Day 3 (Friday 10 May). I've never fathomed why I have bouts of middle-of-the-night insomnia, but they happen. I put in 4 hours of sleep last night in Larrasoana, but did manage to catch up on my reading. I was up at 05:30, to the sound of church bells fading gently in, as programmed on my IPad Nightstand app. It is so much nicer to wake up this way, in comparison to an old-fashioned alarm clock that went off like a Redstone rocket.
I'm out the door an hour later enroute to Cizur Menor, 21 Km away. The sky has a low, dark grey overcast to it, threatening rain. The temperature feels like 7 or 8 Celsius, with light winds. I seem to be the first one on the trail. I trudge along through a forest next to the Arga River. At my first waypoint, Zuriain, I'm 4.3 Km from my start point and its taken me 1 hour. My average pace seems to be slowing down as the cumulative effects of fatigue kick in. I remember my years on squadron with Peter Krayer, who, amongst many other fine qualities, is the funniest guy I've ever known. When someone made a disparaging remark about Peter's 5K time in the annual physical fitness qualification, his comeback was: "The guy who passed me was using aluminum crutches".
I don't see another walker until about a half hour later - a young lady coming up from behind. For a short while I walk with Alice from Germany (although she is now living in Bordeaux). The conversation starts off in German, then to a mix, then to English as my feeble German becomes apparent. Alice goes on at a brisk pace while I elect to stop for breakfast at a small outdoor cafe.
The food is wonderful: a wedge of what seems to be pastry, mashed potatoes, ham, and cheese; which the proprietor heats up in a wood fired oven, plus an apple pastry, and a cafe con leche.
I carry on alone. I note that all the village dogs are off leash; something I haven't seen since the eastern Arctic in the early 70's. They are not menacing anyone though, so, up to now, no worries. In a small town I decide to try an ATM, just to confirm that my debit card works. It does, and I press on with 110 more Euro in my pocket (actually in my wallet inside a zippered pocket. I've almost been pick pocketed twice in Europe, so zippers and not Velcro is my cardinal rule.
I've been criss-crossing a river for much of the day, and do not see any Canada Geese (flying cows). This is another thing to like about northern Spain.
The weather has "fined up" as they say in PEI, notwithstanding the public forecast of the previous day. On the outskirts of Pamplona, a walker comes up on my right. It's the experienced Italian gentleman that I sat next to at dinner the evening before. As neither of us knows the other's mother tongue, our conversation is primarily in broken French. He presses on as I stop to put on some sunscreen.
As the day progresses, more (usually younger) walkers go by me. Everyone walks their own Camino, and I am not tempted to pick up my pace. The difficulty is that more and more people are walking the Camino each year and it seems to be putting a strain on the hostel/restaurant infrastructure. According to my excellent guide book (A Pilgrim's Guide to the Camino by John Brierly), there were about 150,000 pilgrims on the Camino in 2009, and during the holy year of 2010 (when St. Jame's birthday falls on a Sunday) the number topped 250,000. There is therefore a minor sense of urgency to get on to the next destination so that a bed can be assured. I don't have to fall into this rut as I always rise early and my normal walking pace is moderately fast (for a guy who's 65). Others who start later and walk more slowly must experience some anxiety. I noted last night that there was someone sleeping on the floor of the half-landing corridor above my room.
From the village of Villava through Pamplona, a distance of almost 7 kilometres, the trail is entirely within a built up area. Buildings, traffic, and pedestrians. Why is Spanish pavement so much harder than anywhere else? The Camino is well marked though, including a "bread crumb" trail of small aluminum discs embedded in the sidewalk and embossed with the pilgrim's emblem: a scallop shell. Big city's are not my favourite pastime, so I elect to take some pictures and carry on. Perhaps if I'd had more energy, I could have sought out the area where they do the annual Running of the Bulls, but that will have to wait for another time.
I press on to the small town of Cizur Menor and arrive at the albergue at about 11:30, 5 hours after I've started. The albergue doesn't open until noon and there is only one other walker here ahead of me: Jeff, from Las Vegas. He has travelled almost 6 kilometres more than I have this day and arrived early by virtue of a fast pace and leaving in the dark at 04:30 in the morning.
I check in to a really nice albergue. There are 11 bunks in my room, and once again I've latched on to a lower one. After a shower, I do a dhobi wash (a Brit expression from the days of the Raj in India, meaning hand laundry). Jeff and I then track down a bar with WiFi and I'm able to post my blog from yesterday. After lunch, we head back to the albergue's courtyard. Everyone is outside enjoying the sun, and we do the same - sharing a table with Paul (a retired Marine Corps fighter pilot from Texas) and Cam, from Australia. The laundry is hanging in the sunshine from portable racks in the courtyard. All of mine could be dry by tomorrow.
Because lunch was so large, I don't have any appetite for supper, so I finish off some chocolate, work on this blog, read, and turn in by 21:00.
No comments:
Post a Comment