Welcome Pilgrim!

Welcome the log of my Via de la Plata Pilgrim trek. When in 1994 I told my mother that I planned to take a bicycle trip across Spain, she wisely counseled me, “then you will have to follow the Camino to Santiago de Compostela.” I knew nothing about the Camino then but it has been shaping my experience of the World ever since. From Barcelona that summer I was to pedal across the Pyrenees and follow the Camino to Santiago but the idea of walking as a Pilgrim had taken hold. By late July of the current year when I set foot from Seville on the Via de la Plata for Santiago, I could call myself a veteran Pilgrim. I had walked the Camino Francés to Santiago with a teaching colleague in 2007 and in 2009 had walked the “Way of St. Olav” pilgrim route across Norway to the “KristKirke” Cathedral in Trondheim. People with a history like mine are likely to be veterans of many a conversation devoted to identifying just who is a Pilgrim and what a proper Pilgrim’s motivations are likely to be. I will say only that Pilgrimage is a transformative experience. As Pilgrim sage Bodvar Schelderup might suggest, while a Pilgrim is always on his way home, a Pilgrim is never the same upon returning. I hope you enjoy my account of forty days and nights afoot a Pilgrim in Spain during the summer of 2010.

A Pilgrim’s heart is his travel guide. But before you begin allow me to offer you a few words in explanation. About forty log posts follow, each complemented by one or more photo images. Double click on an image if you wish to expand it to full screen. Click on “Older Posts” at the foot of each page until there are no more. The post content is largely text written on postcards dispatched to family and friends from the Pilgrim Road. And Sly, or more particularly “Buffalo Jump Sly”, was my nomme de guerre during five magical months in 2002 when I was “thru hiking” the 3,450 kilometer grandfather of American trails, the “Appalachian Trail”.

Enjoy the Pilgrim’s Tale.

Steeling for the Silver Road

July 30, 2010:

                “Warning:  Seville is famous for its thieves and pickpockets.”  So says my Cicerone Guidebook, “Via de la Plata, The Way of Saint James: Seville to Santiago”.  My valuables seem to be intact and still in my possession after a day and a half of orienting myself here on the ground in Seville.  I’ve toured the Cathedral, the Giralda, the Alcázar and gardens, and possibly viewed Pilate’s House, although this last depends entirely on my skill reading street maps.  Regardless, I feel pretty well adjusted (I can’t say acclimatized) and as ready as I will ever be to begin my 1,000 kilometer Pilgrim walk north on the Camino Mozarabe/Via de la Plata camino road to Santiago.  Were I to do it justice I would be spending a full week in the city which others could explain is steeped in Spanish Arabian history and culture.  Neon signs have been flashing 40C degree/104 Fahrenheit temperatures at me each of the past two afternoons.  It feels like several circles down in Dante’s Inferno.  I am going to brave this on foot with back pack.  Wish me luck.

Escaping the Inquisition

July 31, 2010:

                I Pilgrim walked out of Seville this morning under still dark skies with the moon and a planet on patrol above me.  In the cool of a Saturday dawning, I was treated to encouraging cries of “Buen Camino!” called out by more than one mini-skirted, sequin be-glittered, high heeled twenty something beauty, her inebriated boyfriend off (to employ the Grenadian euphemism) shedding a tear somewhere in the bushes of the nearby Parque Maria Luisa.  I solved the mystery of the Entrepreneurs “Carlos Y Jose”, ubiquitous in the “Ciudad Central”, as I walked.    In recent days, I’ve noted that these Gentlemen park mobile hamburger stands around the city but till the wee hours of this morning, I had never seen one open.  It turns out that they are all parked within the audio range of the city’s throbbing-drum-beat disco clubs.  I doubt if any of them open before midnight.

                Leaving the city, I crossed over the mighty Rio Guadalquivir, bypassing the “Callejon de la Inquisition” on its far side.  In the Cathedral yesterday, I saw the casket, hefted high by sculpted pall bearers, which encases the mortal remains of “Admiral” Cristobal Colon, resting there five centuries now. 

                I’ve reached “Guillena” this afternoon, 23 kilometers down my Pilgrim Road.  The road transects already harvested wheat fields and sun flowered landscapes.  The very basic “refugio” here boasts a swimming pool—welcome in the late day 38C degree/ 100 Fahrenheit heat.  The solar radiation is intense.  The Via de la Plata/Silver Road Camino is surprisingly busy.  The 10 beds of the refugio will be full tonight.  The Pilgrim crowd is half German, including a father, daughter, and son-in-law trio--all Camino Francès veterans.

Castilblanco de los Arroyos

August 1, 2010:

I’m in Castilblanco de los Arroyos (KM42) two days down the Pilgrim Road tonight.  I’m feeling optimistic, and ratcheting up the mileage tomorrow.  Mornings are cool at Daybreak. Shade is a gift from God.  So is the companionship of the almost ten pilgrims I share the Camino with for now…Pilgrim community.  The German trio is experienced and welcome company. 

Tale of the Bicycle Boys

August 2, 2010:

Almadén de la Plata (KM 70.5).  The Tale of the Bicycle Boys, in three Acts. 

Act 1:  I’m amazed by the number of Spaniards who are willing to brave 100 degree daily high temperatures to tackle the Via de la Plata.  Two of them, cyclists, pony tailed and mildly unkempt, accosted me two days ago in Guillena.  They wanted to borrow my official Pilgrim’s credential passbook to counterfeit their own.  This is no grave offense it itself.  Any record at all of “stamps” collected along your way can document your Pilgrim effort earning you your sin absolving indulgence certificate at the Cathedral in Santiago.  But these boys seemed ill prepared.              

Act 2:  Castilblanco.  The hapless two are found at the refugio were they over-ed the prior night.  A wheel from one of their bicycles has been stolen.  My Spanish isn’t up to deciphering the unfolding drama, or, their irate indignation. 

Act 3: Walking out of the “White Castle” town this morning at 5:30 a.m. Manuel, a Portuguese school teacher Pilgrim fluent in English regales me with the full story.  In the late yesterday afternoon, Manuel, from the second floor of the refugio, spots two kids in possession of a mysterious bicycle wheel.  From a window, he extracts from them a promise to give him the wheel.  They cheerfully agree but at street level, he finds them absconded and no wheel.  Police appear and search fruitlessly.  Meanwhile, the cyclists with too much oversized luggage are refused bus transport back to Seville.  Drowning their sorrows at the nearest taberna, the grapevine induces a local to show up offering them their choice of two used bicycle wheels.  One fits and the pair are soon rolling off into the cool evening. 

It’s hard to say if I will see these vagabonds again.  I’ve walked a near 19 miles (30 km) by 11:30 this morning and retired, like locals for a long afternoon siesta.  Manuel and I walked through “El Barocal”, a reforested National Park this morning--every tree providing a shaded oasis.

Appetizers and Aperitifs Compared

August 3, 2010:

                Olives and a brown lima-type bean are a standard finger food served with drinks in bars in this part of Spain.  Tonight at the Hotel Moya in Monesterio (Km 108), they have treated me to a new and now my preferred variation:  A small dish of chopped, cold tomato, onion, and boiled potato drenched in olive oil and vinegar.  It is fresh and delicious.  It makes my “Cerveza con Limon” go down very smoothly.  I’m rehydrating, killing time on the Hotel bar’s outdoor patio waiting for 8:30 p.m.—the hour when the Hotel’s restaurant first puts out its “Menu del Peregrino”. 

I’ve reached here during the siesta hour after a 38 kilometer day from Almadèn so an earlier meal was impossible.  Instead, I took an afternoon power nap.  You enjoy the evening, the sun setting, the air cooling, the people relaxed and rested.  I walked through cool, cork tree forest as dark gave way to dawn this morning, and then survived some 34C degree afternoon torpor.  Last night in Almadèn, the mass in the local Iglesia de Nuestra Senora de Gracia wasn’t celebrated till 9:30 p.m.  Too bad—this pilgrim and a half dozen others were dead asleep safely tucked in at the refugio before the priest even got to the offertory.  I’m enjoying the luxury of a private hostel room here tonight.  I’ve left Andalucía and crossed into Extremadura today.  This name makes me think “extremely” durable … hard.

An Irishman on Promise Keeping

August 4, 2010:

                “If you make a promise to someone, then you have to keep it.”  This was shared with me today by Steven, a shamrock Pilgrim from Belfast.  He speaks Spanish well and was explaining to me why some of our Spanish companions endure heat and other travails to walk with us across their country.  You walk with the keeping of promises in mind.  Steven
the Irishman has told me a good part of his story.  His father, a literature professor and avid outdoorsman, has joined us here today in Fuente de Cantos (KM130).  Father and son took their first Pilgrim walk together eight years ago.  Thirty-ish and educated in animal husbandry, Steven has done scientific work in industry and qualified himself to teach at the Junior College level.  He has lived in Spain, a country he clearly loves, off and on since he was first touched by the Camino spirit.  Most recently he’s been working here as a secondary school teacher.  He describes this work as self confidence challenging.  Spanish students, he says, have their own ideas regarding classroom decorum and respect.  So his summer on the Via de la Plata will rejuvenate him.  Manuel, the Portuguese philosophy teacher, and I saw two shooting stars as we began walking this morning at 5:30 a.m.—real celestial splendor.

Michelle in Malaga

August 5, 2010:

                I’m no astronomer but what I think we’ve been watching in the wee hours of recent mornings has been the beginning of the annual August Perseid Meteor Shower.  We were up at a quarter till, and walking by a quarter past 4 a.m. this morning.  That gave us three and a half hours of walking before sunrise.  I say we because six of us have joined forces day by day.  It’s all calculation.  It’s hard finding yellow arrow way marks by flashlight and getting lost will be punished by extra hours of walking in later day heat.  It’s pleasantly cool before dawn and even into the mid morning.  And the early morning star lit canopy above is brilliant.

                Michelle Obama is in Malaga and to judge by the favorable on-the-street comment, we Americans are for the moment popular in Spain.  My companions over six days have included a hardy truck driver, an ebullient young house painter, an Irish Literature professor, his son an animal husbandry expert, and the German trio.  We had coffee together walking through Zafra, a town of 15,000, this morning and reached Los Santos de Maimona (KM 161) in company by early afternoon. 

Shade Sought Solace

August 6, 2010:

                It’s best when you can rely on the company you keep.  Three of us left our hill top refugio at Los Santos at 4:15 this morning.  Julio, a 56 year old electrician, played it dangerous and left solo five minutes ahead of us.  Just minutes later, we watched as still in town and visible on the street ahead of us Julio went astray taking a wrong turn.  Unable to get his attention, we would see him again only hours later when he caught up with us from behind.   We were resting.  Our common goal was Torremejia, 43.5 kilometers of soon to be sun blasted earth, stony path, and gravel road ahead of us.  We would see two more Perseid shooting stars before daybreak.  With the dawn, morning cool gives way to solar radiation and bake oven heat.  We would tramp like Bedouins always flanked by grape vineyards or olive trees.  Heat hardened hombres would spray pesticides on the wine makings at our shoulders by the hour.  We don’t do too badly.  In the shading hedge of the only farm stead we will see for hours, a woman strikes up a conversation with us and gives us bottled water and a garden hosing down.  We drag our happy selves into Torremejia (KM 204.5) at three o’clock sun burnt crisp.  We, Manuel, Miguel, Julio, and I, are “brethren” of the Pilgrim road.  We need each other and must stand and walk together.

Doing as Romans Did

August 7, 2010:

                Buenas Tardes from Mérida (KM 220.5)! It’s 40C degrees afternoon heat here.  I’m outdoors, comfortable in the shade, and parked at a sidewalk café table.  Moving a large muscle would do me in.  The pedestrian walking streets in Mérida are equipped with fire suppression type nozzles that mist passersby with cooling water, lest they spontaneously self combust in the heat.  Manuel, the Portuguese philosopher, and I did our walking today—16 kilometers into town—beginning at 5 a.m.  We toured the Roman amphitheater ruins and visited the Plaza España center neighborhood following our arrival.  Now, during life-shuts-down siesta heat, we rest.  Mérida is a provincial metropolis with 50,000 residents.  At this hour, in smaller towns, you could walk neighborhood streets without detecting any sign of human life.  With or without air conditioning, everyone is defensively in behind doors.  With no front yards or lawns, town streets present a stone walled, closed in, seemingly sterile face to the world.  Later, after the sun sets, people bring chairs out on to the sidewalks which give up heat faster than sweltering rooms.  “These Spaniards like to sing and smoke outdoors all night long,” says Manuel.  There is evidence for that out on the evening sidewalks.  We’ve done 220 kilometers in eight days, a small miracle. 

Bicyclists and Bocadillos

August 8, 2010:

                Before Manuel and I began walking this morning at 4 a.m., it hadn’t occurred to me that the weather in Extremadura ever changed.  But for some minutes at that hour we felt refreshing rain drops, and clouds with little humidity kept temperatures down mercifully below 30C degrees till after noon today.  We needed the cooling break.  We walked 38 kilometers (24 miles) today from Mérida to Alquéscar (KM 259).  Leaving Mérida and late Saturday night Disco club revelers behind us, we walked past “Proserpina Reservoir” which since Roman times has fed the city’s aqueduct.  

                With our early start, we beat the Pilgrim cycling peloton to Algucén, where, all together, we enjoyed breakfast at a small plaza side taberna.  The menu was hot café and the staple “bocadillos” toast, with freshly diced tomato liberally olive oiled.  Thanks to a cleaning woman, we got to see the inside of a beautiful village church and so blessed, we headed back out to desert solitude.  During one long desert like stretch my guidebook promised we would see no humans.  We saw none … for hours.  We are on the Via Romano a good part of the time—centuries old imperial road.  It’s marked with distinctive large green cubes.

                We are guests tonight with other pilgrims at the “Albergue de Peregrinos Casa Miseracordia” , a convent with parrots caged in a beautiful tree shaded, flowered interior courtyard.  It doubles as a shelter for disabled men and is a true “refuge”.  We Pilgrims have enjoyed a communal evening dinner meal and now dormitory lodging, all for a donation only. 

Imagination, Belief, and the Pilgrim Spirit

August 9, 2010:

                It wouldn’t be accurate to call conditions here in Valdesalor (Km 287) “Spartan”.  There is nothing Grecian about them.  Today our desert odyssey took Manuel and I over Two Roman arched bridges and past a near half dozen “Milarios”, or original mile post markers from the ancient Roman Road.  We slept in this morning at the Sorrowful Heart Pilgrims Albergue at Alquéscar behind doors locked till 6:30 a.m. so we have made a good many of our pilgrim miles today under the hot sun. 

                Our reward is a free refugio at the local soccer field.  It’s a parched, lifeless playing surface that probably hasn’t seen a green blade of grass or well kicked ball in years.  My first day out of Seville, philosophical German Pilgrim Johann, nearing 70, told me, “After the third day, the heat no longer matters.”  It does matter, but not as much, and not at all if you accept it and adapt accordingly.  I’m thinking about moving ahead on my own, leaving Manuel’s often philosophically stoic company.  I feel I’m close to ready.  Morning is dark and beautiful, and also what is toughest alone.  I think about my 87 year father who loves the “thirty mile view” from his Morelia, Mexico, retirement sun deck.  It doesn’t matter that he really can’t see thirty miles or that his beautiful garden would dry up and wither away if he stopped watering it.  He has imagination and belief.  On those foundations we build in our lives the refuges that we need.  Here in Valdesalor, we have the municipal swimming pool next to our desiccated soccer patch and, for this moment on earth, we can be happy.  Tired feet and muscles enjoy a flutter kick in cool water just as if it were a top dollar massage.

A Good Samaritan Acts

August 10, 2010:

                In Mérida, I watched a man emerge in a hurry from a supermarket.  Accosted by a beggar, without a glance, word, or losing a stride, the man reached deftly into his grocery bag, extracted a loaf of bread, and gave it to the poor man.  This happened so quickly as to go seemingly unnoticed by other passersby.  I very much admired this selfless gesture of a generous man.  I hope to treasure it as a model, an inspiration for right living. 

                Also in Mérida, a handsome, eavesdropping older couple broke in on our sidewalk café Pilgrim table talk to tell me they were from Stavanger.  They had heard me telling my table mates about my 2009 “Way of St. Olav” Pilgrim walk across Norway.  They told me two Norwegian Royal couples had taken pre-nuptial pilgrim walks on the “Olavsleden”. 

                You can get a small glass of red wine in a taberna here for as little as a half Euro.  It can make for a pleasant afternoon.  I’ve been walking and talking with a mid life couple, Maria and Alfredo, from Valencia for the past few days.  The Portuguese philosopher Manuel, himself 52, told me that Maria has given Alfredo the highest expression of her confidence that can be imagined—crossing kilometers of near desert, she entrusts Alfredo with carrying all of her spare water.  They do seem to be an at-ease, well balanced couple.  Walking through Cáceres this morning I saw a beautiful statute of the Virgin Mary in the Iglesia Santiago.  So blessed, I walked on in mid day heat refreshed.

                Entering Casar de Cáceres (KM 310) at day’s end, a neon sign flashed “44C degrees”.

The Tears of San Lorenzo

August 11, 2010:

                David, a young, friendly, well girthed, and road walking Spanish Pilgrim has told me that in Spain they refer to shooting stars as being “The tears of San Lorenzo”.  After some 6 a.m. starts, the philosopher Manuel and I went back to walking at 4 a.m. to attempt back-to-back 40 kilometer days.  Today we left Casar de Cáceres “late” to catch after dawn views from “the top of the world”, a high ridge line with views both east and west falling away to distant horizons.  We see the sun rise to the east every morning out of dusty low atmosphere haze.  By mid day, it’s cooking us, always at our backs as we march inexorably northward.  By mid afternoon, we partake of a Pilgrim’s Menu hearty restaurant meal before a boiling heat induced late afternoon siesta.  Today we’ve reached Cañaveral (KM 344).  It’s 8 p.m. and I’m a bar fly, drinking a 1.5 liter bottle of nothing stronger than mineral water enjoying air conditioning while writing.  We sleep in shorts, top of the sheets, no bags or bed covering.  No pillow.  Across the European Union, including Spain, smoking is banned in all public spaces.  The Spanish, with stubborn national pride, ignore this proscription. 

The Perseids Peak

August 12, 2010:

                I have a promise of my own to keep.  I meet a friend at the train station in Puebla de Sanabria at 3:14 in the morning on August 24th.  I’m averaging 29.5 Kilometers (~18.5 miles) per day at the moment.  My mind does the calculations every day.  At this rate, with one or two strong walking days, I can make it all the way in for our train station rendezvous on foot--a real pilgrim effort.  Today, a 39 kilometer effort in to Carcaboso (KM 383) has been a good day.  Ruben, a 29 year old Spanish industrial arts teacher, has joined forces with Manuel and me.  Afoot at 5 a.m., we walked first under stars through cool, pine needled forests.  Later, nearing the old walled city of Galisteo, thanks to miles of irrigation canals, we began to walk between fresh green fields—tall, healthy corn growing in otherwise desert. 

                Here in Carcaboso, Alfredo, in Swedish national flag T-shirt, and his kindly, silver haired and grandmotherly wife, Irene, have welcomed us to clean, superbly comfortable, quiet and air conditioned rooms above the street and next to their “Bar Via de la Plata”.  They’ve greeted us with bright eyes and boundless generosity—an ice cold liter bottle full of purified water for starters and a hardboiled egg appetizer for each of us.  I wish you could have seen the gesture as Irene cracked mine and, smiling, pushed it over the bar towards me.  She likes Pilgrims.  Tonight is supposed to produce the peak of the Perseid meteor shower.  This we’ve learned from Ruben’s I-Phone, which makes a surprisingly good Via de la Plata pre-dawn flashlight.  I doubt if Bill Gates or the Apple Magicians intend this.  Irene has dropped by to talk with us so … I’m off to socialize. 

Good Night Irene: The Saint

August 13, 2010:

                We are still basking in the warm glow of the wonderful hospitality of Alfredo and Irene at the “Bar Via de la Plata” yesterday evening.  At 9:30 p.m., Irene dropped by to wish us “Good Night”.  Manuel and I were enjoying fresh melon for a late dessert.  Irene takes a maternal interest in “her Pilgrims”.  She chatted pleasantly with us freely dispensing useful advice.  Then, on leaving us, she was magnificent.  She kissed us each on both cheeks, offering hers in return.  Then, with her thumb, she “anointed” us both making the sign of the cross on our foreheads like priests do on Ash Wednesday.  It was an amazingly genuine and innocent gesture.  Manuel observed when she left, “I think she is a saint.”  I felt blessed, truly like never before.  So prepared, I fell quickly into a deep, restful, and much needed sleep.         

Sleep needed because today we walked 48 kilometers (30 miles!) to Baños de Montemayor (KM 431)—the longest Pilgrim day I’ve ever walked.  Our 48 kilometer pilgrim way took us right through the four squared triumphal arch at Cáparra at mid day with its adjacent excavated ruins of an old Roman city.  At Baños, we’ve reached the highest elevation on our Silver Way yet, 700 meters higher than Seville.  Cool winds off these heights kept today refreshingly cool.

What the Cat Pens

August 14, 2010:

                Among other eccentric things about the Hogar de Peregrinos Santa Maria Casa Paroquial Refugio in Fuenterroble de Salvatierre (KM 464) is that it flies an American Flag.  A sign tells you that at the request of “American Friends of the Camino” and Congressman James P. Moran, this same flag was flown in honor of Don Blas Rodriguez over the U.S. capitol in Washington on February 10, 2009.  Don Blas, a priest, has been instrumental in the development of the Via de la Plata and its Seville “Friends” Chapter.  Some of the priests ashes are interred in the wall of the Refugio so arriving here is a pilgrimage in itself.*   Emilio, the Refugio hospitalero, has given me a tour of his workshop where he collects and restores metal artifacts. 

                This town, in Salamanca province and my first overnight stop outside of Extremadura, is 955 meters above sea level.  The elevation is starting to pay dividends.  I’ve had my second cool day in a row.  I’ve even just now taken my first heated shower of the Via de la Plata. 

                The church in Fuenterroble is open and elegantly basic.  It has only two rows of wooden pews and they don’t match.  Behind them are three more rows of assorted chairs, some wooden, some even of the white plastic lawn chair variety.  Together, the five rows may seat 30 to 40 people comfortably.  It felt to me like God might reside in such a simple place. 

                I did way finding on my own today, feeling good.  It’s been a while since a giant bull burst out of the early morning darkness at me.  Startled, you discover they are statutes, fifteen or twenty meters high, advertising with no signage.  They are hawking an Andalucían wine whose brand is so well established that no sloganeering is necessary.

                The Refugio cat is helping me pen this message, purring and licking my fingers, robbing my thoughts of any greater substance.

*Note: It has been suggested to me by others that Don Blas Rodriguez is still alive.  I cannot account for this conflicting information.

The Philosopher Manuel

August 15, 2010:

                I parted company with the Portuguese philosopher today.  Manuel has been a man of obscure and mysterious character for me.  Ours has been a strategic alliance dictated by the heat.  We two have been walking together most recent mornings by flashlight illumination in the cool dark long before dawn.  The star canopy this morning leaving Fuenterroble was especially magnificent.  We were bundled up, shivering, and … enraptured.  By mid morning, we were climbing the “Pico de la Dueña”, the highest point on the Via de la Plata outside of Galicia. 

                It’s characterizing that Manuel would wait till our last day to share his first personal details.  It turns out that he’s married with daughters, eighteen and twenty-three.  His wife, he told me, doesn’t work outside the home and has recently been struggling with a bipolar like condition.  Our walking two days back had been disrupted by a cell phone call that had launched him into angry, frustrated, maybe anguished shouting.  I had walked on to give him some discrete personal space.  Today Manuel confirmed that this call had been from his wife. 

                Manuel and I have been comrades but I wish better friends.  I should be more intuitive understanding others.  Manuel diverges from here westward to walk the Via Portuguesa northward into Santiago.  It has always been our destiny to part.  I’ve reached Morille tonight.  At kilometer 497.5, with a tiny little refugio all to myself, I’ve reached the Via de la Plata midpoint.  I walk through Salamanca tomorrow.  Halfway!