity and hubris won the day and I decided to push on. Half an hour later I left the river Agra which I had been following since Roncevilles the second day and headed towards Maneru and then Cirauqui where I hoped to grab a bed. Just before Maneru I came up to a short steep climb and half way up in the 40 degree heat I hit the wall. Its was basically a twenty foot walk from tree to tree for shade and then to make things worse I ran out of water. In the end I made to the top and ten minutes later was sitting in the small town square in Maneru literally inhaling water out of the pump. An old pensioner was sitting there gabbing away at me in spanish. He could of been offering me the spanish crown I just smiled at him letting him ramble on and every couple of minutes kept saying no comprende espanol while inhaling the water. Finally telling myself to get up and move on I started the last couple of miles to Cirauqui. It was a beautiful approach through fields of vineyards with village citadel sitting high on a rise with a commanding view and very easy to figure out why the location had been chosen. I dragged myself to the edge of the walled town like a dying duck in a thunderstorm and contemplated the climb to the alburgue which of course was at the top. Several stops later I was greeted at the door by a smiling lady named Iona who led me to a bunk with a knowing look and let me know dinner was at seven thirty. This was defintely the nicest place hands down that I had stayed at since arriving. Beautiful ancient stonework with a laundry on a wide upper balcony and a dining room down in the basement in the bodega. I sat with three Basque lads who possessed passable english and we had a great dinner.Total cost for the bed and dinner came to 19 Euros. I was just named Canada after that and that seems to be my name now with most of the walkers I run into along the trail. I have not seen another Canadian yet but I have heard there are a couple of French Canadians a day or so ahead. I did another backpack think that night and ditched one change of clothes, an unfinished novel, calculator and ten dollars in Canadian cash. I finished the evening talking to two french basque ladies, hit the sack and woke up in the morning a new man ready to go but hopefully a little wiser about my limits in the hot sun with the climbs. to be continued |
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