From Pamplona, I once more walked to Puente de La Reina, over the Alto del Perdón, to Estella, Los Arcos, Viana, where Cesare Borgia is buried, and Logroño, with its multitude of wine bars.
Leaving Puente de La Reina in the early morning sun, on the eleventh century bridge over the river Arga
From Logroño I went on to Navarette, Nájera, and Santo Domingo, where I once more stayed with the nuns, as we had done in 2014. Then Belorado, and Villafranca Montes de Oca, in the beautiful grand old mansion, where the owner and his son remembered me and treated me royally.
One of numerous huge stacks of strawPart of the road between Villafranca Montes de Oca and Monasterio de San Juan de Ortega
Finally, to Atapuerca and the long gruelling walk into Burgos, around the airport and the 10 km of concrete pavement through the industrial area, until finally reaching the jewelled heart of the city.
The ornate entrance to the cathedral plaza in BurgosBurgos cathedral
In Burgos, I stayed in a beautiful little apartment, opposite and managed by the Pancho Bar, where we had spent a riotous evening in 2014. When I made the booking, I did not realise the connection. The owner, his two brothers and sister are the core of the staff, and their tapas are excellent.
And it was in that bar that I spent another great evening.
Pancho Bar in Calle San Lorenzo
Burgos was to be the end of my Camino for 2016. The weather was turning distinctly colder, especially overnight, and it was time for this little bird to spread his wings and head south to a warmer climate.
But God willing, I will be back next year to walk another path across the glorious landscape of Spain.
It was a choice of either an easy day of 13 km to Navarette or 29 km to Nájera. Now my average pace of about 4 km per hour may seem rather pedestrian to athletic types, but believe me, with boots and backpack, over undulating terrain, on mud, rocks and occasional asphalt, 4-5 km per hour is what most people achieve.
Of course there are the rather irritating exceptions, going as far and as fast as they can each day, taking no time to ‘smell the birds or hear the flowers’. To them contemplation and inner peace are for the wimps.
On the Camino, most villages and every town had hospitals, that treated the sick and the injured pilgrims. Some of the hospitals still operate, some have been converted to other functions, and many are in ruin.
Ruins of the former pilgrim hospital ‘San Juan de Acre‘
After a relatively easy day of walking, I arrived in Navarette, and had no problem in finding a room. The village was not exactly crowded.
Rush hour in Navarette
And I spent a long and laid-back afternoon in the Bar Deportivo, eating tapas, sipping on glasses of local wine, and tapping away at my notebook. I was blissfully relaxed.
Tapas and wine – the good life
The athletic jocks don’t seem to know what they are missing.
Navarrete to Nájera (16km)
Tuesday, 3 April, 2012
Normally I set my alarm for 07h00 and wake up before it rings, by 06h30 at the latest, to hit the road early. That night I decided that the alarm was no longer required, and consequently slept in and woke up at 08h50, to find rain dripping on the window sill, and little visible, apart from some cars parked in the plaza below.
And all day it rained, never heavy, but with that persistent drizzle that chills, and somehow percolates ones supposedly rain resistant clothing. I arrived in Najera feeling thoroughly miserable: cold, wet, chilled through. And to cap it all, I had some difficulty in finding a vacant room.
But with persistence and asking several people, I was eventually directed to a very comfortable room, with a very reasonable price, in a back street under the cliffs. The house was owned by two very charming men of rather obvious sexuality.
The cliffs above Nájera
With snow flurries forecast for that day and the next ten, I had to recognise that I was poorly equipped for such conditions. So I went back into the town, and by pure luck I stumbled upon a little shop that had a waterproof jacket with a fleece lining, and at €38 seemed to me a bargain. And the old lady who sold it to me was delightful. I had fun talking to her.
Nájera To Santo Domingo De La Calzada (20km)
Wednesday, 4 April, 2012
So at 07h45 this morning, complete with my new jacket, my fleece, tracksters and hat, I emerged from the hotel, ready and prepared for whatever nature would throw at me. Despite the ominous forecast of the night before, to my surprise it was quite mild, and the fog and rain had been replaced by a beautiful spring morning. Weather forecasters can make fortune tellers and economists seem quite professional.
Within ten minutes and partly up the first hill, I was sweating and had to stop to take off my fleece. Another ten minutes and off came the jacket and the pack was noticeably heavier. Before the top of the long incline, off came tracksters, of course requiring removal and replacement of boots. Now I was comfortable, but cursing the weightier pack.
At the top of the hill, once removed from the shelter of the valley, the wind felt quite cold, and before long back on went the fleece and jacket, but my legs remained bare – it was too much hassle to fiddle with boots.
And for much of the day the dressing and undressing was repeated, depending on the state of the wind and sun. I felt like a male model at a fashion show. If I were ever to master mincing and pouting, I could have a new career as an aging clothes horse.
The cathedral in Santo Domingo de Calzada
Santo Domingo de la Calzada to Beldorado (23km)
Thursday, 5 April, 2012
When walking across Spain, one thing struck me; there were enormous swathes of cultivated land, but no farmhouses to be seen, the reason being that the farmers live in the villages and commute out to their farmland. This seemed to me as an imminently preferable arrangement, in that it gives much more social opportunities for the farmers’ wives and children, and brings added life to the villages.
The long and empty road
Until I eventually arrived in Burgos, this region gave me the impression of being rather left behind: remote, overlooked, forgotten. Yet the people were some of the most kind and friendly that I have ever come across. They reminded of Ulster country people: willing, honest, modest, with few pretensions.
Beldorado to San Juan de Ortega (26km)
Friday, 6 April, 2012
Once past Villafranca Montes de Oca, the path climbed to a plateau and for kilometre after kilometre there was nothing to be seen, except forest. It had rained heavily the night before and one had to trudge through thick clinging mud.
In the Middle Ages the area was quite remote and it had the reputation of being dangerous for pilgrims; they were preyed on by bands of thieves and robbers. The pilgrims had no resource to banks and ATMs; they carried their money on their person and were quite vulnerable, unless escorted by volunteer knights.
At one point the path passed a monument erected by the relatives of the 300 people shot by supporters of General France, soon after the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War in 1936. It was a grim reminder that not so long ago, the country was very divided. Some would say that it still is.
Monte de la Pedraja
Eventually the path descended into a valley and there I spent the night in the tiny village of San Juan de Ortega.
San Juan de Ortega to Villafría (17km)
Saturday, 7 April, 2012
When I set out next morning, the sun was shining, but soon darks clouds moved in and it turned much colder. Then the rain started and it continued to rain heavily all the remainder of the day.
On the outskirts of Atapuerca, I passed the archaological complex, where some of the oldest remains of man had been discovered, during the excavation of a railway cutting in 1976. The site contains evidence of continuous human occupation since over one million years.
After Atapuerca, the path climbed up to the Sierra and the rain turned to snow.
On the descent from the Sierra, the snow turned back to heavy rain, and it continued relentlessly. The long trudge around Burgos airport on the edge of the asphalt road was quite dispiriting, and I decided to stay at the first hotel I came across, enabling me to change into dry clothes and dry my wet gear.
Villafría to Burgos (8km)
Sunday 8 April, 2014
And finally Burgos; kilometre after kilometre of industrial area, before arriving at the well preserved heart of the old city – a jewel of parks, plazas, churches, overseen by the magnificent cathedral.
And the narrow streets, with their bars and restaurants, were filled with Easter Sunday celebrants.
Just before I left for Spain in March, I had read a book called La Sombra del Viento, by Carlos Ruiz Zafón. It was set in Barcelona and events that took place during the Spanish Civil War were central to the plot.
One of the central characters in the book went by the alias of Laín Caubert. Now I have a very good friend called Laín Burgos-Lovéce, who is from Santiago de Chile, and our friendship dates back to Caracas in the late 1970s. In all those years I have never come across another Laín, until that book. The name is apparently quite rare today.
Fast forward by a month and I was staying in Burgos. I had just checked into a small hotel and when I left the hotel to explore the surroundings, I noted the street names, in case I got lost. The street that I was staying on was called Calle de Laín Calvo. In Spanish ‘calvo‘ means bald, and that would certainly be an accurate description of my friend Laín today.
The street sign of Calle de Laín Calvo
So were Laín + Burgos + Camino de Santiago just a coincidence?
Perhaps it was a very positive sign that I was on the right path. I have no idea of where the path might lead, but I suspect that if I keep my mind open, I will come across more signs.
I arrived from Uppsala in the mid-afternoon, after an overnight stay in Bayonne, SNCF to Irun, local train to San Sebastian and finally bus to Pamplona. It felt great to be back in Spain, with the prospect of three weeks of walking from village to village. After several pictxos (tapas), each accompanied with a glass of local wine, I felt that life could not get much better.
And I slept soundly that night.
Pamplona to Puente de La Reina (23km)
Wednesday, 28 March, 2012
It was quite cool when I set out in the morning. The sun does not reach the narrow streets of Pamplona until much later in the day, and then only briefly. When Pamplona was still a fortress, the inhabitants were not allowed to build outside the city walls. So they expanded vertically.
The narrow streets of the old city
I started very slowly, as my bad leg did not seem enamoured with the prospect ahead. After some fifteen minutes I emerged into the already strong sun, to realise that I had left my hat in the hotel. So reluctantly I went back and forth once more. I really did not need the extra walk on what was not going to be an easy day.
Once out of Pamplona, the path was undulating, climbing to a col between a multitude of huge wind turbines, strung along the ridge for as far as I could see. The steep descent from the ridge was arduous, on stones that moved with each step. It seemed endless.
But once down from the ridge, the going was easier, passing through several picturesque villages, each with their church, which I imagine pilgrims in the past would have visited. Today the churches are locked, a sign of the times we live in.
Finally I arrived in Puente de la Reina where I would spend the night. This is where two pilgrim routes merge – the northern Roncesvalles route from Paris and the more southern Somport pass route from Toulouse.
Puente de la Reina, looking back to the wind turbines on the skyline
Puente de la Reina to Estella (22km)
Thursday, 29 March, 2012
It was once more quite cold when I set off in the morning, walking though narrow deserted medieval streets. That day there was a general strike in progress, and businesses had not opened.
It was Queen Muniadona, wife of King Sancho III, who built the bridge across the Río Arga, to aid the pilgrims on their way to Santiago de Compostela. She died in 1066.
The bridge over the Río Arga
For a more than an hour I walked on a path along the river before climbing steeply into the hills. It was soon very hot and remained that way all day; not a cloud and no shade. I passed through three villages, each on a hill. Nothing was open.
In one of the villages I met two old crones, each with her stout stick. They looked ancient. I asked them if they wanted to walk the camino with me. They cackled and said they had already done it in 1993, after they had buried both their husbands.
Puente Picudo felt like a steep climb to my tired legs
I was very tired when I arrived in Estella and walked straight into a bunch of heavily armed riot police about to charge a huge group of demonstrators. I made a hasty retreat and after much wandering, I found a hotel.
Estella to Los Arcos (21km)
Friday, 30 March, 2012
I set off at the usual time – shortly before nine, bracing myself for the long undulating trudge to the ridge that separates Estella from the next valley. After 45 minutes I came to Monestario de Irache, a former Benedictine monastery. The first documented reference to the monastery is from 958, but it is likely to have originated from much earlier. It is an imposing building, with huge doors shut, and all windows barred. Were they barred to keep the public out or to keep the religious in?
Monestario de Irache
Across the street from the monastery was a winery, and in a small courtyard was a wine fountain, for pilgrims only. Pilgrims can drink as much as they wish and also fill any spare bottles. Three old Spanish pilgrims were already there when I arrived, all looking much the worse for wear. I felt sorely tempted to join them, but found a hither unknown common sense, and kept on walking.
Once over the ridge there was no shelter from the unseasonably strong sun, just mile after mile of vineyards and recently germinated crops. The path was stony and dusty and I was relieved when Los Arcos finally came into sight. The spirit was willing, but my body had seen better years.
Los Arcos to Viana (19km)
Saturday, 31 March, 2012
The previous year, when I walked from St-Jean-Pied-de-Port in France to Pamplona, I saw several crosses by the path, most with pictures, and even some with quite fresh flowers. They were all of older people and I assume they died while doing El Camino. In the last few days I had seen three more. I cannot but believe that they died as they would have chosen; following their faith, in the open air, and walking in such beautiful country.
One of the common pruning methods in La Rioja
On that day I passed a quite old couple, having a picnic on the side of a hill, with an uninterrupted view across an expanse of vineyards. They were engrossed in their conversation and did not notice me. Later that day, when I was resting against a tree in an area of shade, I saw them again. They were walking along extremely slowly, hand-in-hand, like two young lovers.
If one of them were to die on El Camino, I suspect the survivor would erect a small cross and return each year to place some fresh flowers.
The main street of Viana, with the church of Santa Maria
Inevitably, Viana was on top of yet another hill, with a steep access road. On the long and narrow main street, I stopped at the church. Inside one can see the tomb of Cesare Borgia, the most famous of the Borgia clan and greatly admired by Macciavelli. The Borgias came originally from Spain and Cesare was one of the illegitimate sons of Pope Alexander VI. He was commanding the Basque army of King John of Navarre when he was killed, on 12 March 1507, in a skirmish outside Viana.
The paving stone commemorating Cesar Borgia
Viana to Logroño (9km)
Sunday, 1 April, 2012
When I emerged from the warren of streets of Viana and first saw the dark and intimidating mountains on the western horizon, I decided to have an easy day, and stay in Logroño on the way to Navarrete. And what a good decision that turned out to be, for Logroño proved to be a lively and prosperous town. It is the capital of La Rioja and very much a centre of the wine trade. Producing great wine is one of the few occupations that has not been outsourced to India or China, at least not yet.
On the way into Logroño, I was passed by a couple on horseback, with a dog, and en route to Santiago, with some 600k to go.
The bridge over the river Ebro
And the bridge at dusk
Later that day the owner of a bar told me that the previous year a pilgrim on horseback had passed through Logroño, having ridden from Switzerland.
James was the son of Zebedee and Salome, and together with his brother John, was one of the first disciples of Jesus. Legend states that after the crucifixion of Jesus, he went to Spain to preach and convert. Later he had a vision of the Virgin Mary and subsequently he returned to Judea. He died there in 44AD, decapitated under the orders of Herod Agrippa, the then King of the Jews. After his death, his disciples took his body back to Spain, where he was buried at a place somewhere inland.
The legend claims that in 813 his tomb was discovered in the town of Iria Flavia – today known as Padrón. Bishop Theodomira of Iria was informed, and after he told King Alfonso II of the discovery, the remains were moved to Compostela, for ostensibly political and religious reasons. A basilica was built over the tomb, and over the centuries this building evolved to the current cathedral.
The cathedral of Santiago de Compostela
By the Middle Ages Santiago de Compostela had become an important destination for Christians seeking forgiveness for their sins. It ranks equal with the other two important Christian pilgrimage destinations – Jerusalem and Rome.
In the early days of the pilgrimages to Santiago, much of Spain and Portugal was still under the control of the Muslim Moors, who were not finally defeated until 1492. In that era, the majority of the pilgrims were French.
For pilgrims, their route started from their door. They would make their way to the nearest town or city and join other pilgrims, for there was safety in numbers. One of the major staging posts was Paris and the church of Saint Jacques la Boucherie, close to Nôtre-Dame, on the north side of the Seine. Today only the church tower remains. And Le Puy-en-Velay was the main gathering point for pilgrims from the south and east.
The principal European pilgrim routes
As trickles form a stream, before joining to a tributary, and finally flowing into the main river, the pilgrims converged on Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port for what was the most convenient crossing of the Pyrenees to Roncesvalles in Spain. From there they went on to Pamplona, Logroño, Burgos, León and finally to Santiago de Compostela. And along the route hospitals and hostels sprang up, many of which still exist today.
The main towns on the Camino Francés
With the exception of recent years, undertaking the pilgrimage was not without risk. Not only were pilgrims liable to be attacked and robbed by bandits, but disease was rife, and many died on the way. Indeed, even today, though the route is quite safe and secure, there are still casualties, mainly due to physical exertion or from exhaustion in the prevalent heat of the summer months. One can observe many crosses and memorials by the path.
And one must not forget that in all but modern times, the pilgrimage was only half completed upon arrival in Santiago de Compostela; there were no buses, trains and planes to take one home, and the arduous outward journey had to be repeated in reverse.
During periods of war or plague, the number of pilgrims would have been greatly reduced, although some would have persisted, by taking the more challenging northern route that follows the coast.
Formerly the pilgrimage was undertaken for purely religious reasons, but for most people today, it has evolved to being a leisure activity. Modern pilgrims may be participating for the physical challenge, for the exercise, the fresh air, the experience, the opportunity for solitude, to meet other like-minded people, or for a host of other reasons. Some may complete the journey from end to end in one go, while others, who may have limited time or resources, progress in sections over a period of years.
Although most people complete the pilgrimage on foot, there is an increasing number of cyclists, and I even saw some people running from village to village. There were several accompanied by a dog and I was even passed by a couple on horseback.
Not everyone carries their possessions on their back. There are many who contract a specialist tourist agency to reserve accommodation along the route, and arrange for their bags to be transported from place to place. And at the other end of the scale there are the low-cost options of the albergues, with dormitories and the local restaurants with their ‘cheap and cheerful’ three-course pilgrim menu. As one Spanish family told me – ‘It can be a quite inexpensive holiday’.
Are many participating for purely religious reasons? I suspect that these days they are very much in the minority. And perhaps this is reflected in the fact that, apart from being open during their occasional mass, most churches and chapels in the villages are shuttered and locked.
Does the crypt under the cathedral in Santiago actually contain the remains of Saint James? Until the tomb is opened or x-rayed to reveal a decapitated skeleton, and I suspect that the Church will remain reluctant to ever give permission, it will have to remain a matter of individual faith.
But does the veracity of the legend really matter? Every year thousands upon thousands of people of all ages and all nationalities walk for weeks for hundreds of miles across a beautiful landscape in all weathers. That is surely no bad thing.
And if some of them benefit spiritually, that’s their bonus.
It was on a late Friday afternoon at the end of May 2014, when we arrived in Viana. We had been walking for seven days since we left Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port in France. The weather in that time had been quite ‘interesting’: torrential rain, sleet, snow, gale-force winds, flooded streams to cross, but then after Pamplona, perfect spring.
In my enthusiasm I was careless in the rock-strewn descent from El Alto del Perdón before Puente de la Reina, and ended the day with three nails on my numb foot bleeding and torn from the flesh and obviously going to be eventually shed. So having a rest day in Viana seemed like a great idea.
We did not wander far from the hotel until the next afternoon, when we explored the narrow little town, built in solid stone along the crest of a hill. There were a handfull of little bars and restaurants, all crowded. The streets were deserted and the shops closed for the afternoon break.
On a narrow street, parallel to the main street, and close to the cathedral we came across the bar Nagual. There was no sign. If it were not for the hint of a bright and verdant interior, one could be excused for having passed by unaware. But once enticed inside, the oak tree, the vine encircling the bar, the ceiling-high scene of a forest path and the bar laden with a wide selection of succulent tapas, alluded to a designer of excellence.
The owner was equally interesting with his black outfit, neatly trimmed black beard and his long salt and pepper hair tightly drawn back in a ponytail. When not serving customers he spoke to us of the interior design of his bar, of vegetarian food and of El Camino, which he had once completed. He showed us a shell tattoo on his wrist.
Later he told us of a bar in Logroño called La Taverna de Baco which had loads of Camino statistics on a wall. He was about to explain the significance of the name Nagual, when the bar filled and he was fully occupied. We left shortly after.
Two days later, when wandering around the narrow streets of the old district of Logroño, we were spoiled for choice for somewhere to have a glass of wine and some tapas; there were several streets of wall-to-wall bars and restaurants, most filled to capacity. In the end I chose one that was not so busy, but looked very inviting. It was not until we had sat down at a table and ordered that I noticed on the wall beside us a chart with a multitude of statistics of El Camino from 2009. And on the menu was the name of the bar – La Taverna de Baco. It was the very bar that we had been told of two days previously.
We probably stayed there for a couple of hours, snacking on various tapas and sipping on Rioja; Logroño is the capital of the Rioja region. Eventually I paid the bill and we were on our way to the door, when in walked the guy from the bar Nagual in Viana, together with an attractive woman and a young child. Although he obviously recognized us, he appeared to be not in the least surprised to see us there. We spoke for a short time and left.
It was not until after that the coincidences became apparent to me. We had walked into the bar without being aware that it was the one we had been told of. We had sat down at the only table that was next to the chart of Camino statistics, without initially noticing them. And to cap it all, as we were leaving, in walked the guy from Viana.
Coincidence? Perhaps, until recently, when I recalled the name of the bar in Viana, and did a search on the word ‘nagual’:
Nagual: a human being who has the power to transform spiritually or physically into an animal form. It originated in Mesoamerican cultures.
Was there something rather mysterious about the guy from Viana or have I just read too many of Paulo Coehlo’s mystic novels?
Belorado is a small village that lies between Logrõno and Burgos in northern Spain, on the pilgrim way to Santiago de Compostela. The location has apparently been inhabited since before Roman times.
On the way into Belorado we came across a sign stating that four hundred casualties of a local battle between local volunteers and the occupying army of Napoleon were buried beneath the ground on which we were standing.
Quite a sobering thought.
Plaque outside Belorado commemorating the 1810 battle
A little further on we came across the Albergue A Santiago and I took a room for the night.
Later, having a beer outside in the warmth of the evening sun, we chatted with two Frenchmen. They were of early retirement age and were on their fourth pilgrimage to Santiago. Walking from village to village for days and weeks on end can be quite addictive.
They told us of a sailor that they had recently met who had been involved in a shipwreck off Iceland many years previously. The sailor had sworn to the Virgin Mary that if he survived he would spend the rest of his life walking to Santiago de Compostela. He was subsequently saved and to date he had completed 25 pilgrimages, including one from Saint Petersburg in Russia.
It was not until later that I recalled having taken a photo in Logroño of a huge wall painting of an old man with body tattoos of the stamps of various Camino villages.
Was he the old sailor that the Frenchmen were describing?
The Irish Rover 