CAMINO, DAY 1: RONCESVALLES TO VISCARRET-GUERENDIAIN

Terry and I started our Camino today. Around 8 o'clock last night we arrived in Roncesvalles, a tiny village in the Pyrenees on the Spanish side of the border with France, tucked into the mountains and surrounded by rolling wooded hills. We had left Pamplona by bus about an hour and a half earlier and slowly made our way up along twisting roads into the mountains. When we arrived in Roncesvalles it was veiled in evening mist and abuzz with pilgrims, those who had walked the treacherous 22 kilometer route from St. Jean Pied a Port, some who had walked from other parts of France and Europe, and others, like us, who were planning to start their Camino the next day. It felt magical.

The town’s ancient buildings have been repurposed for the modern Camino. The albergue is in a converted Medieval monastery and our hotel was in a beautifully modified 17th century hospital. The imposing three-story structure had thick stone exterior walls and a lobby floor made of small stones inlaid in graceful floral patterns. Massive new wooden structural beams jutted through our top floor room, and Terry had to duck her head when walking to the bathroom from her side of the bed.

We had a restless night, awakened repeatedly by the pounding of torrential rain against the roof. The temps were only a few degrees above freezing and we were dreading walking 3 or 4 hours in such awful weather the next day. When daylight arrived, it was still raining steadily and over breakfast we decided to try to wait it out. Around 11 AM there was a break in the weather, and though the clouds were still heavy and dark we set out, hesitantly.

What followed was classic mountain weather, changing every few minutes. As we walked past farms and lumber-yards, through woods and fields, and through several charming centuries-old mountain villages, the sun broke through and disappeared, it drizzled and rained to varying degrees, and the wind was brisk and insistent.

We walked about 8 miles and now we're in a pension in a tiny village called Viscarret-Guerendiain. It’s raining steadily again, the heat’s just coming on, and we’re too chilled to go out and get some food even though we’re ravenous. I’m sure once we shower and warm up we’ll be game.

Our plan is to walk together for the first five days of the Camino and then Terry will head back to the States via Burgos and Madrid. I’ll accompany her to Burgos where we’ll spend a day together, after which I’ll return to where we stopped and continue walking. I hope to cover the entire length of the Camino Frances, about 500 miles or so, and arrive in Santiago in early July.

My emotions are swirling about. I’m excited, terrified, determined and thrilled to have the opportunity to do this. Since I retired earlier this year, walking the Camino has become my focus and I’ve been preparing for it all winter and spring. After lots of training walks and testing myself on local hills, I think I’m ready physically. But part of me still wonders if I’m undertaking a challenge greater than my abilities. 

CAMINO, DAY 2: VISCARRET-GUERENDIAIN TO LARRASOANA

Mud.

We walked nine miles today, but it was much more challenging than we had anticipated, mostly due to recent frequent and heavy rains.

After a simple breakfast of coffee and toast we dawdled and didn’t leave our pension until around 10 AM. It was misty and chilly but thankfully not raining heavily, and aside from a few light showers the rest of the day was damp but bright, with occasional cool winds. I figure next month, when the sun should be hot and unrelenting, I'll be craving such days.

The first six miles took us through a lush moss-floored forest, sometimes with views of the surrounding mountains and fields and sometimes under a canopy of trees, but most of the time we had to keep our eyes on the path. The downhill stretches were particularly treacherous, dangerously slick with mud. We made our way inch by inch, trying to keep our balance with unfamiliar backpacks, and fighting off visions of tumbling down a wet, rocky hillside.

We finally arrived at the town of Zubiri in early afternoon and crossed the triple-arched medieval stone bridge into the main square. (The bridge's name, Puente de la Rabia, comes from an ancient legend claiming that any animal led three times around its central arch will be cured of rabies.) In town we found a bar bustling with pilgrims and we were very happy to take off our packs. Lunch was simple, and after being hungry for hours, particularly delicious; ham and cheese sandwiched between potato and onion pancakes, water, coffee, and a shared apple torte.

Leaving Zubiri we had a long steady climb past a huge concrete factory and then through gentle farmlands and hills with flocks of sheep, grazing horses, and dilapidated crumbling stone structures. The walking was easier than in the morning, with fewer downhill stretches. We passed through a couple of tiny villages and finally made it to our pension--a room in a private home--in Larrasoana, an attractive, well-kept town. It took us nearly six hours to walk the nine miles, and now we're lying prone.

CAMINO, DAY 3: LARRASOANA TO ZIZUR MAIOR

How quickly the environments change in this stretch of the Camino. We started the morning--finally good weather!--by climbing out of the carefully maintained town of Larrasoana through fields and woods, past young wheat stalks blowing in wave-like motions, past graffiti-covered stone buildings in various stages of dilapidation, along a highway with cars zipping by at 70 mph, up some steep inclines, and, six miles later, we descended into the town of Arre, a suburb of Pamplona.

Then the walk became more urban. Past dwellings, shops, and parks, with graceful rows of pollarded trees lining the Sunday-quiet main road leading through Arre. At one point we passed a church square crowded with families celebrating a bunch of girls' First Communions. As we entered Pamplona we crossed the Puenta Magdelena, a 12th century stone bridge used by millions of pilgrims over the years, passed through the two massive city gates, and walked astride the dramatic stone fortifications that surround the city. In the historic center we stopped for lunch at a restaurant where we had had dinner on the eve of leaving for Roncesvalles and afterwards proceeded through and alongside several graceful and shaded parks, past modern apartment blocks and businesses, through the University of Navarra campus, and to the outskirts of the city.

We were very tired and still about 3K from our destination, Cizur Menor, when I realized I had mistakenly made reservations in Zizur Maior, the adjacent town. By the time we reached Cizur Menor Terry and I were both ready to take a taxi. We were at a loss so we stopped into a couple of bars to ask for help and after much confusion we were told no taxis were available but we were directed to the hotel. It was only about 2K out of our way, mostly past a long series of modern apartment buildings, but seemed much longer. Now we’re finally here and the hotel is clean, modern and comfortable. And a long hot shower has turned out to be great therapy for both mind and body.

We walked altogether around 13 or 14 miles, and despite the fact that the weather was near perfect--low 60s, brilliant sun, cool breeze, and low humidity--I'm exhausted. But exhilarated too. I'm looking forward to the wine or beer that awaits downstairs.

CAMINO, DAY 4: CIZUR MAYOR TO PUENTe LA REINA. ("I CANNOT WALK, IT IS TOO BEAUTIFUL")

As Terry and I began our ascent of the windmill-accented ridge several miles west of Pamplona, the cool morning air, strong sun, gentle breeze, waving fields, ubiquitous wildflowers, singing birds, and grand vast-skied vistas were almost tear-inspiringly transcendent. It was one of those moments when one's cognitive belief that it's good to be alive becomes a visceral "it's SO good to be alive at this very moment, in this place."

A few minutes later Terry came upon a young man sitting cross-legged next to his pack just off the path. He said in heavily accented English: "I cannot walk. It is too beautiful". 

That pretty much summed up the whole day for us. The views, the sun, the breeze, the light, the deep blues, greens and ochers, everything was perfect.  We walked 12 or so miles from Cizur Mayor to Puente la Reine along all sorts of paths with varying proportions of dirt and stone, a few stretches with steep ups and downs, through several villages. We're now showered and relaxing in our room on the upper floor of our nicely renovated simple and clean hotel situated in the middle of town, looking out at very old lichen-encrusted rooftops.

Of course it’s not all joy. We came across some folks whose motto for the day might have been "I cannot walk, my blisters are too bad". Though Terry and I have some minor foot issues, so far we've avoided anything serious.

One of the great things about the Camino is the sense of camaraderie among the walkers. Friendships are made and intimacies shared almost instantaneously. This afternoon I walked for a short while with a Canadian woman and within five minutes she was telling me about an experience she had two days ago. She said she's not religious, but when she came across a shrine that consisted of a bunch of quickly crafted crosses left by pilgrims, she decided to leave one in memory of her father who had passed away 15 years ago. She said she unexpectedly burst into tears, and she said she was holding back tears telling me about it.

CAMINO, DAY 5: PUENTE LA REINA TO ESTELLA

Many of you know the history, but in case not, a very brief sketch: The Camino de Santiago de Compostela is an ancient Catholic pilgrimage route, the goal being the Cathedral in Santiago where the bones of St. James (Sant Iago) are supposedly interred. At the time it started to become popular in the 9th Century, there were three principal pilgrimage destinations for the faithful--Jerusalem, Rome, and Santiago. After the Crusades, Rome and Santiago became the two most popular destinations. Feeder routes from France, Switzerland, Germany, and other parts of Europe developed, many leading across the Pyrenees to the route I'm on now, the Camino Frances, the last 500 miles across northern Spain on the way to Santiago. Towns and villages grew up along the way in the ensuing centuries to support the hundreds of thousands of pilgrims that undertook the journey each year, and eventually several large cathedral cities emerged and evolved, Pamplona, Burgos, Leon, Astorga and Santiago.

People undertook the pilgrimage for a variety of reasons. Devotion, penance, and redemption, in lieu of prison (hence the tradition of stamping a pilgrim passport to prove one actually made the journey), for economic opportunity, and surely for a host of other reasons. According to James Michener, pilgrims in the medieval era reputedly had only four possessions, a heavy cape to protect against the weather (I assume some sort of undergarment was worn, but that's just a guess), leather sandals, sometimes with wooden soles, an eight foot wooden walking stick, and a large gourd attached to the stick for carrying water. It was a very risky undertaking and many people perished along the route, and there are remains of early pilgrim hospitals and cemeteries all along the way. Mock funerals were sometimes held before the pilgrims left their home towns because it seemed likely they wouldn't return.

People today do it for a variety of reasons as well, though most are carrying high tech clothes and backpacks and smart phones and iPads with which they access the Internet via wifi virtually everywhere along the route, and then they fly back home instead of turning around and retracing their steps. Folks today do it as a spiritual quest, to test their bodies and endurance, because they're history or architecture or art lovers, because they want to see what it's like to walk across an entire country, or as tourists because it's now a popular thing to do. Many people undertake it during a transitional period of their lives, after the death of a spouse, after or even during an illness, upon graduating college, in the midst of a change in career, at retirement. I suppose there are some devout Catholics who do it in the original spirit, but they seem to be a small minority of those on the path.

But there's nothing like walking 13 miles with a little blister and foot pain to get one wondering "Why the hell am I doing this?"

We watched the movie "Wild" on the flight over. (It might not have been the best movie for me to have watched because I was already nervous about mangling my feet.) It seems she undertook her trek as a way of running away from and purging her past. That's not the operative motive for me. I feel more like I'm moving towards something, but what it is I'm not exactly sure. I've always wanted to walk across an entire country, to feel the subtle and not-so-subtle changes in terrain, weather, people, culture, food and architecture as I go. But is there more? It's something I found myself thinking about a lot today and it's a subject I suspect I'll explore more in days and weeks to come.

Highlights of today's walk: Crossing the famous and beautifully proportioned thousand year old bridge on the way out of Puente la Reina, a town where two pilgrimage routes converge, the Camino Frances and the Camino Aragonese. Approaching the town of Cirauqui, which could be seen from different perspectives over quite a distance; the sky was generally overcast but intermittently the town's buildings were eerily lit by the sun breaking through the clouds. And arriving in Estella, a town with lofty churches and fortifications, walking over the river in the center of town on an ancient steep-stepped stone pedestrian bridge, and finding our beautiful hotel with an expansive and luxurious shower and the most comfortable bed so far. And the front door of the hotel is  just across the street from one of those massive stone fortifications, lit at night.

Starting tomorrow, I'll be taking a break from the Camino, as planned. Terry's five days of walking are done and we'll be traveling by bus to Burgos tomorrow, spend the next day there, and then she'll go on to Madrid and fly home and I'll return to Estella where I'll restart my Camino, on my own. A new experience lies ahead.

CAMINO, DAY OFF: LOGRONO BUS STATION EN ROUTE TO ESTELLA.

Inspiration or insanity?

I met a guy at the Burgos bus station this morning. 38 year old man on his six week vacation from a town job painting public buildings outside of Barcelona, doing the Camino for the third time. Friendly and warm with super clear blue eyes and a relentlessly positive spirit. I saw his foot was heavily bandaged and asked him about it. He had walked from Roncesvalles to Burgos in 7 days, more than 25 miles a day, quite a feat. But then he took a fall and seriously hurt his ankle (couldn't understand exactly, something about a tendon?) and was taken by ambulance to a hospital in Burgos where he spent two nights, then last night in an albergue. And now he was going back to the place he stopped to continue walking!!!!!!!!!! He said it's all mental, that he will overcome the pain. I think he's nuts, he could do serious damage, but yikes what an attitude. I'm humbled. No, I would never do such a thing--he could permanently do himself in--but I will keep him in mind when I feel sorry for myself dealing with a little foot pain.

CAMINO, DAY 6: ESTELLA TO LOS ARCOS

I found myself crying inexplicably twice in the last 24 hours. First on the bus from Burgos back to Estella yesterday when I finished reading a small gem of a book, "84 Charing Cross Road" by Helene Hanff, essentially a love poem to bibliophilia and London. And then in the middle of the night when I couldn't get back to sleep as I read a moving and difficult childhood memory posted by an old White Plains friend on Facebook.  Partly I think it's because Terry and I said goodbye for seven weeks, which despite my decades of travel as a rare book dealer will be the longest time we've been apart in 39 years. But it's also because this experience is causing my emotions to bubble up to the surface.

And then this morning a woman asked if she could join me at my table for breakfast. After the preliminaries--she's a 60-something retired respiratory therapist from central Pennsylvania--I asked her what her motivation was for doing the Camino. She said her husband died 3 years ago and since then she's been doing extreme stuff, skydiving, a marathon, and now the Camino. Tears were streaming down her face as she spoke. It was awkward, unexpected, and powerful. Ten minutes later we said goodbye and Buen Camino and I have no idea if I'll ever see her again. So it isn't just me.

The walk today, at the risk of using up my quota of superlatives, was gorgeous. Leaving Estella there was a gradual five mile climb, and half an hour in I came across and drank from the famous wine fountain--before 7 AM--at the ancient Monastery of Irache in Ayegui, just outside Estella. 

The path wound about 6 miles uphill through a couple of small towns and offered views looking back at Estella and the surrounding mountains. The weather was cool, overcast and blustery, but eventually the sun burned off the clouds and by early afternoon it was perfect--60s, low humidity, a cool breeze.

Then there was an 8 mile stretch with no food or water. I had bought some local ham, cheese and bread at the last town and at around 1 PM I stopped and sat by the side of the path and feasted and drank water. It was really delicious after 10 miles walking in the fresh air.

Now I'm in the small town of Los Arcos, in a very basic but clean room in a simple pension, showered and resting. I can't say that the 14 miles I walked today was exactly easy, but I feel less enervated than I would have expected. For the first time today I felt viscerally that, yes, I can do this!

CAMINO, DAY 7: LOS ARCOS TO VIANA

No tears today, but lumps in the throat. As I left Los Arcos shortly after 7:30 this morning in the brisk air and under a fast moving sky I felt great gratitude. I couldn't believe how fortunate I am to be able to do this walk. To have the physical health, freedom, and means to do this is an amazing gift.

And then later in the morning I met and walked with a couple for about an hour. He, a 65 year old former veterinarian with a long pony tail, she an attractive 60-something still-working nurse; ex-hippies living in Washington State educated at Stanford. They had started planning to do the Camino about a year ago, but eight months ago he got Toxic Shock Syndrome. He was hospitalized for three months and given a 25% chance of survival; at one point his heart stopped for 25 minutes and they were just about to give up on CPR when it started beating again and he suffered some brain damage and is almost completely blind. He's had six operations, the last skin graft didn't take, and he still has a hole in his abdomen that his wife patches every night. AND THEY ARE DOING THE CAMINO!!! It was a beautiful thing. They walked excruciatingly slowly, she leading him and warning him about each stone. Some days he takes a taxi and she walks, some days he manages to walk. Are there more people out there than I can imagine overcoming seemingly insurmountable obstacles to lead the lives they desire?

In order to keep my health and spirits strong I've decided to split each of the next two "stages" in two. They're both long and challenging and daunting. So today I did a little shy of 12 miles and I'm in Viana, and tomorrow I should have an easy day, just about a 7 mile walk into Logrono.

Today's walk was more challenging than yesterday's, but no less beautiful, through misty rolling farmlands and a few quaint villages. There were a few really steep and treacherous ups and downs, but thankfully they were short. The sun appeared and disappeared, creating wonderful shape-changing patterns on the fields, threatening clouds neared a couple times but held their rain, and the colors were intense against the grey.

CAMINO, DAY 8: VIANA TO LOGRONO

There was something almost reassuring about the rather drab walk I took today. From the first 80 miles or so one could get the impression you are walking through a movie set, an idealized recreation of the fantasy of Spain, with gorgeous rolling farmlands, perfect villages and towns all preserved in rich centuries' old detail with enough of a rough patina to make it believable, and of course the beautiful city of Pamplona.

But walking into Logrono you see the detritus of modern life. The path goes through industrial areas, past warehouses and factories, along busy roads, and through scruffy underpasses, some strewn with garbage. Against the relief of what I've walked through so far, it was quite a contrast.

The perimeters of most of the towns and villages, and Pamplona for that matter, have been well defined. It's almost like a line is drawn around the town and people live inside the line and grow things outside it. This is of course a vestige of the medieval era, when the need for defense defined the perimeters, but it's remarkable how much it's still in place. Logrono's not like that. Yes, there's a lovely old inner core, but apartment blocks and commercial structures are sprawling all around the city.

The walk was short and easy today, just under 8 miles, and I left Viana late and arrived here within 3 hours. After showering and washing some clothes I went out for some lunch and to explore the city. There are some grand old churches, public buildings, and plazas--a substantial city--but what struck me most was that many men were sitting around drinking in the middle of the afternoon. Several were quite visibly drunk, and others were sleeping it off on park benches. A function of the horrific Spanish economy? Or something particular to this town or to this day? I haven't seen that before.

CAMINO, DAY 9: LOGRONO TO NAVARETTE

The walk across Logrono, much of it the antithesis of what I had seen earlier, made me love the Camino even more. Of course I want to experience the idyllic countryside and the near perfect villages with just enough decay to add to the charm and the towering architecture of grand churches and ancient royal buildings. But I also want to feel the full experience of walking across a real country, callouses, scars, and all.

So I welcome seeing warehouses and factories and empty lots and power lines and apartment blocks scruffy and manicured, and the bustling commercial districts with signs and billboards and gleaming shop windows, and walking not only on dirt paths but also on narrow highway shoulders with cars and trucks and busses zooming by.

Leaving Logrono this morning was all of that. It was the least well-marked part of the route so far and I made a few wrong turns, but my puzzled looks were answered by local folks gesturing me in the right direction. Leaving town the path goes through a park active with runners, bikers, dog-walkers, strollers, and pilgrims, and along the reservoir for the town. Then it was back through vineyards and farmland on the way to Navarette, where I am now.

I had a disturbing experience about a kilometer outside of Navarette. This time of year there's an amazing amount of airborne seed pods flying through the air. It's almost like blustery snowfall some of the time, and occasionally the earth is covered in a thick layer of off-white fluff. As I was walking a gust of wind sent hundreds of them in my direction, and one flew into my mouth and I inhaled it. I couldn't stop coughing violently and felt as if I were choking to death. I threw off my pack and for several minutes had a hard time catching my breath. I must have been a sight, with liquids streaming out my eyes and nose and mouth. A middle-aged British couple who I had passed earlier and had been kind of cold and standoffish was walking a couple of hundred yards behind me and must have seen the whole thing. By the time they got to me I had finally gotten control of myself, and as they approached I told them I had inhaled a seed pod. Well, they didn't even slow down as he said "hmmm, rawther unpleasant, that", and walked right by. Hmmm...

CAMINO, DAY 10: NAVARETTE TO NAJERA

After my little choking incident yesterday I was feeling vulnerable, lonely and fragile. My chest muscles hurt from the coughing spasms, my bad shoulder felt strained, my blisters were bothering me and I was feeling sorry for myself. So I checked into the first hotel I came to on the outskirts of Navarette, holed up in my room, did my daily washing of socks, underwear and t-shirt, attended to my feet, and did seven New York Times' crossword puzzles on my iPad, Monday through Sunday. And then, uncharacteristically, got a really good night's sleep.

I woke up in a much better mood. The hotel had a generous breakfast buffet and I loaded up on eggs, cheeses, bacon, breads, fruit, and several cups of good, strong, bitter coffee. When I stepped outside to the hotel's huge, lush grounds dotted with with giant ceramic vessels used as both planters and sculptures, the air was startlingly brilliant, cool, low humidity, and a steady breeze was blowing the cumulus clouds swiftly through a lapis sky. After yesterday's adventure I was wary of inhaling, but when I did I felt like I was breathing in vitamins straight from the source.

And today's walk, from Navarrete to Najera, was once again mostly idyllic, 10 miles or so through the famous La Rioja wine country, across rolling hills and vineyards set against a backdrop of green mountains. Yes, there were some highways visible from time to time and on the way into Najera there were some factories and apartment blocks, but most of the time it was serene, with birds chirping and earth underfoot.

I love the solitude of the walk, being lost in my thoughts and drinking it all in. And I love being startled from my reverie as another pilgrim says "Buen Camino" as he or she speeds by me.

I walked with an Irish character for a short while today, a hyper-energetic, wildly gesticulating man vaguely about my age, with an enormous face made even larger by bushy-to-the-chin sideburns. Ultimately he was too fast for me and he scooted ahead, but in the few minutes we were together he unironically tried to persuade me that drinking water is bad for you, that it bloats you and slows you down. Beer, orange juice, and biscuits are all you need, he said. Judging from his surfeit of energy, it seems to work for him. For the time being, though, I think I'll keep drinking water.

In the middle of a long stretch, an enterprising entrepreneur had set up a stand selling fresh orange juice. As I approached I heard the strains of Dylan's "Hurricane" blasting from the stand, and it seemed so strange to me, hearing this song in the middle of wide-open sun-drenched vineyards in Spain. So when I passed by I waved and said "Bob Dylan!" The OJ seller gave me a huge thumbs up, smiled, and repeated "Bob Dylan!" really energetically. For some reason that made me very very happy.

CAMINO, DAY 11: NAJERA TO SANTO DOMINGO

Maybe the most beautiful day of the Camino so far. Just under 14 miles from Najera to Santo Domingo de la Calzada on smooth wide dirt paths through gorgeously undulating farmland, with interlocking patchworks of different colored crops making the whole day seem like a giant living abstract painting; Richard Diebenkorn, the West Coast painter and master of color, and Nicolas de Stael, the School of Paris abstractionist, came to mind. And all under a solid blue sky with strong sun, just cool enough to make it the weather of my dreams.

And unlike the several previous days it was a social hike. I walked most of the day with a lovely 40 year old woman from New Jersey, a social worker taking a year off to try to figure out the next phase of her life. Spending three months at a Zen Buddhist retreat in Vermont, visiting a bunch of friends in various parts of Europe, and doing the Camino are among her adventures for the year. Curiously the first thing she said to me was "Are you Jewish?" and when I said yes she said "Oh good, you're the first Jewish guy I've met here." A strange introduction, but it turns out she's first generation Ecuadoran who grew up in an all Jewish neighborhood and she was a riot. And we walked for a few hours with a man from San Francisco roughly the same age, a clinical psychologist doing the Camino for the second time; two years ago he did it in 28 days! We had a blast, with animated conversation the whole time. She's been unlucky in love and at one point she said, wait a minute, I'm looking for love and I'm walking all day with a gay guy and a guy who's been married for 35 years?

And a touching encounter yesterday. I had arranged a private room in the albergue in Najera and was checking in when a somewhat exasperated looking German couple pushed ahead of me in line. I had a reservation and wasn't in a rush so I let it be, and the woman behind the desk, seeing what had happened, gave me a knowing look. Later I was about to shower and there was no soap. I asked the woman if I could buy some body soap and she said please wait five minutes. When she came with the soap I asked what I owed and she said, no, nothing, and turned to leave. Then she turned back around and said, oh yes, you owe me two kisses. I kissed her on both cheeks and we exchanged warm smiles. A lovely moment.

And now I'm in one of the nicest hotels I've ever stayed in, the Parador de Santo Domingo Bernardo de Fresnada. I thought I was splurging at 65 euros for the night, but what a bargain. The exquisite building is a former convent and university dating from the medieval era, restored magnificently, now housing the hotel and an art restoration laboratory. Early Spanish paintings and prints adorn the walls in the lobby and halls, the entry floor is inlaid stone in floral patterns, and there are fine examples of 17th and 18th century furniture throughout. What a heavenly surprise!

CAMINO, DAY 12: SANTO DOMINGO TO BELORADO

Two really terrifying stories, one with some sort of redemption, are being shared along the route; I've now heard them both from multiple sources. The first is particularly shocking; a woman walking alone has gone missing and is assumed to have been abducted. This was my worst nightmare fear when my daughter Rachel walked the Camino alone in 2008. I lost a lot of sleep over it, but every blog and every story about women walking alone was always reassuringly positive and emphasized how safe it was. This story has understandably sent shock waves through the circuit. Women walking alone are now advising each other to join up and walk together. There has long been a sense of safety and security here, a sense that everyone is looking out for each other. At least to some degree, that security bubble seems to have been punctured.

The second piece of news kind of parallels the movie "The Way". Apparently two couples (described as "older", but I'm not sure what that means--70s? my age?) set out together from St. Jean Pied a Port, and one of the men died of a heart attack while attempting to cross the Pyrenees. The body was taken back to St. Jean, where it was cremated. And the wife and the other couple decided to continue their pilgrimage. I'm pretty sure I would have opted to run back to some sort of safety and security or at least familiarity, but what a bold way to mourn and honor her husband. I wish her strength and resilience and not too much pain.

I got a late start on today's walk--I didn't leave until close to 9:30--partly because I wanted to savor what was one of the most beautiful hotels I ever slept in. Not that my room was particularly large or well-appointed, but the public areas were just astounding, with gorgeous stone work, soaring spaces, and beautiful art and furniture. I had breakfast in another grand and beautiful part of the complex, and loaded up on eggs, bacon, cheeses, good bread, and rich coffee. I really didn't want to leave that place.

I stepped outside to completely different weather. The sun and air yesterday were my fantasy ideal, when just sitting outside eased my muscles and bones and made me feel that all is right in the universe. Today was damp and chilly with a fine mist that over the hours made my clothes wet and cold. The landscape was again beautiful, lush and stark at the same time, but today the route was adjacent to a highway for a number of miles, so it didn't have the idyllic away-from-it-all feeling so present yesterday.

I managed to walk the 14 miles across the hills from Santo Domingo de la Calzada through several very small villages to Belorado, but not without some difficulty. Danged blisters. My spirit and the rest of my body were gung-ho, but my toes were saying wtf are you doing? I wasn't the only one in that predicament, and in fact I walked with several people whose day was compromised by pain.

Now I'm in a private room in an albergue that might win the award for least charm and character on the Camino. Feels like a Motel Six. But don't get me wrong, I'm deeply appreciative of having a room, a shower, wifi, and the conveniences of modern life. And they have a pilgrim's dinner starting soon, so hopefully the company will let the background fade away.

CAMINO, DAY 13: BELORADO TO VILLAFRANCA

Is it possible to die from an overdose of beauty?

Yesterday afternoon, feet hurting, I stopped at the first albergue I came to on the edge of Belorado, so until this morning I had no idea how charming the town is. I left early today under a cool grey sky and walked across the town in its early quiet and saw an amazing display of storks' nests at the top of a church. The nests are architectural wonders, massive and monumental.

I'm not of the school that believes one must experience pain to enjoy pleasure, but sometimes they're surely intertwined. Today was such a day. I kept my walk modest--only seven miles or so--for fear of doing further damage to my feet and because I wanted to be sure to have a bed; the albergues and pensions are filling up earlier in the afternoon as the season gets busier.

But what a walk. The air, the sun burning off the grayness, the rolling landscape with untold numbers of Nike swoops, the shades and hues of greens and browns and ochres, the silence and solitude, put me into a state of meditative bliss. I walked slowly--it took me four hours--but I had some of those moments of perfect melding of body and spirit and landscape and movement. The euphoria had me holding back tears.

Or were the held-back tears for my feet? I, like so many other folks, am having blister problems. I treat one blister, and because I'm favoring one part of the foot, another pops out. It's interesting though. If I stop walking and start up again it feels like there's just no way I can walk. But after a hundred yards or so I guess the adrenaline kicks in and the pain dissipates and becomes tolerable. 

I scored a private room with shared bath in a very basic pension, 18 euros, in the small village of Villafranca Montes de Oca, about halfway through this stage. I'm now sitting outside--no wifi in my room--in the cool dry sun-drenched air, just having treated my feet, and feeling lucky. One thought I had today is that I have the spirit and soul of an intrepid adventurer, but I have the feet of someone who should be studying Talmud.

CAMINO, DAY 14: VILLAFRANCA TO AGES. DEATH AND LIFE

Well, I was pretty sure my post today was going to focus on blisters and foot pain and the body's and mind's mechanisms for coping and overcoming. But after about 10 minutes of climbing the steep hill on the way out of Villafranca I nearly caught up to a couple of women walking in front of me and heard random pieces of their conversation. The words included funeral home and cremation and embassy and, well you may have guessed it, one of them was the woman who lost her husband on the first day of their Camino. Not exactly husband--they had lived together 12 years and were as good as married--but not officially. Which was causing all sorts of problems with legal authorities and death certificates and all the officialdom of death.

I ended up walking the ensuing remote 11 mile stretch through the woods with them and it was a delightful encounter, positive and animated and fun. We shared stories and laughter. Both women are devoted world travelers who have walked all over the planet, Peru, the Alps, England, Nepal, the USA. The other woman, a retired school teacher from Long Island, lost her husband a number of years ago and has since set up a non-profit to build schools in Nepal and was there just two weeks before the recent disaster. And the woman who lost her partner is a heavy hitter, formerly dean of the Duke Law School and the recently retired President of the Claremont Colleges, now living in Santa Barbara. Both brilliant and quick and full of stories. Our walk together was a powerful affirmation of life. I stopped in Ages because I was concerned about getting a bed; they had hotel reservations in the next town. We parted all thanking each other for the company and hoping to see each other further down the road.

I guess writing about blisters will have to wait. By the way, the guy who died--indeed it was a heart attack and indeed his body was cremated--was named Larry.

CAMINO, DAY 15: AGES TO BURGOS

When I was a young kid my parents had a volume of cartoons by an artist embedded with GI's on the front line slogging through Europe in the Second World War. I read it again and again when I was 6, 7, 8, and I was particularly struck by the many references to hurting feet, bad boots, and trading packs of cigarettes for dry socks. And Mark Helprin, in his terrific WWI novel "A Soldier of the Great War" posits that one can predict which soldiers will survive the war and which ones will die by whether they have hard tough feet or soft ones.

I think I can relate.

Thank you everyone for your blister advice. I've tried pretty much everything, greasing, patching, draining and treating with iodine, changing socks in the middle of the day, but nothing seems to be solving the problem. I attribute it to good old genetics.

And blisters made today's walk a bit of a struggle. Much of the 14 miles was on ok terrain, but it still hurt. There was about a two mile stretch that was the most treacherous part of the walk so far (even worse than the mud outside Zubiri). An ascent and descent on rutted, uneven earth, a lot of it with deep impressions of tractor tires presumably made in the mud that then hardened in place, all with embedded stones large and small over every square inch so there were just no flat spots to place one's feet. Really tough. And then the last couple of miles of the endless entry into Burgos in the 85 degree sun had me drooping pretty low. My backpack felt like I was carrying a house.

And after yesterday's remarkable social interaction, today's were disappointing but brief. I thought of a friend's caricatures of political correctniks in hippie-infused Eugene, Oregon. First a woman from whom I got a holier-than-thou vibe from before she even opened her mouth. She proceeded to wax poetic about her 15 days on the Camino and said Burgos is where she's finishing her walk and then she'll go back to Australia. I asked if she'd come back some day to continue the walk. She said "I'm trying to live every moment in the present and I don't want to think about the future." I said I need to take a break and I let her go ahead. Then there was an Englishwoman with whom I was chatting for a few minutes while strolling and when we rounded the bend a factory came into sight and she said how awful to see such a thing. I said something to the effect that I don't mind, after all we're crossing a real country in real time. I think she though I was nuts. I needed to take another break. And then there was the American woman at a bar I stopped at who said blisters were a gift from God and we shouldn't question His ways. Ok. I'm afraid I haven't yet had that flash of religious enlightenment that makes me completely non-judgmental of others and love humanity in all its foibles. Give me a few more weeks.

The day was redeemed as usual by the rolling hills, the panoramic views, the sun burning off the morning cloud cover and the mists rising off the distant mountains, the villages with their wonderful walls and doors and shadows, the evocative urban grit on the outskirts of the city, and the beauty of the center city as I inched closer to my hotel. And the fact that I've made it all the way to Burgos!

After sleeping, I mean not sleeping, with seven others in cramped quarters last night, and after being startled awake the night before in my funky pension at 1 AM by a couple fighting with each other in a room down the thin-walled hall and then not being able to go back to sleep, I checked into a luxurious hotel in central Burgos. I'm here for two nights and I'll be taking tomorrow off. That means I don't have to put my shoes back on for about 40 hours, and come to think of it I don't have to move either.

CAMINO, DAY OFF: BURGOS

I've long been a fan of 16th and 17th century Spanish still life painters, particularly Juan Sanchez Cotan. His depictions of fruits, often lit against dark backgrounds, work a strange magic on me. They're austere, glowing and luscious at the same time. Winding my way through the streets of Burgos I came across several fruit sellers whose wares were beautifully displayed. Though Sanchez Cotan's compositions were nothing like this--his often featured only a few items with a lot of space between them--I got a visceral sense of where his inspiration came from.

CAMINO, DAY 16: BURGOS TO TARDAJOS. "CLIMB LIKE AN OLD MAN, ARRIVE LIKE A YOUNG MAN"

Well I had a "blast" in Burgos the last couple of days, luxuriating in doing very little, staying in two nice hotels (I changed to save a bit of dough), and not wearing a backpack or shoes. I did walk the beautiful streets some, watching people and loving the buildings, and the high point was a visit to the cathedral. Unlike many European cathedrals whose ground plans tend to be based on the cross, the Burgos cathedral is decentralized and you wander through chapel after chapel in a seemingly haphazard order, all decorated opulently in a melange of styles by artists ranging from the medieval era to the 18th century, one as grand as the other.

After a couple of days off, I felt uncertain when I put on my shoes and pack this morning, but I quickly got into the rhythm. Leaving Burgos was so different from approaching it. On the way in you first walk alongside the airport on the outskirts of the city, then through several miles of urban grit, with factories, warehouses, car dealerships, repair shops, and heavy traffic, then a couple more miles through an attractive modern part of town, before finally coming to the glorious old section with its ancient buildings, some stone, and others stucco painted all sorts of pastel hues. On the way out you walk through a huge municipal park, beautifully maintained, then through some clean modern suburbs, past the University of Burgos, and much more abruptly, back to the natural environment. Not idyllic--there are power lines, occasional buildings, and nearby roads--but you're back out in the country.

My walk was only about seven miles today, but I'll add a couple more because my albergue is a ways off the Camino, and outside of town. I have the luxury to be able to walk short days. When I arranged this trip I gave myself loads of time to do the walk. For one, I wanted to savor it rather than swallow it whole, take pics, write, and not feel rushed. Also, I was concerned about my stamina and endurance. So many people are having to keep to demanding schedules, walking with injuries, and in some cases at least, enduring rather than enjoying it. I'm like the proverbial tortoise, plodding along, sometimes doing half stages per day, stopping when I need to, and hopefully I'll cross the finish line in one piece. My friend Rich told me on his Camino that he heard a phrase that roughly translates to "climb like an old man, arrive like a young man"; I've changed "climb" to "walk" and it's one of my mantras now.

CAMINO, DAY 17: TARDAJOS TO HONTANAS. "WITH A WIDE OPEN COUNTRY IN MY EYES AND THESE ROMANTIC DREAMS IN MY HEAD..."

Bruce Springsteen's lyrics floated through my head as I walked the exquisite, mostly flat, sometimes a bit hilly, mostly treeless and shadeless 13+ mile stretch of big-sky country between Tardajos, where I spent last night, and Hontanas, a village where I've stopped for the night.

A lovely day, with a consistently beautiful landscape and a range of people, weather, and feelings. I walked briefly with folks from Germany, Switzerland, Australia, and England, and the conversations were easy and interesting. But I spent the majority of the time on my own walking on the relatively easy dirt and gravel path through fields of grain as far as the eye could see. For much of the day the sun was strong but the temps were lower than yesterday and there was a refreshing breeze. For the first several hours my body felt good and strong, my feet were barely murmuring, my stride hit just the right rhythm and there were moments that felt like perfection. I must have been experiencing what people refer to as runners' euphoria. It felt so right to be crossing the planet at two or three miles per hour.

As the day wore on the sun got stronger and hotter, and at around the 11 mile mark I wished I was done. But then the clouds thickened and it started to rain very gently. How wonderful! It doused the sun, cut the heat, didn't drench my pack, and raised my mood, and the final couple of miles were not so bad. If I were a religious man I might have seen it as a gift from God, but for now I'll attribute it to good luck and perfect timing.

CAMINO, DAY 18: HONTANAS TO ITERO DE LA VEGA

I've spent time walking with a bunch of folks the last week or so, getting a tiny glimpse of the wide array of people walking here, some doing it for just a few days, others for far longer.

Last week I walked with a wealthy 66 year old Australian sports lawyer who was trying to do a week of the Camino as part of an otherwise super luxe 4 month swing through Europe, including a private car tour of southern Spain, a yacht cruise through the Greek Isles, a week each in Paris and London, etc., all meticulously arranged by his personal assistant. He was struggling and was taking a taxi at least part way to his hotel each day (one of his repeated lines was "at this age I don't have anything to prove"), but he stuck with me for a good 7 miles. I heard about his soccer-star clients, his race horses, and about his partner who had embezzled millions of dollars from his firm. But I also heard about his wife's agonizing death from breast cancer, before which he had never made a meal for himself and never even bought his own clothes. She died last year and he just doesn't know how to cope or what to do. He said he'd walked further than he would have if he hadn't met me but finally he said he had to take a taxi, so we stopped at a bar and said goodbye.

Yesterday I caught up to a couple of 40-something Englishwomen, one of them wearing a t-shirt that said "Pilgrim with Purpose". So naturally the first thing I said was "what's your purpose?" She said oh it was a joke gift a friend had given her before she went off on a week vacation/Camino walk, this being their last day. But within minutes I was hearing about how both of these women, one a family lawyer and the other a mid-level government worker, both from Brighton, were unhappy with the too safe life choices they had made and were hoping that a week's walk might give them some perspective and insight. We ended up chatting non-stop for about 90 minutes, but they were having foot problems so they had to stop.

And a 50ish Australian legal secretary living in Barbados whose life was "too easy" (is there really such a thing?), so she wanted to test herself. A 40 year old Swiss guy who owned a video rental store in Zurich for ten years, saved up dough, closed the shop in 2009, and has been traveling ever since, mostly living on the cheap next to beaches in Thailand, Goa, Turkey, etc., and who felt like he needed a good walk. He has enough money to last another couple of years and then he'll have to figure out what's next. Three 60- something retired Frenchmen I sat at dinner with last night who had already walked over a thousand kilometers!  And today I walked the last couple of miles into town with a 62 year old guy from Manchester England, just given an early retirement package by the BBC, who in his early days had been a concert promoter for the Sex Pistols and The Clash. I would have loved continuing our conversation but I was at the end of my walk and he was going on another 8 miles.

I love the connection and the camaraderie and the sharing of stories and the fact that the walk goes more quickly when I'm with people. But I also feel like I'm missing something. There's something about the meditative solitude of aloneness, the being hyper aware of my environment, how it looks and sounds and smells, about noticing things. And I take poorly composed, poorly considered, haphazard, crappy pictures when I'm with people. One of the things I love more than anything is studying my visual field and trying make some artistic sense out of it, and that's lost when I'm concentrating on a conversation. So I suppose I'll keep on trying to maintain a good balance, some people time, but more solitude.

Today's walk was almost unbearably beautiful at times, and painful as well. There was a difficult steep rise at one point, but the views it afforded were phenomenal. And much of the time the landscape was an ever flowing series of wonderful abstractions.

But my feet don't like these 13 mile walks. They're good for about 8 miles, but after that it's blisters and pain. The rest I got in Burgos was good and I had hoped that had solved the problem, but I guess I just have to deal. Gotta replenish my Compeed--artificial skin-- at the next pharmacy. The rest of my body seems to be holding up well, my muscles feel strong, my knees and hips are fine, my wind is good, I have no trouble climbing the hills; my feet are the sole problem (ha ha!).

Now I'm relaxing in a microscopic 12 euro private room with shared bath in a private home/albergue. And there's a washing machine! For the first time in weeks I'm not doing the wash-in-the-sink routine. To small pleasures, as well as grand, in life!

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