The Big Walk

To the Fiesta - Day 38

We were kept awake much of last night by guitar-playing pilgrims, but were cheered outside town when we saw a signpost declaring ‘Santiago – 825km’. It sounds a impressively long way, but I’m glad there’s no pointer for Istanbul. After several more whitewashed villages, we climb up to the Alto de Perdon, a long ridge topped by a line of graceful wind turbines. At the top of the pass is a cut-out steel sculpture of a motley group of pilgrims, and a great view of Pamplona ahead, backed by further, higher hills. Down the other side, fields of sunflowers bring us to Cizur Menor, a suburb of Pamplona, before the hostel opens at noon. Everyone around the streets is dressed all in white except for a red neckerchief tied round their waist- it’s like a uniform for San Fermin. Thankfully there’s no queue of cow-bell sporting pilgrims here, so we head into a bar for a coffee while we wait. On the television (where again everyone is wearing the white outfits – I’m impressed), the seven days of continuous live coverage of the great Fiesta is about to begin. The scene in the centre of Pamplona looks amazing – almost a million identically-dressed people are crammed into the central square and surrounding streets, all jumping up and down, passing some unfortunate souls around above their heads – a sea of white and red. Even in the bar there’s an air of excitement building, so we have a beer and wait for the launch of the rocket that will signal the start of the fiesta. A deafening boom from the television, then the bar staff fire open bottles of sparkling wine and hand everyone in the bar a glass on the house.

We’re hoping to get a good night’s sleep before heading in for the fiesta tomorrow, so we eventually get away and check in to a lovely private hostel with hardwood bunks, beautiful gardens and a friendly owner, Maribel. She’s clearly excited about the start of the fiesta, though she has regrets at the international character of the encierro or running of the bulls these days.

“There are two many foreigners and backpackers come now. They try to reach out and touch the bulls. They don’t understand that the bulls are sacred to us”. This seems a bit rich, given that the bulls from each day’s encierro are killed in the bull fights that evening.

“Even some women run now,” she continues. “It’s not meant for women. It’s for young men to prove themselves. What do women have to prove?”

She sends us off for free swimming nearby, at a huge, five pool outdoor complex, and we have the Olympic-sized main pool almost to ourselves. On the streets, all are wearing the red and white outfits – since the rocket launch, the red neckerchiefs have been moved from waist and tied around the neck, and when we pop into another bar the tv coverage of mayhem is continuing – we too are getting very excited about tomorrow. I had been worried that it would be hard for a foreign couple to get into the spirit of the fiesta, but the atmosphere is so electric that already we’re buzzing.

Bridge of the Queen - Day 37

Outside Estella we crossed the Salt River. In the Santiago pilgrim museum we saw an original copy of the Codex Clatinus, the original book written to help pilgrims and reputedly the world’s first guidebook. The author of the Codex warned pilgrims not to allow their horses to drink from this river; his own horse had done, and had died instantly. He then related how two Basques were standing on the bank sharpening their knives ready to flay the skin from dying pilgrims’ horses – but why this didn’t make him suspicious and stop his horse from drinking is a mystery. He certainly had it in for the Basques – elsewhere in his guide he’d claimed that they regularly exposed themselves to strangers, and noted in passing that many of their cows had been fitted with chastity belts to protect them from their human neighbours.

We stop to eat a huge bread cake at a bakery in Cirauqui. This villages name means ‘nest of thieves’ but it seems safe today. It’s a tightly packed jumble of whitewashed cottages atop a steep hill, the route being hard to follow through a maze of tiny winding alleys, arched gateways and secluded squares. Beyond this the countryside begins to level off until we reach a huge, cobbled stone bridge, the Puente La Reina or ‘Queen’s bridge’. The Queen in question was Urraca, whose chalice we saw in a Leon museum – she ordered construction to help pilgrims cross the river in the eleventh century. It has six graceful arches and a slight kink in the middle – presumably where constructions began from each bank had met. Through an archway on the far side is the town that shares the bridge’s name, which sprung up to serve the pilgrims using it. It has three parallel streets, long and narrow and lined with quite magnificent brick mansions, the projecting wooden eaves of which, exquisitely carved, seem to extend half way across the road. Everything is maintained immaculately; there’s obviously a lot more wealth around in Navarra than in the crumbling villages we saw in Castille. One of the few modern touches is a high wall, enclosed by wire fencing, together with a set of lines painted on the concrete – a pelota court. It looks like squash but with only one wall. Our guidebook informs us that other popular Basque sports include boulder-lifting, the practitioners of which enjoy the status of ‘rock’ stars, and, apparently, grass-cutting. I presume they would be welcome anywhere when on tour.

Fountain of Life - Day 36

 We decide to have a really short day today, to ensure we don’t arrive at Pamplona before the start of the fiesta. Happily, our Dutch hosts serve a big, leisurely buffet breakfast. Afterwards they hand out tiny sewing kits to each pilgrim – is there no end to their kindness? Our penance is having to accept a copy of the gospel according to St. John as a parting gift.

Opposite a monastery at Irache, attached to a winery, we discover a remarkable public fountain. It has two taps for the refreshment of passing walkers. One reads agua, the other, I read with disbelief, is vino tinto. Like children let loose in a sweet factory we fill our mugs and begin drinking – even though it’s nine in the morning. Spanish pilgrims going past aren’t even bothering to stop, and it seems we’re displaying the typically rash British attitude to alcohol. I try to imagine the scene if a free wine fountain was set up in a village at home – there’d be a huge crowd, much worse for wear, thronging the area. I’ve noticed the same thing in bars –the Spaniards (and the pilgrims from France) often leave without drinking half their bottle of wine or a good part of their beer, being there for the company more than the drink. Possibly it’s just that alcohol is so cheap here – limitless wine is available free with food in most bars, but how often do you see anyone in a British pub leave half their pint? Even if your mates are leaving immediately, most of us try to down whatever we’ve got left.

We stagger on into Estella, a sizeable town, and join a queue of about a hundred pilgrims waiting for the hostel to open its doors at noon. When the doors do open, there’s a mad crush to get in and bag the bunks – with not much Christian spirit on display. Our bunks seem fine until we notice that the guy next to us is, for some reason, walking the camino wearing two large cowbells round his neck. He even wears them to sleep.

Estella has many beautiful old houses and unusual churches - but also it’s fair share of busy roads and drab concrete blocks. For us the main attraction is the outdoor swimming pool, where we recover from our morning’s indiscretions. I would be relaxed, but I’m trying to summon up courage to do something I’ve been dreading – go to a barbers for a haircut. To be honest, I hate having my hair cut even at home, and being asked hundreds of incomprehensible questions in Spanish about razors, blades, shavers and scissors doesn’t improve the experience. Still, that’ll be fine for another eight weeks.

The Way Ahead - Day 35

There was a sign in the hostel reading ‘Silence until 7am’; a late start but we’re not planning to go far today so we thought it would be ok. So we were surprised when the hostel owner switched on all the dormitory lights at six and played soothing medieval music on his stereo – at deafening volume. This happened to coincide with the opening time of his restaurant, serving breakfast next door. We decide to give this a miss!

More olive groves and arid scrubland leads to Los Arcos, another fine town and a twin to Viana. Reluctantly we leave here on a dusty track which runs straight for many miles. After several, we realise we’ve not seen any pilgrim marker arrows since starting the track. We can’t bear to head back, so instead cut across down the rows of vines and leap the ditch to get to the main road, along which we continue, dodging swerving juggernauts, before eventually finding the camino again. Villamayor de Monjardin turns out to be another picturesque and atmospheric village, with a beautiful hostel in a wide, low stone mansion looking like an old English coaching inn. Inside are three storeys of low ceilings, grand fireplaces and crooked beams. We head out to climb to the castle which dominates the village atop a conical hill swathed in woodland. The bushes scratch us to bits as we scramble up. Access through the castle walls is possible only at one point where a stone staircase twists round above a sheer drop; it must have been almost impregnable. Inside is a tiny hermitage with a visitors’ book; the vast view of our onward route inspires us to sign it – ‘en route, de Cabo Finisterre a Istanbul’.

Back at the hostel, the Dutch volunteers are cooking up a sausage stew and serving us on a huge oak table with ten other pilgrims, mostly French and German. We’ve been going for a month now and are only a week or so from the French border where most pilgrims’ begin their journey, so at last we have some credibility with our peers. Or so we think – the French girl next to me has been walking for seven weeks already. For once there’s some English spoken, good enough for us to enjoy a joke and a bit of a laugh – something we’ve sorely missed. We’ve had a great day today; Navarra with its ancient villages and rocky hills is giving the best walking we’ve had so far.

Into Navarra - Day 34

After crossing a great bridge, a long, slow climb takes us into Navarra, the heart of the Basque country. The effort is rewarded by Viana, a hilltop town will panoramic views behind. It’s an enchanting place of old mansions and cobbled streets – the masons here use many different coloured stones to make elaborate patterns and mosaics in the ground.

The route continues over low but steep hills with many scrubby trees and something we haven’t seen so far – the silvery grey of olive groves. For once the camino isn’t visible for miles ahead, instead being hidden by the hills and countless twists and turns, making the walking much more interesting. By mid afternoon we reach the village of Torres del Rio, almost entirely made up of huge, ancient stone mansions, with carved heraldic symbols adorning the walls. There’s a fascinating octagonal Romanesque chapel here, small inside but very tall and elegant with a Moorish star design at the point of the vaulting inside. It’s unique, and no-one really knows its purpose; one theory is that it’s a mausoleum for pilgrims who died on their journey. After dropping our bags in at the hostel, we make a short walk up to the next village, Samsol, a twin to Torres but sited on the hilltop above and the benefit of a great view back down. Perhaps it’s just the contrast with the commercial hubbub of Logrono, but it feels so peaceful here, and far from the modern world.