17 apr

Walked 28 kilometres, from Montemarta to Granja de Moreruela. A short day relatively. There was not really a good alternative. The next albergue is more than 25 kilometres away. This morning when I left the Casa Rural in Montemarta I was toying with the idea to go the long distance, but I threw that idea away when I realized after fifteen minutes that I had forgotten my walking stick in the kitchen. I had checked everything when I left the bedroom upstairs, but then put away the stick when I filled up the water bottles.
An easy day, so to say. Had some really good conversations. First the story of Edzard. I met him two days ago. He told me his theory about the ‘real’ pelegrino. Never take the bus, suffer, sleep in albergues, make your own food. I thought it was all a little harsh. I was very surprised to see him again at the Casa Rural in Montamarta, where we shared the 10 bed upper floor between the two of us. After chatting for a little bit I told him about my own ‘real’ pelegrino thoughts. They are much more lax, mostly of course because of my own easy way of going and sleeping in a camper. But it is really about dealing with the direction of life, most pilgrims seem to be dealing or even struggling with. The rhythm of just walking and walking and stomping away seems to be helping to come up with answers. Who cares about the buses, who cares about the luxurious (?) hostals, it is about the dilemma of life.
Although my approach was direct, we had a good time discussing our own versions of this special journey. Edzard said that he might be harsh on others, but not as harsh as he is on himself. And I’m sure he’s right. There is a lot of tenderness in his eyes, but of the rigourous sort.
I walked a few kilometres with Dutch Ruud from Laren. He’s a well travelled pilgrim, having for example walked from Budapest to Santiago, the journey divided over a. Few years. He wants to make a Roman walk from Edinburgh to Rome. ‘Not because of the religious pilgrimage, but because the Romans brought civilization and all ways lead to Rome.
Arrived at the albergue at 2.30 so had plenty of time to wash, clean, download newspapers and everything. Sat outside in the lovely late afternoon sun with Asier and Pierre. Asier is from Bilbao and a proud Basque. Pierre from Marseille and sympathetic to their demands. Asier lives in France now, the basque part of France. Although he’s officially living at the other side of the border, he feels he’s still living in his own country. ‘I still talk the same language with my new friends.’
Quite fascinating. He told me the official Spain France border is established only in the 1870’s. The possible independence of Scotland, which is not going to happen of course, might give an impulse to lots of areas wanting independence. Asier – a real Basque untranslatable name – was more worried about the french treatment of the basques as the spanish one. After the bloody ‘war’ between the ETA and spain it seems there’s quite a bit of autonomy now. At least the Basque language is accepted as unique and official in Spain, and not in France.
The landscape in this area is quite amazing. The soil is the reddest I’ve ever seen. Together with the purple of the blooming lilacs, the yellow of the rapeseed and the blue of the sky it makes a spectacular visual experience. And it’s relatively flat. If they would not have put in an unfinished interstate, intermingling with our Camino-path and disturbing our signs, it would have been an easy walk. Tomorrow 50 kilometres again. Argh.