Walking Home

reveries of an amateur long-distance hiker

May 11

May 12th, 2016

May 11

Santiago
End of trek redux–to not be a walker brings a strange sense of loss. Over breakfast watching peregrinos wander in, seeing them not as colleagues but as someone still trekking is unsettling. Of course I’ll be back amongst the walkers soon enough–will commence the Trans-Swiss Trail later this month and might still hike to Finisterre when the weather clears–but for now, the tourist mantle doesn’t fit well. The true end of the Camino proper (not including the Finisterre extension) is the pilgrim’s mass at the cathedral. They brought out an entire phalanx of priests, and as part of the service read out the countries of origin for today’s peregrinos. Then at the end, there was the high drama of the botofumeiro–a large, heavy silver incense burner swung high by a phalanx of lay brothers. They light, lift, and then, through coordinated pulls on a rope, get the botofumeiro swinging almost to the ceiling. I was in the narrow part of the church so initially it swung up close enough to seem as if it would graze my head. The story is that in the old days (and maybe partly today) the pilgrims arrived filthy and smelly, so the botofumeiro purified the air in the cathedral, or at least helped the regular worshippers to remain. It is quite a spectacle. Spent the evening in the basement of a bar listening to Galician Gaelic music–also quite a spectacle. Former walker, now tourist.

T. Hugh Crawford

May 10

May 11th, 2016

May 10

Vilamaior to Santiago de Compostela 8 km
It’s hard to think through trail endings. Long anticipated and suddenly appearing, they usually drain away any words that might help make sense of a long, unfolding path. People feel elation when finishing an arduous trek which often brings a compulsion to celebrate, commemorate, and commiserate with those friends soon going back to their non-walking lives, but to think through ends requires time and solitude. I finished the Camino de Santiago today, wandered about the square in front of the Cathedral a bit seeing acquaintances who finished recently. I then went down to get the merit badge–the compostela which testifies to my official pilgrim status. Like diplomas, certificates of completion bring little real satisfaction. Because of its status as a religious pilgrimage, the Camino calls attention to an often unthought part of the end of any trek–the importance of the sacred. I’m not talking specifically about the artifacts here–St. James’s remains–or the Cathedral in all its splendor. Instead I am thinking of how a sense of the sacred serves the walker, how it forms a sense of ending. Entering the city I passed a man, an older peregrino, who beamed, telling me there were dos kilometers left. The back of his neck was deeply furrowed along with a finer cross-hatching of wrinkles. His was the neck of a farmer, someone who had toiled long and hard years in the sun. I imagined that he, like peregrinos from centuries past, had planned in his declining years to make this trip, the pilgrimage of a lifetime. His joy was scarcely contained as he held up a finger and a thumb, signaling the near completion of his walk. Soon he would be embracing St. James. I spent the second half of my Camino walking with a devout Catholic. She was not making the single pilgrimage of her lifetime–she had already walked the Camino Portuguese–but her Camino was an embrace of the calm and peace of sacred spaces. We stopped at tiny, ancient churches. Often I would get caught up in some architectural detail–an interesting framing plan for the roof, some carved ancient wood, or the workings of an old clock–but even I felt the spirit of the place. My feeling for the sacred did not come from religious belief but instead grew from the church’s very design. Exuding both time and timelessness, these places lift visitors out of the hum and buzz of the quotidian into another place. Martin Heidegger writes about “the clearing,” first calling up the space opened by woodchoppers cutting timber, but then, by extension, the possible clearing of thought, to arrive at what had been the unthought. Clearing also is the act of clarification, the cleansing of the doors of perception. To me, Heidegger’s clearing is the encounter with a secular sacred, something walkers of all beliefs and non-beliefs regularly experience. Usually up before dawn, we see the sun rising in a long black distance. Following an ancient footpath, we encounter a turn, a slow sweep of the way, perhaps lined by ancient oaks covered in green mats of moss, vines, decorated at their base with columbine, violets, daisies. A spring flows beneath a gnarled tree-trunk. The path leads into a dark, intensely silent forest. In those moments, quotidian care, the triviality of routine, thought-destroying bureaucracy (periodic peer review), diminish to the nothingness that they are. The walker’s sacred is lived in those clearings. The Santiago de Compostela Cathedral is a religious space marking the end of a long pilgrimage. Ends have purpose, signal accomplishment, sometimes define self, but a walker’s sacred is lived in the clearings along the way.

T. Hugh Crawford

May 9

May 9th, 2016

May 9

Boente to Vilamaior 38 km.
The official Camino de Santiago ends tomorrow with a short trek into Santiago. Started early today to avoid the worst of heavy afternoon showers. The trek up out of Boente (an undistinguished town) was in early light. There were open skies overhead but every cloud type packing the horizon. Stark shadows, halo flares everywhere. The first hours were through as pretty a landscape as you could desire, including early stone villages with Roman bridges arching over fast-running streams. As the day progressed the landscape compressed. The path remained caught between highways, crossing often and at times paralleling, following a muddy shoulder exposing pilgrims to the spray of passing cars. After Arzua (an undistinguished large town), the way filled up with pilgrims. I found myself thinking of Faulkner’s long short story, “The Bear,” a story of deforestation (something I could see here with eucalyptus plantations) but also about Ike McCaslin’s youth hunting in the big bottom for Old Ben, the bear. Each year on the last day of the hunt, Ike and his mentors would seek out Ben for their yearly appointment. Word got around and over the years, on the last day, more and more people would appear to participate (actually observe). Faulkner describes some as wearing hunting clothes that still bore creases from having been on the store shelf just a few hours before. The way is now packed with short-term pilgrims overwhelming the old-timers, most sporting shiny new equipment and a great deal of enthusiasm. Stop about six km. outside of Santiago and spent a perfect quiet afternoon before tomorrow’s hustle and bustle.

T. Hugh Crawford

May 8

May 8th, 2016

May 8

Gonzalez to Boente 37 km.
Robert MacFarlane along with Stanley Donwood and Dan Richards wrote a beautiful little book called Holloway. A holloway is “a sunken path, a deep & shady lane. A route that centuries of foot-fall, hoof-hit, wheel-roll, & rain-run have harrowed into the land.” They trace and illustrate a number of English Holloways and in the course uncover a deep, somewhat hidden history. Today was a day for winding footpaths. Not quite the very deep, tree-hidden landforms MacFarlane and company articulate, but without doubt, these paths have centuries of foot-fall & rain-run, and they are well below the grade of the field. Last night it rained hard, the only pleasant sound to come from an overcrowded Albergue with some serious snorers (along with people who simply don’t understand that slamming the bathroom door at 3:00 am or talking on the phone at 2:00 am is douchy). That rain did wash down the paths, perhaps deepening them a bit further, but the cloudy weather slowly grew bright, and though clouds drifted all day, it was a magnificent day to walk Galicia. The deep paths were usually lined by oaks, some old, twisted, and covered both with deep moss and heavy vines. The edges were a riot of wild flowers, mostly purple and white, though of course there was plenty of yellow from the gorse that crowded parts of the woods. Crossed white pine plantations again, but also eucalyptus, a crop favored by wealthy absentee landlords but bemoaned by farmers who have been caring for this soil for millennia.

Apart from some magnificent ancient churches, the main architectural features were the many hórreo–rectangular stone, brick, and wood grain storage structures set on stone piers about three feet above the ground. Very distinctive. Pushed a bit near the end of the day. Tomorrow will be another long one, then a short hop into Santiago for the finish line.

T. Hugh Crawford

May 7

May 7th, 2016

May 7

Agriculture– the Camino might be a strong financial engine for this region, but clearly farming defines the people’s lives. The way passed villages that were more clusters of barns than towns, smelling strong but good. An elderly man walking his dog embodied the spirit, a certain joy in his smile and enthusiastic “buen camino.” Last night’s rain cleared today–clouds with patches of blue. When showing optimism for better weather, my mother used to say of the sky, “there is enough blue to knit a Dutchman a pair of pants.” I have no earthly idea where that saying comes from (nor do I want to know), but I invoked it today on setting out. When not crossing pastures, the way wandered in forests–either scrub oak or white pine plantations with the occasional cluster of ancient chestnuts. There were magnificent stone walls, but also stone slab fencing: thin slabs two feet across and three high, almost like a row of headstones, but not so solemn. The pastures and fence rows were all in bloom. Today yellow and purple lupines made their entrance in the swales of grass land. In front of an old stone house up a hill, a very old man swung a scythe clearing the new growth from the gateway. He stopped, pulled out his stone and with several dexterous swipes freshened his edge and continued cutting. I imagined him as a young man, standing there with the same scythe, swinging with more strength but perhaps not with the same skill and method. The land’s footprints here go deep into the past.

T. Hugh Crawford

May 6

May 6th, 2016

May 6

Triacastela to Barbadelo 28 km. Galicia is renowned for its green beauty, but walkers the green exacts a price–it rains often, as it did all day today. Not a hard rain, but a good soaking one that left me damp. All that water has to go somewhere, and the streams were all brimming. Little freshets rush down troughs cut in the green grass, and the rivers have numerous falls which on closer inspection are usually revealed as old dams which have become wild enough to pass for falls. Today’s path wound through small valleys and coves, switching often between narrow twisting paved roads (single lane) and muddy farm tracks. Though still feeling under the weather, it was a fine walk, ending at an Albergue in a tiny village. The road is now heavily populated by short-timers who can get their Camino merit badge if they go 100 km–if they start at Sarria, a large town I crossed today.

May 5

May 6th, 2016

May 5

Las Herrieas to Triacastela 32 km. I’m afraid my steripen finally failed to function properly, and I was visited by that Italian mobster Sal Manella. Felt rocky all day even though it was once again a beautiful walk. Heading up over a rise I turned to find a farmer with his two dogs. On his shoulder was a huge hoe, and he was riding bareback a stout white farm horse. Not sure if he was heading to off work or returning from it, but he was smiling the smile of someone aware of the beauty of the world where he labored. My intestinal distress precluded sampling the Triacastela cuisine, opting instead for an early evening’s repose.

May 4

May 6th, 2016

May 4

Villafranca to Las Herrieas. Some days the walk is not really the highlight. I missed the mountain path turn out of Villafranca so it was a road walk most of the day. Apart from a pleasant stop by a stream in the shade, an unremarkable day that was redeemed by the simplest of things. The Camino is now filling with short term pilgrims so the only way to be sure to get a bed at an Albergue is to stop early. When I got to Herrieas I got a bunk, shower and strolled over to the local bar, finding a spot out front facing a field with cows, a stream, and a bellowing bull. Rudy and I went in to order beer but found the place packed with the carpenters and stone masons working on the building next door. On their lunch break, they had the bar keeper running to pour drinks –a dark liquid from heavy label-less bottles. W soon found ourselves with beer and tapas, listening to the ringing of the single belled cow. Not a sounding brass nor a tinkling cymbal, we were regaled with a clanking bell. Going in for a refill, I passed the bartender eating his lunch, a rare steak. I smiled appreciatively and soon he was cutting slices for me to take out with my beer. When Gloria arrived he went in for more and later set us up with a bottle of local cider poured through a special electric pump to be sure to leave the dregs undisturbed. Realizing this was a special man and bar, Gloria went in and negotiated a steak dinner including chorizo white bean soup and remarkable local wine. Some days you have to follow where the trail leads you.

T. Hugh Crawford

May 3

May 6th, 2016

May 3

Ponferrada To Villefranca 28 km. Moving through new climates, flora, fauna, and architecture. The first, most noticeable shift was in the trees, gone are the olives (more or less) replaced by apple and cherry. Atop every bell tower and electric pole are huge stork nests. The birds stand above them, glowering down at walkers, while small songbirds flit in and out of holes cut in the bottom of those huge piles of sticks. And the roofs are now black slate. Back in serious wine country so stopped at Moncloa, an ancient vinyard and set of stone buildings housing a restaurant with a perfect courtyard, vines climbing to form a fragrant roof with great food and Galician music. All in all, it felt like being on a movie set. Dinner in an old Spanish restaurant (not frequented by pilgrims) — trout and octopus.

T. Hugh Crawford

May 2

May 3rd, 2016

May 2

El Gamso to Ponferrada 42 km. Early on in Walden, Thoreau says, “It is true, I never assisted the sun materially in his rising, but, doubt not, it was of the last importance only to be present at it.” ( I recall my son Charlie once saying that was his favorite line). Thoreau’s sentiment is also shared by my friend Gloria who last night proposed we get up early and hike to the ridge near Cruz de Ferro to watch the sunrise– a walk of 15 km including a long steep climb. At 4:00 am, Gloria, Rudy and I were up and in a few minutes were hiking fast and hard down the path, headlamps dimly lighting the way. The sky was awash with stars, the Milky Way streaming through the middle, punctuated by the occasional meteorite. But the sky had to be ignored most of the time as we had less than 3 hours to cover the distance. Before long a crescent moon rose at our backs, making it a most celestial day. Setting a brisk pace we made the first landmark (the next town) in good time, but Rudy soon had some shin pain, opting to stop a while to rest while Gloria and I pressed on, now climbing the ridge in mud and water while the horizon began to lighten ominously. Soon anticipation gave way to near despair. Pushing on through the just-waking village of Foncebadon, we crested the main ridge, still short of Cruz de Ferre, but with the ideal place to see the morning in. The sleeping pad I’ve been carrying all year finally got some use on the Camino, the perfect cushion to rest and watch the show, and what a show it was. Some low clouds ran interference as the orange intensified, then a brilliant intensity of yellow light turned my retinas purple, but the sun’s rays soon touched all around and, though we had not materially assisted in its rising, we had contributed our mite, and gotten everything in return. It’s a strange feeling to have been up and toiling long and hard only then to recognize that a new day has commenced. We got up, stretched, and made our way to the Cruz de Ferre, an iron cross atop a tall wooden pole surrounded by a huge pile of rocks brought from all over the world. I found a rock by the path and pitched it over my head onto the pile, while Gloria retrieved the one she had carried from some far away place in anticipation of the moment.

The rest of the morning and early afternoon was a roller coaster of ridges, each bringing us closer to a new landscape and climate. The world was transformed. Huge oak trees, many small streams, and an efflorescence of wildflowers changed what had been for so many days dreary flat fields. We walked through color– more color than you can imagine. Lavender, daisies, buttercups–only the beginning of the palette. The towns began to change as well. Terra cotta roofs gave way to slate; the houses crowded the street with heavy-timber cantilevered second story porches shading the way. On the way to the valley floor to Ponferrada, we passed villages choked with wisteria and amazing old woodwork. Stopped for lunch at Molinaseca, a town with a Roman arched bridge across a river flowing past an inviting cafe. Since mayday had fallen on Sunday (yesterday), the holiday was today so the patio was soon flooded with families enjoying their day.

After already hiking 35 km, it was with real reluctance that I finished my iberica ham and melon lunch and shouldered the bag for the last 7 km–such is the pilgrim life. On the way into the city, Rudy rejoined us, so we found the Albergue, had a paella dinner, and slept the sleep of the dead. If ever a day was carpe diemed, it was this one.

T. Hugh Crawford