Sore Body Parts, Mass, and Cheap Poles

Camino. Chapter 8

This is my serialized story of walking the Camino de Santiago across Northern Spain with my sister-in-law. If you’d like to start at the beginning of our journey, click here.

Day 6. We wake early and leave our hostel in the dark. Walking through the streets of Puente la Reina, we soon recognize that this is a much larger town than we realized back when we found our hostel yesterday afternoon. We discuss how much fun it would have been Saturday evening to go to the main square, share a bottle of wine, and watch the locals, fellow pilgrims, and tourists out and about.

So too, as we hike past a large Catholic church where a marquee attached to an iron lace fence indicates the times services are offered, Marlene realizes she easily could have gone to mass Saturday night. It is the first time she has mentioned mass and I try to be supportive, though I haven’t gone to a weekly church service since I was a boy. As it is clear we will miss the mass scheduled for later this morning, she suggests she might try tonight. I walk beside her wondering if this is something I would want to do as well. This is the Camino after all and, though I am not Catholic, we are, indeed, pilgrims on a Catholic pilgrimage.

This is our first Sunday. Even though it has only been one week, it seems like years since last Sunday when Marlene and I boarded our plane for Madrid. Since then, I have been nursing two blisters on my right foot and a large blood blister on my left. (What a telling week in how prepared I was for this hike.) Fortunately, I lanced the blisters on my toes as they occurred and now they are less painful. The blood blister, many wraps and massages later, finally broke last night and today the pain is subsiding. Still my feet hurt and my left footpad is sore as hell. Marlene, though, is no longer limping from yesterday’s fall but says she feels the bruises on her legs.

My routine is to spend approximately a half-an-hour wrapping my feet in the morning and an equal amount of time, if not more, massaging them at night as I lie in bed. Marlene laughs at me, but I swear blisters are not going to slow me down. I have opted to rely entirely on my four pairs of heavier hiking socks that I brought with me. The six pairs of lighter-weight, walking socks that I continue to carry are useless for the long hikes but are comfortable at night. Still, between the heavier socks which I change twice a day (and am constantly washing), the Ibuprofen I take every four hours (which will soon run out if I don’t visit a farmacia) and my hiking poles, I finally feel like I can do this! I can actually make it across Spain!

Shortly thereafter, as soon as I start thinking positive thoughts, one of my hiking poles breaks as we cross the historic Roman bridge out of the town. “Breaks” is a funny word, “the break” is an internal thing and, no matter how much I twist to tighten the two ends of the pole together, it will no longer stay “fixed” at any length, let alone the length I need it. I purchased the pair for $20 last Monday back in France, but now, six days later, I am forced to dump the broken one into a trash barrel next to the bridge. I guess you get what you pay for. Still, both poles were invaluable in crossing the Pyrenees and, later, when I realized I was walking on a massive blood blister, I could not have gone on without them. Marlene says I should be grateful for the poles thanks to the advice I received from our Camino friends, Karen and Rich, and, of course, I am. I am also thinking, The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. For the rest of the day I lean on my one pole that still works wondering when the Lord, too, will taketh it away.

Today we see fewer pilgrims on the “road” and I suggest to Marlene that, maybe, some of the people walking out of Pamplona were, in fact, tourists hiking to see the iron statue of pilgrims on the Alto del Perdon, the Mount of Forgiveness. “Maybe,” Marlene says. Regardless, we are relieved to hike past smaller clusters of pilgrims as we continue our journey through the countryside. Of course, fewer pilgrims could be due to our early start out of Puenta la Reina. “Maybe,” Marlene says. I say, “Maybe we should continue our practice of rising early.” Having watched ten seasons of the tv show, The Walking Dead, I add, “If for no other reason, now that we have seen them, to stay ahead of the pilgrimage-induced horde.” Marlene agrees. “Maybe,” she says.

This hike of thirteen miles turns out to be a beautiful day-long walk and I am in love with the plowed fields and the expansive vistas. We pass through three towns on our way to Estella and each town is unique and lovely. However, the surfaces of the roads and streets are rocky, and I can feel each sharp stone through the thin soles of my boots. I spend as much time choosing my step with my one pole as I do enjoying the countryside.

Later, we rest with some other pilgrims in an olive grove that has been setup with picnic tables near the road. We change socks surrounded by memorial flags tied to olive branches. In particular, we see a number of Ukrainian flags. Ukraine is about six-months into the war with Russia. Though we worry as to how long Ukraine can hold out, if this grove is any inclination, we are not alone in our sentiments.

Further down the path we meet a man freely giving everyone fruit and nuts from his table. I love the plum and cored apple he gives me. He says he replenishes his table every day for the pilgrims who pass by. What a nice gesture - a true reflection of the Camino Spirit. I can’t help but wonder if I would be so willing to do such a thing. The show of faith locals embrace along this pilgrimage is extraordinary.

Hours later we reach Estella and stay at an ancient tannery/now an active hostel with glass-enclosed remnants of an archeological dig below the building. We aren’t alone in our room and share it with two other men. The one man we later learn has ridden his bike from Germany to Estella - he lives a couple of kilometers away. He turns out to be quite an engaging character and we enjoy listening to him talk about his trip.

That night, Marlene and I walk into town to the ancient cathedral. Unfortunately it is closed. Marlene decides, rather than walk to the more active church some distance away, she will wait until later in the week to attend mass. In walking back to the hostel, we are surprised to find a restaurant offering vegan and gluten-free dinner options. After a week of eating cheese and ham baguettes in cafes along the way and spaghetti or hamburgers in the evenings - mostly my only options in the restaurants we’ve been to - I am in heaven. Not only is the food in this restaurant very good, but it’s nice to sit and not think about my feet, my one hiking pole, or mass. We both enjoy - perhaps more than I would have expected - the company of fellow pilgrims and locals from the area.

Sunday evening, back at the hostel, we talk to our families who are six hours back in the U.S. via WhatsApp and Zoom. I am asked a ton of questions from my siblings and relatives about our past week, and they, in turn, offer a ton of advice regarding my feet. My older brother Charlie mentions my writing and is not pleased with the fact that I haven’t written a thing. He vows to send me lyrics from songs he has found to contemplate on my journey. (He is a guitar player and lead singer in a Baltimore rock-and-roll band, after all.) Maybe it’ll get me inspired to write, though I realize lying in bed, I am inspired. I feel like everything we have seen is a poem written for us.

Later, as I turn off the light, I think about our push onward to the city of Burgos, now approximately a week away. I can’t help but wonder if the days ahead will be as incredible, difficult, fun, painful, awe inspiring, stressful, challenging, and enjoyable as this past week. I guess, tomorrow Marlene and I will begin to find out.

Blessed are you, pilgrim, when you lack words to express your gratitude for all that surprises you at every turn of the road.

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