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The Last Bad Day; Day 3 on the Camino Del Norte (Cadavedo to Luarca, 15km)

August 8, 2016

I’m now several days behind on posting, so because I know what happens in the next few days and you don’t, yet, I’ll give you just this little preview: things get better. I say that because this is going to be another sort of downer of a post. And before anyone starts thinking that I’m having a no-good, horrible, unfortunate Camino, have no fear. Things start looking up, and soon.

But lets go back to Day 3 of the Norte. In the comments of my last post (thank you, by the way; your words of understanding and encouragement were such a needed booster), a few Camino friends urged me to stop in Luarca. A charming port town only fifteen kilometers from Cadavedo, it would make for an easy day giving me plenty of time to rest and explore and eat ice cream.

Oh, Camino.

The day started out overcast, and a light rain began to fall around 9am. It was just enough to be a nuicance, but by the time I got to Luarca it was falling heavier and I was a wet pilgrim mess when I entered a warm and cozy looking bar. But, no matter: the walk still hadn’t felt easy (my pack continued to feel heavy and my legs like lead, my sickness was zapping all my energy), but it hadn’t been long. I ordered a cafe con leche and orange juice and settled into a table. It was eleven thirty, the albergue would open at noon, I was in no hurry. The day’s walk was done.

But then I heard the urgent tone of a frantic pilgrim. “The albergue is already full. People have called ahead and reserved.” He was talking to two pilgrims at another table, and they, too, had looks of panic on their faces. “And everything else is booked in this town,” he continued. “You can try the albergue and see if they have suggestions, or maybe the information center in town.”

I sat back in my seat, feeling rather defeated. The last thing I wanted to do was scramble all over town, trying to find a place to sleep. The next albergue listed in the guidebook had closed, and the albergue after that was… far. And it was raining.

(A note on the shortage of beds: the best I can guess is that this is a bad stretch of the Norte for albergues. I’d run into this problem once last year, aroud Llanes, and had to stay in a pension. From what I’ve heard, there are currently a lot of pilgrims on the Norte, and to make matters worse, this is high tourist season, so it’s difficult to find a free bed in a hotel or pension. And when you do, often the prices are a lot highter than they’d normally be).

So I went over to the pilgrims to talk over what I had just heard, but didn’t come up with any solutions (one of the pilgrims had injured his foot and proclaimed this to be “the worst day ever”). I went back to my table, and finished my drinks. For some reason- maybe I was just tired of things not working out- I wasn’t too worried. Because for as much as things didn’t seem to be working out well, I had a feeling that I’d figure out a plan. I was in a large town, I wasn’t isolated. I could always just take a bus or a train… somewhere. Further ahead on the Norte, or maybe just all the way to Finisterre where I could find a room and stay for a week and recuperate and write. That plan was starting to sound better and better.

I weaved my arms through the wet sleeves of my raincoat, hoisted my drippping pack onto my back, and headed back out. I made my way over to the albergue to see what the scene was like, and the only one around was a female pilgrim in a long, draping skirt. She called to me from across the street, “Albergue is full! But come over here, we’ll figure something out.”

Enter: my Camino angel. Beatrice, from Sweden.

She has more energy than nearly every other person I’ve ever met, and I would find out later that she averages at least 40 km days on the Camino, always. She did the San Salvador in 3 days, the Primitivo in 8, the Frances in 23. Her “not walking” energy is high, too. We ducked into a hotel across the street, found out it was full, but used the shelter of their lobby to look for other options. She whipped through her guidebook, called a number, and in muddled Spanish managed to secure us a double room for 60 euros, coming out to 30 a piece. I’ve been spending a lot on this Camino with all the unexpected private rooms, but standing there in Luarca, all I could feel was relieved that I had a place to spend the night.

We spent the rest of the day together- luxurating under the powerful water pressure of our shower, wandering through town in the rain to find a place to eat, holing up in a cafe for tea and pastries. I was happy to have some long overdue company, but I was also exhausted, and it was hard to keep up with Beatrice. I should have just told her that I wanted to go back to the hotel and take a nap, but this was the first sustained human contact I’d had in awhile, and besides, I also needed to eat, and find a grocery store (and on the plus side of things, I realized that my appetite was slowly starting to return. I was craving a plate of calamari, and it felt good to be craving something other than orange juice or Sunny D or Fanta).

But I coughed all through the afternoon and the evening, and for as much as I wanted to be attentive to Beatrice and participate in the conversation, I knew I was only half there. It didn’t seem to matter though, and I was relieved for that, too. Beatrice just kept talking and telling me stories, and even though I was essentially sharing this day and this hotel room with a stranger, the Camino makes things like this easier.

But I went to bed thinking that this Camino wasn’t much fun, not much fun at all. And the question that had been lingering for the past few days continued to burn through my thoughts: Should I stop doing this? Should I just stop walking?

Walking slowly over wet sand; Day 7 on the Camino del Norte, Bilbao to Pobena

June 27, 2015

I’d heard rumors that the walk out of Bilbao would be awful. My guide outlined several different route options to get out of the city, going so far as to suggest that pilgrims take a metro from Bilbao to Portugalette, skipping the worst parts of the industrial area.

Even though I’m much more open to a different kind of Camino this year, even though I’ve said that I’m not against skipping parts of this walk… I just couldn’t bring myself to take a metro. Maybe it would have been the smart thing to do- after all, the blister on my foot wasn’t feeling any better- but I wanted to walk. I may be more tired and worn out on this Camino, but one thing hasn’t changed. Every day I wake up and want to walk.

So I chose the best looking option out of the city- a walk along the west side of the river. Christine and I spent some time pouring over our guidebooks to figure out the route, and we left the albergue together. After 10 minutes of walking she realized she forgot her socks, so turned around to get them. She urged me to go on, and I did. Maybe I should have waited for her, but I still resist spending my whole days walking with someone. And Christine’s pace is just so fast, and I knew I wouldn’t be doing my blister any favors if I tried to walk fast on the hard pavement.

I got a bit turned around trying to find the Camino route; I asked two guys for directions and I think they started arguing about which was the best route out of the city. Finally one of them walked me over to a corner, pointed ahead, told me to go right and walk by the river.

And the walk was pretty great. It’s nothing compared to the beauty of so many of my other days here, and nothing changes the fact that much of it was spent in urban sprawl. But all along the river were pathways for pedestrians and runners and bikers, which was a lot better than I expected. And the walking was flat, and it was on smooth pavement, which meant that I didn’t need to take my blistered foot over stones. It was a relief, actually.
I sailed along. I listened to music which always helps, and after a lot of kilometers, I stopped in a shaded area with picnic tables to eat a yogurt, to take off my shoes.

Just as I was finishing my break, Christine and Nicole (Austria) walked up. Christine started waving and cheering when she saw me- she got turned around in the city as well, and came by a different route. Nicole got turned around as well, and was on yet another route (and at one point was on an entirely different Camino, headed towards Burgos). We all laughed that we had eventually ended up in the same spot even though we had walked three different ways. Christine and I left Nicole in the park and continued on towards Pobena.

The afternoon walking is hard. That’s been my experience nearly every day; I finish my days late, around 3 or 4, and the last few hours are difficult. Even more so because of my blister. Every step was painful, though once I got going I didn’t notice the pain so much. But towards the end of the day I couldn’t ignore it. Plus the sun was beating down and Pobena just never seemed to arrive.

But finally it did, or rather, it’s beach did first. Christine and I arrived in the town about an hour before the albergue opened, so we chose to walk the last kilometer on the beach, with our feet in the water. It’s an amazing way to end a day of walking, and I just wished I could have enjoyed it more. When I took off my socks and shoes and put on my flip flops, I hobbled and limped across the sand. I couldn’t walk normally, I couldn’t even take off my flip flops to put my feet in the sand. Walking through the water helped, but as Christine and I slowly made our way to the albergue, I really started to worry about my blister. Clearly, ignoring it and hoping it would heal on its own wasn’t the answer.

Pobena was barely a town, although it reminded me of something out of the Camino Frances: an albergue a stone’s throw from a small square filled with bars and a couple restaurants. I spent the afternoon talking to Nicole and getting advice about my blister. In the evening we walked over to one of the bars and found an outdoor table; we drank wine and tried to write, but ended up talking to each other instead.

Eventually Daniel, a Hungarian guy, joined us, and before we knew it, it was 9pm, we hadn’t eaten dinner, and the albergue would close at 10. We raced over to the only restaurant serving a pilgrim’s meal, split one, and took our half finished bottle of wine back to the albergue with us. As we drank we were joined by Carlos (Spain), and a young French guy whose name I still don’t know but who I met at the monastery. Carlos pulled out a pack of cards (Spanish cards, with gold coins and sticks and swords instead of hearts, diamonds, etc), and he tried to teach us a game. We stayed up late, the hospitalera warning us to keep the noise down and asking if we could turn off lights when we were finished.

The night was fun, and it felt like early days on the Camino Frances, when we were all started to get to know each other, when we’d stay up late with a glass of wine, talking and laughing (did that happen much on the Camino Frances? I can’t even remember, but it seems like something that happened a lot).

I didn’t mind staying up late, because I was planning to have a really short walk the next day. I was worried about my blister, needed to find a pharmacy, and saw an advertisement for a nice looking private albergue only 12 kilometers away from Pobena. I knew I would lose all of the people I’d just spent the evening with, but I consoled myself with thinking I could maybe meet up with Iria and Richard and Amy again.

Day 7: a not-so-bad walk out of Bilbao, making new friends, blister pain, cards and wine.

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My legs are not what they used to be

April 3, 2015

So just yesterday I was writing about how calm and confident I feel as I plan for my second Camino. And while that is mostly true, I have a small confession: I’m nervous about how physically prepared I’m going to be for the long walk on the Norte.

I know, I know, I was worried about this last year, too, and the training that I thought wasn’t nearly enough proved to be almost more than enough as I set off on the Camino Frances.

But the Norte isn’t the Frances, and if anything, I’m afraid that because of my general confidence with this whole Camino thing, I’m going to relax too much on the training, and start my Camino completely unprepared (which isn’t true because I’m already somewhat prepared… but fear is a funny thing). I’m afraid that I’m going to be in the same boat as so many of the pilgrims I walked with last year: aching legs and sore hips and tired feet and generally just a lot of pain.

I understand that this wouldn’t be such a bad thing- it’s a 500+ mile walk, after all, and what’s a pilgrimage without at least a little pain?

This fear is recent: just two days ago I was talking about how I’m in better physical shape than I was at this same time last year. But already, I’m starting to question that. I did a 3-mile round-trip hike in Virginia earlier this week, up Sharp Top, one of the Peaks of Otter off of the Blue Ridge Parkway near Bedford, VA. At this point, 3-miles is like a warmup to me, so I didn’t think this hike would be particularly challenging.

Well, tell that to my aching legs. The 1.5 mile ascent was tough. Compared to some of the days on last year’s Camino, the hike up to Sharp Top would probably be considered only moderately difficult. Nothing compared to the first day’s walk through the Pyrenees, or up and down the three mountains of the Dragonte route.

But here’s what I’ve learned: while I’ve still been walking somewhat regularly and continuing to wear my pack, my legs are not what they once used to be. Somewhere along the way, I lost my Camino legs.

I don’t think I would be so nervous if I were walking the Frances again. I still have over two months to train and it’s not like I was hiking up mountains every day last year in preparation for my Camino. But the Norte is going to be tough: up and down mountains, sometimes day after day. One reason I loved my Camino so much last year was that I wasn’t in too much physical pain, and I think that allowed me to completely embrace my experience, and everyday I felt so grateful that I got to be outside, walking. I’m afraid that this year, if I walk with pain, I’m going to have a very different experience.

But this is part of it, right? I think this is the beauty of an experience like the Camino- we can prepare and prepare, but we never fully know what we’re going to walk into. And we get to work through whatever challenges we face while on the journey: we have time and space and help and understanding. In many ways, it is the most perfect kind of environment to face fear and challenge.

So if one of my challenges this year is a physical one, I know that I’ll be able to face it. In the meantime, I’m going to keep walking and hiking, but I’m going to try not to stress. I’m going to try to follow one of the great Camino lessons: enjoy the journey. And that means enjoying the preparation part of this journey as well, even if it means sore calves and aching feet.

The Camino Provides

August 31, 2014

I walked into Santiago over a month ago… a month! I traveled for a few more weeks after that, but even so: how has it already been a month since the end of my pilgrimage? Since returning home I’ve thought about the Camino every day. At first it was all I could do to just settle back into life and catch up on sleep and see friends and family and adjust to being home. The Camino- and everything it entailed- was sort of a hazy presence that I knew I would get to, eventually.

And I’ve been trying to get to it lately- go back and sort it all out in my head, wrap my mind around what it meant, what it continues to mean, what it will mean for my future. But it will probably take years to sort out and by that time I’ll have walked another Camino and will need to figure that one out… it’s going to be a lifelong process, I think.

That being said, I’ve been doing some good, solid post-Camino thinking. The other night I got together with a friend who walked the Camino Frances six years ago, and I had a million questions for her. At first they were fairly standard: how heavy was your pack, what was your experience like in this town, etc. But then I started to get to what was really on my mind: how and when did you form friendships? Did they last throughout the Camino or did you break away? Did you find that the Camino gave you what you needed?

This is a big one, it’s the question that’s occupied most of my post-Camino thoughts. “The Camino provides” was a phrase that I often heard during my walk, and one that I’ve used myself from time to time. Nervous at the airport in JFK, wondering what I was getting myself into… and then right away I meet Julie, who is also walking the Camino, also a bit nervous, and so happy to talk to me. The Camino provides. Our flight is delayed, we are stuck in Iceland overnight, by the time I make it to St Jean I am a day behind schedule. Had I started on June 26th, as planned, it would have been a wet, gray, rain-soaked walk through the Pyrenees. But June 27th, the day I started? Clear blue skies, views for miles, sunshine and a cool breeze. The Camino provides. I worried about meeting people and making friends, and while I was so glad to walk that first day alone, I couldn’t help but notice other pilgrims linking up and walking together. On the last hour of the descent to Roncesvalles I met Mirra, from San Francisco. We ended up sticking together until she left in Burgos, and I couldn’t have imagined a better person to spend the first half of my Camino with. The Camino provides.

And this was just the first few days of my trip. There are countless other examples of how the Camino provided something to me when I needed it. Small stuff: an open bar when I was desperate for coffee. A snore free night when I most needed sleep. But the bigger stuff, too: companionship when I felt the most alone. Guidance when I felt lost and uncertain.

And then, well, there was my entire Camino. I’ve wondered- while I was walking and now, a month after I’ve finished- why everyone had the Camino experience that they did. Why was my Camino so, so good? Why was I so lucky, so blessed? Why did I avoid injury and pain? How did I escape the bed bugs and the notorious snorers? How did I always get a bed, and sometimes the last bed? How did I avoid walking in the rain? How did I meet the most incredible people, always at just the right times? How did I have so much fun?

Something we started saying towards the end of the walk was- “Oh, Camino.” and “Why Camino, why??” It’s like we realized- for good or bad- that this experience was a bit out of our control. The Camino was going to give us the experience we were supposed to have, and we could question it but in the end, the only thing we could really do was accept it.

Why, for instance, did Susie, after an injury riddled walk, get bed bugs on her last night in Finisterre? Why did Joe and Adele, ready to relax and celebrate, get food poisoning the night they arrived in Santiago? Why did Laura, the Italian mother, get a huge blister on her heel three days before the end of the walk?

I think about these examples, of the pain and struggle at the very end of the pilgrimage, and I wonder why. Why does anyone have to experience pain? Why them, and not me? Was it for Susie to prove, once and for all, that she was far stronger than she ever could have imagined? That Joe and Adele, on their honeymoon, were able to support each other- truly- through the good and bad? That Laura could put a smile on her face and continue to walk and be the best possible example for her 12- year old daughter?

I don’t know. It’s what I saw, and I suppose that the meaning of any life experience- Camino or not- is what we make of it.

And this is what I saw, in part, on my Camino: the Camino gave me joy and life and fun. I came to walk the Camino for many reasons, but the timing of it was because I needed to move towards something. The serious relationship I’d been in had ended 6 months before and the better part of the last year had been very difficult for me. I wasn’t happy, I wasn’t having fun, I was just getting through my days in order to get to a better time. Even though I knew I would find it again, I couldn’t feel the joy in life.

Why does anyone experience pain? I don’t know, but I do know that the contrast of such incredible highs after difficult lows is a thing of beauty. It’s life: we feel pain, but we can also feel joy. We can also feel great joy. I came to the Camino, in part, to feel life again, all of the beauty and magic and hope and joy of life, and I was flooded by it all.

My Camino wasn’t perfect, or totally pain free. Sometimes it felt difficult. But most of the time, it seemed like all I could see and feel was beauty and magic and joy.

The Camino provides.

The Camino finally gets difficult (subtitle: Spanish guys on bikes, and dogs); Day 21 on the Camino, Villares de Orbigo to Rabanal

July 17, 2014

There have been many points during this Camino when I’ve wondered when it was going to get hard for me. I actually started to feel a bit guilty about it- it was like my entire experience had been charmed, and only good things were coming to me.

I think things changed a bit today. Today was tough.

And it was tough all around: physically, mentally, and emotionally. For the first time, I really started thinking about home, and sort of wished that, for a few days at least, I could go back home and things could be easy. I wished I could take a day trip to the beach, I wished that I could sit on my couch and drink endless cups of coffee, I wished that I could hang out with my friends and shop at Trader Joe’s and do all of my normal stuff.

I think a lot has caught up with me, finally. This is my 21st day of walking, and I think I’m tired. My body is still handling this walk pretty well, but my feet hurt more than ever before. I have a few new blisters developing. Maybe I ate something a bit off for lunch today, because there was an hour or two when I felt a bit sick.

And for the first time, I ended my day’s walk earlier than planned, because I just couldn’t walk any further. I think part of the problem is that I’ve started to feel a bit invincible; even though I ended today’s walk early, I still walked nearly 37 kilometers, and most of that was a gradual uphill climb. I’m not sure why I thought that another 40+ kilometer day wouldn’t be too hard, but I did. And I felt just a bit defeated to realize that I’m tired, and that today, for the first time, I got tired of walking.

My experience last night was wonderful and just what I needed: sleeping in a beautiful albergue. Peace and quiet. Time to write and reflect. I had dinner with two Germans and that was also quiet and simple. Because of the language barrier, none of us talked much, but it was a comfortable meal (and delicous: jamon and melon, grilled meat with tomatoes and onions, ice cream for dessert and good wine and bread).

As I walked away from the albergue this morning (after a breakfast of coffee and toast with jam and honey), I thought about what a great decision I’d made, and how much I needed some time to myself.

But today, after a hard walk and not seeing many pilgrims on the road, I walked into this town hoping to see someone I knew. And there was no one. Only new faces, and it’s so strange to not know anyone. This is the first time it’s happened, and it feels a lot lonelier than I expected.

I found the municipal albergue and picked a bed, but quickly realized that I probably made a mistake and should have looked around at the other albergue options. I scraped my back twice of the underside of the top bunk bed, the shower was ice cold, and the windows bang loudly in the wind. Not many people are staying there, and the place has a hollow and sad feeling to it.

But, here’s the great thing about the Camino: either the day will improve and I’ll run into people I know or I’ll get a good night’s sleep or I’ll eat a good meal… or it won’t improve at all but tomorrow morning I’ll move on. Every day I get to move on, and sometimes that’s hard because I’m leaving people or a place that I really love, but sometimes that’s needed, because I need to move on to something better.

And even on this hard day- my hardest Camino day so far- there’ve been some good encounters. Namely, Spanish guys on bikes, and dogs. Three bikers stayed in the same albergue as I did last night, and as I was lying in bed around 9:30pm, winding down and looking at things on my phone, one of them started talking to me. I told him, in the kindest way possible, that I’d just separated myself from the people I knew for some needed time to myself (in other words: I want to be alone!). They were still sleeping when I left this morning, but I ran into them at a cafe in Astorga, after walking about 15km. The guy who’d talked to me last night came over and exclaimed, “You left without saying goodbye!” and then, “Wow, you walk pretty fast.”

Later I’d stopped at a cafe for some ice cream (on these hot days my new routine is to have some post-second breakfast, pre-lunch ice cream), and while sitting at an outdoor table in the shade, talked to another Spanish bicycler who’d also stopped. It’s only happened a few times, but I really like the conversations with bikers. They are experiencing the Camino in such a different way than the walkers do, and I like the fleeting but sweet nature of the encounters.

And then there were the dogs. This entire time on the Camino I’ve never had a dog come over and say hi, and it’s happened twice today. Right now I’m sitting outside at one of the village’s only bars, and right away an old, sweet dog came over to me, sat down, and waited to be pet. He settled in, then laid down, and has been keeping me company as I write.

I think about how people say that the Camino provides, and there’s just something about this dog that makes me think that his presence is not entirely a coincidence. I’m happy that he’s here.

So finally, things got a little challenging today. I always expected that at some point this would happen. But I’m hoping that things turn around a bit in the next few days, and the Camino shows me some more of the magic that I’ve come to know.

Next Post: Day 25 on the Camino Frances