I was gone from Najera way before dawn finding the camino yellow arrows on the narrow streets and climbing the steep, short ascent out of town. At Azofra I unslung the pack and had breakfast which is pretty standard now, cafe solo (black espresso short) a croissant or toast (called toastadas) and hopefully, fresh squeezed orange juice. Every village no matter its size has a large espresso machine. Today I was going to aim for Belarado some 37 kilometres away and with an early start and only a couple of small climbs I was hoping to be there by mid afternoon. Again the trail led through the vineyards occasionally broken up with hay pastures where I would come across shepard's managing their flocks with the sheep´s incessant bells ringing. As I came up to the small village of Cirinuela I met my first Canadians a young man and woman from Montreal. They had been out a few days longer than me and the girl dressed like Annie Hall, was limping a bit. The approach to the town was a bit of a shock after all the vineyards being bordered by a green golf course and then a housing development which was already looking a little frayed with empty units and burnt lawns. I couldn't´t think of a bigger waste of water after seeing all the effort the farmers go to here to irrigate their fields. Made me think of one of the better tee shirts I saw once at Foxeys in the Virgins which said "Help Save Nature, Shoot a Developer". Soon enough I was back in the fields and headed for Santa Domingo an old and larger centre. I entered the city by coming into the main streets passing a potato processing factory and then watched the police still pulling over cars and checking them out after the the long Fiesta weekend. At the hotel in Logrono the TV had been pumping anti drinking and driving ads by the hour and interestingly enough the theme song they were using was Nick Lowe´s "The Beast in Me". This town has a fable regarding a miracle including a falsely accused pilgrim and a couple of chickens. The posters and tourist trinkets all are covered in allusions to it. As I left the town that got me thinking and trust me one thing you do get to do on the camino is think. Usually you are walking by yourself broken by short strolls with other people but everybody has their own gait and so sooner or later you will be on your own again with everybody coming together in the evenings at one of the albergues or restaurants. What had caught my imagination was the fable which had kick started thoughts about the nature of urban myths and how quick they spread as illustrated by books like Freaknomics or the Tipping Point. I started to wonder about the conversion of the pagan tribes negotiated by the church and replacing idols with saints which wasn´t breaking any commandments and a little more politically correct for the times. With no mass communication and an illiterate population the church was the main educator of the age and had certainly riffed on its own version of urban myth. I started to think about the nature of these myths and the roles they played in holding things together. From there I got into Joseph Campbell and his books and how little things have really changed except now its really the governments and political factions negotiating the myth making. An interesting tapestry of history with a lot of the evidence right in front of you on the camino. There was bit of a walk alongside a highway and then a branching off on the way to Granon when I came on a little oasis of trees with a brook running through. There I met and got into an interesting conversation with a fella from Amsterdam who was having a little problem with his knees. After awhile I said goodbye and walked up to the town talking to two young Japanese girls who knew the suburb of Tokyo where my youngest son had been living the last two years. In Granon I got a cold pop and stood on the hill at the edge of town with its great view of the camino below. The trail here passes over the border into Castilla y Leon from La Rioja and I wondered if that meant the end of the grapes and cheap vino (three euros a bottle for good plonk). I had also seen some signs for a small hotel called Hostal El Chocalatero which seemed pretty inviting so I thought I might call it a day if the place panned out. Well an hour later and the place turned out to be a truck stop, smokey and busy and nothing like the photos or description and the last thing I wanted was to be kept up all night by the screech of air brakes and engine sounds. It was a little off the trail so retracing my steps I returned to the path, bought a cold Fanta and sat in the shade of the church square contemplating my next move. The next thing I hear was the click, click of two walking poles and around the corner comes a Japaneses dude asking where the albergure was. I told him the story of the truck stop and told him I was pushing on. He nodded, gave me one of those samurai grunts and was off. I immediately named him Bushido because he looked like he had just stepped out of a Kurosawa movie with his lean look with long wispy sideburns, head covered with a bandanna and two poles, very warrior like. By the time I got to the next village Viloria he was sitting and waiting to tell me that the Albergue was full. His English was very good certainly better than my Japanese. He said the next albergue was three kilometres away but as we came out of the village there was a great empty vista in front of us and looking at him I said "must be Spanish kilometres which elicited another grunt and off he went poles a chugging. Well it wasn't too far but the next albergue was off the road a bit and at a village square in San Luis de Francia a lady ice cream vendor offered me a room but there was a drive involved and she already had a couple waiting so I decided to stick to my original game plan and push the final five kilometres to Belarado where I came upon the first albergue of three at four in the afternoon, complete with swimming pool, camping grounds and clean new dorms. I booked in, did my routine (shower and laundry) and then met an interesting guy from Belgium, Gontranh, who was a surrealist writer of novels and plays. We had supper together along with a far reaching discussion and then he turned in planning to leave at four thirty am because he liked to walk in the cool. He had been walking for over two months most of the way from Belgium. I had another drink and then some expensive Internet time (everything here is coin operated 1 euro for 20 minutes) before calling it a day and retiring to bed. There was a group of French bicyclists outside partying so once again I gave in to the ipod and fell asleep listening to a mix of Sandy Denny and June Tabor. to be continued |
Looking for the perfect gift? Give the gift of Flickr!
No comments:
Post a Comment