Pamplona to Cizur Menor
I didn’t walk from Pamplona, as I was feeling very shaky. I thought perhaps it was due to low
Lunch in Cizur Menor
blood sugar (the H’s hurt with each step) and I just couldn’t face even walking four miles. Carrie, Marie Anne, and I took a cab with Cameron’s pack too. In Cizur Menor was a lovely albergue, with a small pool filled with goldfish and turtles, blooming hydrangeas and other lovely foliage. It was more like a small resort. Julio cooked again and we sat outside and ate pasta. I was pretty tired and in bed by 8:30. I slept well until all the snoring started. I got up at 2 for the bathroom again, then at 3:10 and once more at 4. At 5:30 I gave up to handle my dental issues and have a cup of tea.
To Puente La Reina
We started out at 7:30 and walked approximately 8km, had a decent lunch, and walked through beautiful countryside that reminded me of Tuscany. We had to climb up another hill, and down a rocky path, but the view on both sides and around us was well worth it. Large fields, now empty and harvested, cypresses and blackberry bushes. My foot started to hurt and it was getting hot, but I will not complain.
Finally, we came to Puente La Reina. Beautiful old monastery. Upon arrival we were told that our backpacks hadn’t made it. Julio took over, helpful as usual, helping us immensely with language. We had the packs brought by taxi. Marie Anne and I tried to find a grocery store, but, it being Saturday and a fiesta for running the bulls, everything was closed. Lots of movement in town, with people sitting all over outside, picturesque houses again, with lots of flowers.
We went to see the old bridge and I took pictures. Got the rest of our little family and
Puente La Reina
went to see the bulls being run. A DJ played good loud music and Marie Anne and I danced. It was so much fun. Then the two little bulls came running up and down the street as young men tried to touch their horns. The bulls sure looked tired after a while, but it was all in good fun.
Julio found a store and we invited a young man who has been walking from England since June. Carrie has made a friend. An older gentleman and artist.
Estella
Estella. I call her the elusive, because I was under the impression that the town was only 19km from Puente La Reina, but the walk seemed to go on for a long time. Problem was we got a late start due to some miscommunication, so we were behind everyone. The path looked in some places like Douglas Pass, or in any case like the road to the Black Canyon. We walked up the hill and I was really breathing hard. When I reached the top, there was the little family giving me a standing ovation. Then
Julio interrogates an olive tree
we saw lovely vineyards, hills, olive trees, and figs. Julio picked some of each and offered them to me to make up for the lack of veggies. Later, Julio cooked a whole pot of pasta, which we shared with others.
My legs are sunburned and red like lobsters.
The Way of the Camino
The way of the Camino is such that everyone, regardless of nationality or religion, is
English lasses with ready medical supplies
immediately helping. The sharing and caring makes it so worthwhile. They don’t ask your interpretation of the Bible before they’re willing to help. No one holds himself above another. Sometimes the aid is as small as a band-aid. Other times, people stop and dig through their entire backpack to find what you may need. People call out a friendly “Hola!” when the pass, and everyone wishes you “Buen Camino”.
When I rest for a minute to catch my breath, the ones who pass always ask if I’m okay.
The Long Road to Los Arcos
Morning came early and we hurried to get started, as I could not face another day with most of the time in 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Our journey today will be 21km to Los Arcos. Again we made a good start in the cool morning mist. The stars were shining and we heard the click-clack of the walking poles. (I have two BFFs, Preparation H and ibuprofen). The many hills that I have to climb don’t elicit any more comments from me. It is what it is.
The last two-plus kilometers were really, really hot, and it was all I could do to place one foot in front of the other. Finally, we see Los Arcos, and I was soooo glad. (It turned out to be 24km).
When we got inside the albergue, Julio was already there, helping us with the credentials. The front desk was staffed with volunteers. When it was my turn, one of them barked at me, “Do you speak English?” I said “Yes”. Then she said, “Well, how come he” – Julio – “has to do this for you?” I didn’t understand her attitude or what she was getting at, and I said, “I’m sorry, but I feel really sick, and right now I can’t even manage my name.”
She looked at me and said, in the same tone, “What do you want me to do?”
I was so exhausted and in pain that this was all it took to make me tear up, and I said, “For what I have, there’s nothing you can do.” Tears flowed freely, and I wondered whether we had walked into a prison camp by mistake. Then my son took over and told her in no uncertain terms what he thought of her and her sour attitude. Then Julio, in Spanish, said many words. I stumbled off to find the dormitory before I collapsed, led by my son.
The Mourning Father
After a shower and a rest, I felt somewhat improved once more, and we decided to go and look at the cathedral. When we opened the heavy, ornate door, I stood speechless in front of the golden splendor and beauty. Gold, carvings, painted walls, and stunning decoration. As we stood to gaze at some statues, Cameron put his hand on my lower back, where the tumor resides, and I felt the energy, and I was choked up and couldn’t speak.
I lit five candles, for four of my loved ones who had passed, and for the son of my friend Pat, her only son, who died last year not long after his marriage. She misses him so. After he died, instead of giving her a card, I had given her a small, potted tree for her to plant.
We sat in silence in the pews, when suddenly, there was this grand voice, starting “Ave Maria”. We looked up in surprise, and I saw a lone man with both hands stretched before him, imploring the statute of Mary, who had her place of honor in the center of the altar. His voice was brimming with emotion, and I started to cry. I was remembering how violinists played “Ave Maria” at my brother Gunter’s wedding to Elfriede, and they were so beautiful and young.
Looking over at Marie Anne, I saw her crying too. Everyone had stopped to sit or stand and listen. Then the singer paused, and after a moment, he started another “Ave Maria”. He went on for over ten minutes. His voice carried, and the acoustics were phenomenal. By this time, I was no longer thinking that he was singing from religious devotion, but from some other emotion.
He came down, and people approached him to shake his hand and thank him for his beautiful gift. I also shook his hand and he said something in French, which I didn’t understand. I just placed my hand over my heart to let him know how he touched me. We walked to the courtyard and I was still wiping my face when I found out that he sang as a tribute to his son, who had died a short time ago, and that today would have been his birthday. I looked at him as tears streamed down his face, and there was such deep pain (I cry as I write this). I folded him into my arms and he sobbed, in English, “My son, my son”.
I could only touch my heart in silent communication. Everyone – Cameron, Julio, Marie Anne, and a few others – was openly weeping now. Later, when we returned to the albergue, we told the story, and everyone wanted to hear him sing. They were affected the same way.
