It was over really quickly, like, in minutes, and all returned to normal. Pamplona could go and sleep out their hangovers, and I made my way to Oviedo, by way of thumb.
Now there are many ways to Santiago, called Camino's. And the one I had chosen to walk is known as the Primitivo, as it was the first way to be walked, or so I've been told. As oon as I arrived, people were really friendly to me, asking if I needed help with anything, so sweet. After San Fermin I needed a day in the city to recuperate and prepare for the Camino. I got my Credential stamped at the local Albergue and got a bed in a huge building resembling a nineteen 40ties hospital. Albergues are inns, often funded by the local council, and vary from renovated barns, to fancy guesthouse like things to ancient monasteries where the caretakers often lovingly cook for you and treat you with great respect.
And so I started. Every day, the same activities repeated themselves. Getting up before the first light, meditate, eat, exercise, pack my bag, put sandals on, walk, rest, walk, drink water, walk oh man its hot, walk more, eat, walk, in silence, with others, walk on, until you get there. Somewhere, a bed, it doesn't matter, a place to rest. Shower, cook eat, stretch , sleep, repeat. Two weeks I walked, Mountains, lakes and forest pass by in a harmonious flow. from the high hills of Asturias to the lower lands of Galicia. Rugged sometimes, gentile at others. So many deserted villages one passes through, where only old ladies and men keep little gardens so cute. Am I still in Europe, is this really the EU? People ploughing a field by hand, not as some traditional crafts workshop, but for real, because they cannot get a tractor there. Guys moving hay by oxen, men using scythe and cickel, because its the way they've always done it, and it still works. Sometimes I felt like Spain is still coming out of the dark ages, having been contained in the Franco area, there is something quite heavy there that is hard to express but often felt. On an average day I would do between 30 and 40 km a day. My feet weren't too happy, but much better off than op many of my co pilgrims wearing shoes, with feet full of blisters. I had just one, which, to this day I do not understand why it was there, because it wasn't touching anything.
My sandels died though, after about 200 km. I tried to keep them alive for two days with string and electrical fencing wire, but in the end, it just went too far. Their replacements weren't half as good though, and were suffering their own complications rather too soon for my liking. I reached Santiago though, and that's what mattered. There is some real magic in this walking. Everyday, you walk, and every step brings you closer to the end. But every step, is just as important. The longer I walked, the clearer it became that this wasn't just another long walk, it had it's things to teach me. Santiago had never been my goal, actually, I hadn't had one. I just wanted to hike in the north of Spain, and the Camino seemed like the easiest way to go. But after Santiago, walking just another 88 km to Finisterre, I really started to feel the importance of this way, this walking, and the life that it encompasses. Finisterre is a long Peninsula jutting into the Atlantic ocean once believed to be the end of the world.These days, for many it is still the end of their journey west. Some have walked for months to get here. And than suddenly, one can go no farther. Sheer cliffs dive into the deep blue water, challenging one, further, still further. But, there can only be peace. Those many weary feet may now rest, limbs dangle and float in the mild waters of the inner bay. Wandering, now without backpack, aling the white sands of the strand, looking for.......that one familiar shell. That shape that we've been following for weeks, and now we understand. Yes, it's the centre, our own centre that we have reached, and from the silence we find there, we radiate back into the world.
Finsterre is a interesting town, where interesting people seem to stick around longer than others. Three days I made myself rest, for my body's sake. Fires at the beach at night, bathing in the Starlight, the large galaxy brightly overhead as we sang our songs of freedom. So lucky I've been, no rain in all those days I've walked, once a bit of refreshing fog, and such beautiful sunsets.
I can only recommend to go and experience it yourself. This was my first Camino, in this life, but I strongly doubt it will have been my last.
Day by day, I'm realizing that in a way, this is only a preparation, the beginning of a much larger voyage. But what? No, this in itself is already such an experience. Every moment, is precious, if we live it that way. Every day, a gift.
But, my way, goes ever west, south and west. So now, from Finistere, to Padron I hitched, and stayed in a wonderful Franciscan convent where I was the only guest, and drank, from one of the three medicinal springs in a valley full of peppers. Herbon, the actual village where I was, is known for it's small green peppers, that are always a subject of discussion. Will it be spicy, or not?!
I've reached the subtropics now it feels, with dade palms and banana trees here and there, and the cicades singing thru out the night.
Another day on the road and I found myself on the border of portugal, walking across a long brige into the most awsome entry to any country (this being number 64 or so) I've ever had. Entering a long gateway you rise up into a castle like fort of immense proportions. Truely medieval the whole thing, and so well maintained. Gosh, this Portugal is so much richer than Spain, look at all those fancy cars! But yeah, that entry was sooo nice, thick granite walls overhead and all around you. A winding tunnel with no less than 5 doors and formerly a portcullis.
I did another 3 days of walking here in Portugal. How better to expirience a country, than to hike through it. Endless winyards intercropped with cornfields. Many an hour one is walking through well odorous forrests of tall and aged ecalyptus trees. At times the connection to the other celtic lands can be strongly felt in the way even simple houses are built with just gigantic menhirs of stines and many a field is ringed by tirelessly stacked drystone walls.
So in the end, one comes to the suburbs of Porto. It was hot, it was monotomous and absolutely the most unatracctive part of the camino I've seen. Three hours of nothing but depilitated houses and industry, and not a shop in sight. Ok, a cafe than, one bunn with butter, 30 cents, two drinks, 1 euro 60, wow, this country is so cheap, amazing!
So to the last Albergue I came, a small house, surounded by modern office buildings, in a little valley. Beneath us gardens, and a spring where people wash clothes by hand. Seagulls, oh yes, so many. Can anyone doubt that they are surely very closely related to dinosaurs? Their akward skreaming, the way they open their lower beak only, oh surely, they be Dragons.
Porto, than, is a nice town, as is Portugal. It feelf much lighter here, The churches are full of happy tiles and colours, and people seem to be freeer than in Spain. I cannot understand what people are saying to me, but at least they mostly understand me when I throw my bastard Spanish at them.
Coming from a city where no patch of ground is left undeveloped very long, it strikes me as so strange that the old center of Porto is mostly abandoned, crumbling, and being overgrown by thick blankest of lovely purple flowering Bindweed. It' a bit like those lichen on rocks, that start as a spot, and than grow ever more outwards, to form circles. Only the tourists like the center now, while the real life of the city seems to play itself out in the fancy suburbs.
However, it's still got it's beauty. The narrow alleys forming a labyrint of amber walls and red tiled roofs, climbing the steep cliffs bordering Porto's natural harbour. The heat is getting to me, at times, while it's only 33 degrees yet. So I retreat, to one of the most amazing dorm rooms I've ever had. In a three tier bunk I'm sleeping right under the high rafters of a true tower, making me think of Hogwarz. High the beds, but higher the round and bare stone walls, rising high over the city.
Why does it give such a feeling of satisfaction to look down on other people in the street, going about their business? Is it the orange sunset, amplified by some of the many forrest fires at the moment raging not 20 km north of here? Is it the odd safety of hight, as I sit in the window sill? Oh silence, you are a true teacher indeed.
And now Boom is calling me in. In the Albergue, I met a fellow Boomster, and today the day we spent, washing, chilling, and getting ready for the great party.
It's getting so close now. And how much am I looking foreward to it. To be among the loving crowds, to make my feet dance to the music, and be in harmony with all that is.
The funky beach is calling me, and tomorrow, I will, for the first time this journey, hitch East.
