April 25

Today was a walk from Hontanas to Fromista, 35 km. The bar across the street opened before 7:00 and the woman who had worked so hard all the evening before was there, baking croissants and making cafe con leche, so I stopped and had a “grande.” The walk out was magnificent, the sun slowly rising at my back, the temperatures too cold for what I was wearing, but I knew it would warm if I hiked hard and the sun continued to rise as it tends to do. The trail wound through fields, showing its age as it was a trench next to the fields up to my right. They grow hay for the sheep and I guess for cattle in other regions, a wide, coarse grass which was as I walked exactly at eye height. The temperature hovered just above freezing so there was frost at the base of the blades, but at the tips, on every one, was a single, perfect sphere of water, drops glistening the the light that was just beginning to flood the shadows and illuminate the moisture. It was a textbook picture of fluid dynamics and an artist’s celebration of reflected light. Walking is a privilege because it puts you in a place to see such perfection.

T. Hugh Crawford

April 24

Burgos to Hontanas 31 km. A damp misty walk out of Burgos, wandering narrow streets through to the river. Early on a Sunday morning, I passed an old nun, sweeping the stoop in front of a blank-walled convent. We both stopped, exchanged muted greetings, then on she swept and on I walked. Mid-morning coffee was in a village bar where the proprietor gleefully showed me his wall of multi-national notes and bank notes, with a section with American money including a two-dollar bill. I wished I had a note to give to him, but he had a tiny gold plastic Camino medal on a string to give to me. I’ve never worn jewelry–no rings– and resisted even wearing a watch for years until teaching demanded it. (What I loved about Duke were the clocks in the classrooms). But now I have my tiny medal on a string around my neck and the green string the old woman in the Nepal gompa tied about my neck after I toured the library. Hontanas was a wonderful town, with a great restaurant just across from the Albergue. I spent the evening taking to Amber, a Canadian woman who now lives in the French Pyrenees and is walking for a week or so. She had washed her face and somehow gotten glitter all over it so we talked while she sparkled. Late evening the three North Carolina pilgrims I met in Villafranca arrived, so they, Amber, and a lone Italian man and I enjoyed out pilgrim meal before an early night to bed.

T. Hugh Crawford

April 23

Zero days are best spent with quiet wandering. Burgos is a beautiful old city particularly when clouded in early morning mist. Shoes in the mud rack, so I strolled in socks and sandals which among trekkers is perfectly fashionable. The old city is massive stone gates, squares, all circling the cathedral whose many spires just showed themselves in the early fog. Along the river are sculpted evergreens looking like Edward Scissorhands found employment here, and a magnificent two-story carousel. Spent the morning in a coffee shop catching up on email and writing about Whitehead only to walk out into the bright sun and a crowd of Saturday saunterers. In the square by the cathedral I stopped to watch a pack of four-year olds kicking a mini soccer ball around. Of course they start early here. Just before noon I visited the cathedral. Today, for the first time in history, they were having a beatification in Burgos, the five martires de burgaleses. My rusty Spanish did little to further my understanding of their martyrdom but I’m fairly certain it had something to do with the Spanish civil war. It was a fascinating and solemn event befitting its setting. Late afternoon was Spanish league soccer on the TV and listening to battling brass bands as they moved with their entourage from one square and venue to the next. All in all a satisfying, productive, and physically lazy day.

T. Hugh Crawford

April 22

Last night’s Albergue was an odd one. Villafranca Montes de Oca does not seem a prosperous town. Many of the houses are closed up and in disrepair, but someone has renovated a large old hospital as a fairly upscale rural hotel, with an Albergue up in the attic. They clearly want to cater to upscale patrons, but walkers are probably their bread and butter. They served a great pilgrim meal in a high-ceilinged restaurant with great service and even better wine. What made me smile was the ambient music– it sounded like a church choir singing U2 songs. Did spend some time talking to three retired women from North Carolina on a big hike, and met a pilgrim from Portugal who walks almost as fast as I do. Morning came early as a group didn’t understand how voices carry down stone hallways. I had a long walk today to Burgos, so I rousted myself out of the top bunk and got on the way before anyone else, cresting the hill up above Villafranca as the sun came up. Today’s walk was much different from yesterday. All morning I was away from the highways, first going up through a wild forest (mostly scrub oak) intermingled with some cultivated pine. There was a moment when the red sunrise shone on the pine treetops, making them first appear as if they were going through some sort of die-off. Then I realized it was the light, really magnificent light. Soon after a deer crossed my path, halting briefly in a thicket without seeing me. Moments later it tensed and bounded away. The first wildlife except for birds I’ve really encountered, but the birds were plentiful, with cuckoos calling all morning and a hawk rising almost at my feet. I thought it was red-tailed but that might have been more reflected sunrise. After summiting, the trail wound down to Ages with, as in all towns, a great stone church. The bells struck nine as I entered, echoing off the hills. The rest of the morning alternated walking through forest–mostly pine plantation with muddy access roads–and small villages. Some of the trail followed the border of military training land and at least showed some evidence that sheep grazed up there some time, but I still don’t understand livestock here. I pass barns full of animals, and they have hay piled to the sky, but no pasture land– no fencing, almost no sign of livestock life. Very curious. Later I began to catch pilgrims who had started at later points on the way. It was a drizzly day, so most people were in rain gear. Large ponchos tend to predominate here, I guess because people aren’t carrying much other weight, so they can afford the extra pounds. Unlike long distance treks where people tend to have interesting, often unusual gear, the Camino is dominated by equipment twins. People–often couples–clearly have decided to take a great walk, and gone together to the outdoor equipment store, purchasing matching packs and rain gear. Sometimes I wonder how they keep track of what belongs to who, but there is something endearing about it all. The latter part of the day became the familiar suburb hike, ultimately skirting the Burgos airport, then following a highway another 8 km to city centre. My guidebook recommended taking a local bus from the airport to town, and since I had already logged 32+ km, I decided to cheat, to yellow blaze, and follow the book’s advice. The city Albergue is good– well laid out and had washing machines. As I unpacked, I realized laundry was necessary, so my later afternoon was spent in the washroom which at least had beer (80 cents) in the cold drink machine. Dinner was tapas with Michelle, a triple-crown hiker and fellow pilgrim, in a bar beside the cathedral which dominates this part of town.

T. Hugh Crawford

April 21

Another longish day–36km from Santo Domingo de la Calzada to Villafranca Montes de Oca. There was a very large crowd at the Albergue last night. The muddy boot room was piled high with wet, dripping shoes. This morning I had breakfast before leaving–more of that great Spanish coffee and iberica ham–so I walked out in the middle of the bubble. The path in front of me looked like first graders lining up for the lunchroom. After about an hour, things began to thin out as the landscape opened up. Crossed today into a new region, leaving La Rioja and entering Castilla, and the plains are no longer broken by forests or steep valleys. Nothing to stop the wind which was in my face all day. Rain threatened but never materialized. The architecture also shifted. The Way passes through many villages on this stretch and, while stone still predominates, there now is also a lot of exposed timber frame infilled with stuccoed brick. Between villages the Way was a wide gravel and clay path, often paralleling the main highway through the valley. I was able to see long distances ahead, the yellow path dotted with pilgrims. Although the comparison is obvious, it is hard not to see the “Walking Dead,” with a flood of pilgrims lurching toward salvation. Although they are all quite lively in the evening, pilgrims tend to walk with a dull, rocking trudge that clearly resembles the television drama (though I don’t cringe when one approaches).

T. Hugh Crawford

April 20

Rain– all morning, but not too hard so it was good hiking weather. The temperatures stayed cool and the way was mostly on dirt which didn’t really turn to deep mud, so it was soft. I realized how the hard pavement of these last days has been pounding my feet and knees, so the soft track was a welcome relief. Again it was miles of grape fields interspersed with some olive groves along with hayfields. I haven’t seen any pasture land so far, but today I passed a large barn clearly full of sheep, almost like an enclosed feed lot. The lambs were bleating, but sounded as if they were feeding– clearly not a slaughterhouse. The soft track helped me make my longest day, almost 39 km. (Though I am feeling it tonight). I keep wondering why I cannot get into a good thinking rhythm on this trek. Unlike other long distance hikes, there are many distractions– a village every 5 km or so– and a constant stream of walkers. The people in the villages walk a lot and always have a smile and an “hola” or “buen camino,” and there seem to be pilgrims every 50 meters. Even when I’m walking alone, it is as if there are others very close by. Clearly good thinking on the Camino requires some focus and discipline. But today was taxing, so I think I’ll just read a bit.

T. Hugh Crawford

April 19

Today’s trek began before dawn, climbing up out of Torres del Rio, cresting a hill looking back out over the valley as the sun rose. I walked out with the two Karls, my German friends, so Karl-Heinz and I discussed books for a few km. He is a remarkably well-read man, particularly with books on walking or travel. It was a day to start extending the kilometers, so I finally pushed past 30. Given the general ease of the landscape, I’m not sure why I’m walking short–just trying to get into a good rhythm but am finding it elusive. Today’s midpoint was Logrono, the capital of the region and home to a number of old churches, all with those huge gilded altarpieces. I wandered them a while, hoping to see the paintings, but all was dark and I didn’t have the correct change to get the lights on. I did glimpse a Michelangelo painting before the lights went down. After Logrono, the path wound through grape fields, and around a large man-made lake. Along the dam, there were older men whose long fishing rods were set, while they say in folding chairs smoking and drinking coffee, casting eyes occasional at the tips of their rods to see if they caught anything. The weather threatened on the way into Navarrete, a medieval town on a hill where I found the municipal Albergue, settled into another evening on the Camino. I seem to have outstripped my original cohort of pilgrims, and now am among a different set– many Americans who laugh too loud.

T. Hugh Crawford

April 18

There can be no doubt this is a wine region. On the way out of Estella this morning I walked past a wine fountain. Even early in the morning, not something to pass up. I thought about filling my camelback but refrained. The fields, which were lined with poppies, were either hay or grape vines of various ages. I saw new fields just being set out with grapes, and fields with vines of all ages. Most stark were the oldest. Set closer together than the newer ones which are laid out for tractor cultivation, those stumps are the very definition of the word “gnarled.” I hope to find someone who can tell me their age as they seem almost Roman. This place is all about time.

T. Hugh Crawford