Via Podiensis, Part IX -- Olio

"When you travel, you experience, in a very practical way, the act of rebirth. You confront completely new situations, the day passes more slowly, and on most journeys you don't even understand the language the people speak. So you are like a child just out of the womb. You begin to attach much more importance to the things around you because your survival depends upon them. You begin to be more accessible to others because they may be able to help you in difficult situations. And you accept any small favor from the gods with great delight, as if it were an episode you would remember for the rest of your life.

   "At the same time, since all things are new, you see only the beauty in them, and you feel happy to be alive."   (Paulo Coelho)

"What a joy walking is. All the cares of life, all the hopeless, inept fuckwits that God has strewn along the (dandd) Highway of Life, suddenly seem far away and harmless, and the world becomes tranquil and welcoming and good."  (Bill Bryson)

I'm dyspeptic enough that I lean toward Bryson, but take your pick -- they are saying the same thing. 

ANIMALS: While we saw more wild animals than we did in Spain, we were again surprised at how few we saw. We saw a couple of deer, a ton of squirrels, a dead badger and a dead wild pig, and one giant snake (not a python giant, but far too giant and too alive for dw -- perhaps a yard long). We saw a group of five wild pigs that ran across the road and several orange slugs. In the region of miles of corn, we didn't so much see as hear mourning doves. They sounded like flocks of owls with laryngitis except they didn't do anything to thin out the squirrels (rodents in a nice suit) -- so we got annoyed by the doves hoo-hoo-hooing all the time. The area restaurants and gites need to feature squab on their menus.

   Five miles past Miramont we saw a giant frog sitting in the road. I pushed it with one of my sticks but it wouldn't move so I used both to lift and roll it off the road lest it become a frog pate'. I asked dw if she wanted to kiss it to see what would happen. No words, but I got a grim glare in response. (dw loathes frogs). But after all, why would she kiss a frog when she already has a prince charming (I modestly admit).

   The first day, only a few miles from Le Puy, we passed a field with a herd of Charolais cows. The bull with great bulging muscles, looking like he really hit the steroids, but after that the cows were the normal brown cows or black and white cows. Mild and docile looking, except all cows are land sharks in cow clothing -- each year cows slay 20 times more people than do sharks. And those black and white cows? Orcas! When you're walking the Camino you need to be careful around the predator cows.

   Donkeys and more donkeys. Just before Conques, the minute we got near one donkey it started braying as loud as ever he could. It was amazing how loud he was. He quieted down when we talked to him. True story -- the donkey just wanted to be acknowledged. I grabbed a handful of lush grass to give to him. He didn't want the grass, he just wanted conversation.  After that, I would carry an apple or two to give to the donkeys. They (and there were a lot of them) would almost always walk up to their fence for a short, friendly chat. Once I gave one a handful of peanuts -- it ate one and shied away (What the hell is that?) --- So I tossed them on the ground as I didn't want to eat donkey slobber peanuts. It then decided they were actually good, so it searched out every nut. We also passed a few ponies, but they were definitely outnumbered by the donkeys.
   The cow dogs were usually border collies, but there weren't nearly as many cow dogs as we saw in Spain. As we neared the mountains more Great Pyrenees dogs showed up, but we didn't get to meet Django.

MONUMENTS: On a sad note, each village and town has a monument to casualties of war, originally for WWI with added plaques for WWII, Indo-China and Algeria. It is difficult to imagine the devastation WWI, in particular, caused. One village, Sauliac, was representative: The village had about 25 houses and looked like it was a similar size in 1914. The monument had a list of 14 names for WWI, including three sets of brothers. Never forget -- engraved in bronze and stone. Sad beyond words.

CULTURAL, GREAT AND SMALL: Air kisses. We didn't understand the protocol. It goes Left, or Left/Right, or occasionally Left/Right/Left. Who determines what? If you go for the LRL, and the other just goes for LR, you're liable to clash glasses or noses.  The couple of times we got involved, we each  went for the LR, and pulled away, hoping we didn't offend.
    Holes in the sidewalk: They aren't as frequent as they are in Spain, but we think the descending stairs that start in the middle of the sidewalk, with no warning marks or railings are odd indeed. Perhaps they are Darwinian, designed to thin out people who walk around staring at their iphones.

    Nearly every gite would greet new arrivals with a glass or two of verveina (verbena) -- the syrup mixed with cool water. Refreshing every time and a civilized way to end a day of walking, whether the walk was easy or difficult.

SOME ART: The religious works were expected, the other works we saw, such as the cats around La Romieu, or the modern nudes at Lazerte we didn't expect. Before during and after the town, Saugues,  a large collection of chain-saw sculptures were displayed along the road. With not a single Smokey The Bear, or Bigfoot among them.
    Before Lazerte the trail passed a field (1/4 acre) with a series of junk sculptures. We couldn't tell if they were a trenchant comment on modern art, or an example of outsider art -- we opted for outsider art, but it was a close call. (the field also had a clearly neglected, derelict Italian plum tree with perfectly ripe fruit -- we indulged) -- (we picked fruit or berries only if we were completely confident the owners wouldn't care)
    There were many other examples, great and small scattered along the route. And, of course, architecture: buildings major and minor with details worth seeking out. (photo: Lectoure)

MUSIC: A minor part of the walk. I've mentioned the organ recital in Conques, but otherwise there wasn't much. Even Barcelona was lacking. We walked up and down La Rambla but there were very few buskers and the ones there weren't very good. One guy in Parc Guell was killing it with a dobro -- easily good enough to mask his so-so singing.  youtube.com/watch?v=tB5_XbNA6QI

Finally, for anyone accessing this blog from Portland Chapter (APOC), or Way of St James-Via Podiensis-Chemin du Puy-en-Velay, I will no longer post a notice of new entries. I'm thankful for those of you who have read this, but unless or until dw and I walk another Camino, and I write about it, I feel it would be inappropriate to post my subsequent blogs on a Camino Facebook. I will continue to post on my Facebook and Twitter sites. Thanks again.

A POEM: This Is Just To Say (William Carlos Williams)

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold.

TODAY'S BOOK: Lives Of The Artists, Volume I (Giorgio Vasari)  It's dull in spots, but over all a very good read. Popular for 500 years, the book concerns the artists Giotto through Raphael -- the big names in Renaissance art (Vasari coined the word "Renaissance") -- and is the primary source for those artists. Vasari's entire Lives Of The Artists covers 150 different artists, most of whom I've never heard of and will never read about. 

TODAY'S WORDS: In honor of our braying friends: Dapple, Sancho Panza's donkey (Don Quixote, Cervantes) and Modestine, Robert Louis Stevenson's donkey in (Travels With A Donkey) (His walk through part of SE France.)

And so it goes. DJA

Via Podiensis, Part VIII, Finisterra

The bus ride from St Jean Pied-de-Port to Bayonne was only a couple of hours, which meant waiting in Bayonne for the train: a wait long enough to breed impatience, but not long enough to explore the town. Interestingly, the station had one unisex toilet where someone had died and fell against the door. The "occupied" sign was lit and the door locked for the two plus hours we were there. Fortunately there was a toilet a block away that, between each visit, was "cleaned and sanitized" with some sort of spray arrangement: it was clean and sanitized, but also dripping wet -- a fair exchange we thought.
    While sitting in the station we were entertained for a time by a pigeon. It flew in, crash landed, sort of squatted, hunkered down and wobbled around. I called it stumpy, dw called it low-rider. We decided it had gnawed off both feet in hopes of getting sympathy handouts.

We had a layover in Irun, Spain, that was long enough to explore the town. Irun was established in Roman times, but it really doesn't have an old section. It does have a totally spectacular church which was so nondescript on the outside we almost didn't go in. Inside, the retablo was 60 feet high and 40 feet wide, gilded, with life sized statues and extensive carvings and inset paintings. A wide, ornately carved stone canopy over the baptismal font, and a large very good easel painting. (I couldn't read the signature -- probably no one famous -- but it was very good, and a treat compared to the usual painted dreck) And finally, a statue of a plaintive begging altar-boy --- almost sappy enough to discourage  our usual contribution toward building up-keep.

Overnight on the train was unpleasant but when we got to Santiago, we bought a few groceries, collected a stamp on our credentials, and started walking without a thought of staying the night. We were ready to move on.

The walk to Fisterra (Fisterra in Galicia, Finisterra everywhere else) is through a mountainous area with rock outcroppings, farms, forests, meadows and streams big and little --- it's a consistently attractive trail.

    Leading to one of the early villages, Ponte Maceira, we crossed a bridge downstream of a weir, and attached to the weir were three grist mills, each mill nearly intact. The canals for the mills were flowing -- one mill had 5 grist stones, another 4, and the third had 3. With drive posts and waterwheels, the mills could be used again. The mills were the most complete of any we saw both in France and Spain -- a view of a process unchanged for more than a thousand years.

    Around Maronas, according to the guide book, we passed a site of pre-historic dolmans. All well and good, but there were no directional signs for them and the guide book didn't say where they actually were, other than to note that they were on private land, so reclose gates, don't litter, be courteous, etc. After more than a month of walking up and down hills we were certainly fit enough, but we also were certainly getting a snoot full of hills so we didn't feel like climbing another steep hill only to wander around looking for some rocks, which probably just looked like rocks. So we didn't see the dolmans.
    However, at the same place we preceded one herd of cattle, and then followed another herd of cattle --- both being moved to new pastures --- it wasn't as historic as the dolmans, but it certainly was more aromatic. 

At one point we met Meg from Seattle (only the second American we met on the trail -- We met many other nationalities, and quite a few Canadians, but only two Americans) We walked at nearly the same pace so we met several times along the trail; met in Fisterra, and finally, in Santiago where we shared a bottle of wine and a long conversation. Remarkably for me, Meg was familiar with Orick, a small logging town in Northern California where I had lived for three years over fifty years ago. When my family lived there, Orick had a population of 600, had ten taverns, and the only entertainment was the Friday/Saturday night tavern fights. The loggers would go to the taverns to fight, and everyone else would go to watch. Good Times. (In truth, I was a timorous grade-schooler; I wasn't actually involved with the entertainment) On a drive down the California coast two years ago, we stopped in Orick and spent five minutes seeing the sights.  It seems to be unchanged, except fewer people and fewer taverns --- still little known and less remembered. 

In the evening at the albergue Casa Riamonte, we met two young Lithuanians. One was limping along with a very sore leg, as just before they started the walk he had several screws removed from his lower leg and ankle (a previous injury) Being made of steel, as many young people are, he thought it was a good idea to start regardless of his recent surgery. They had little money as an earlier ATM hadn't worked but when we caught up with them in the morning, they refused our offer to buy them breakfast (they did accept coffee) Very pleasant guys, and we greatly enjoyed talking with them.  (we saw them later in a larger town -- they did find a working ATM)

The previous year, we had walked from St. Jean Pied-de-Port to Santiago, but because of time constraints we didn't continue on to Fisterra. This year we finished the additional 60 miles and we were very happy we did: About 50 miles of walking beyond Santiago you catch a brief glimpse of the Atlantic (dw spotted it first), and then two hundred yards farther on, the bay that Fisterra faces is revealed, and beyond that the Atlantic --- it truly is a thrill. We felt it was a thrill almost equal to entering Santiago itself. After doing the walk, dealing with sore legs and feet, tiredness and the general travails of walking over 500 miles, seeing the ocean gives a sense of total completion. We were very glad we walked to:  The End of The World.  youtube.com/watch?v=WM7FoFej478

Only 7K from Fisterra we passed a hotel/restaurant: Hotel Estorde. dw was exhausted and didn't want to continue so I suggested we ask about a room even though the place looked to be way over our budget. We got very lucky. It was empty, or nearly so, and they gave us a room for only  40E --- over our budget, but manageable and a spectacular deal. A three-star hotel with ocean view, a room that merited the three stars, and a short walk along the beach for a source of Blue Bunny ice cream bars and a beer or two. It was so nice we didn't worry about the weather forecast that predicted a severe storm for the next day. 

    As forecast, the weather turned and the night was very stormy. In the morning we started late (9 or so), since there wasn't much of a hurry. The storm had largely abated by then: rain and wind, but it wasn't too bad, except when we crested one ridge and walked along the summit. The storm came back with a bang: very heavy rain and wind so strong it was very difficult to walk. dw used me as a wind break -- fair enough as the wind might have knocked me down but nothing less than a hurricane would actually blow me away.  After 45 minutes it again abated, and when we finally walked the last kilometer into town the storm was over.

Fisterra (Finisterra), The End Of The World in Roman times -- is a pleasant fishing town. We indulged in a couple of good meals, looked at the sights, unsuccessfully shopped for souvenirs, and walked to The Lighthouse At The End Of The World.
   

We were lucky with our walk to the lighthouse, as we got a day and a half without rain. It was a pleasant walk along a cliff side road with light traffic. The wide shoulder was comfortable walking and had great views across the bay lined with several villages, and back towards Fisterra. The lighthouse itself is a large square building with a short round tower barely higher than the building, rather than a traditional tall tower. It sits on a point of a steep two hundred foot cliff that falls to the ocean without even a narrow beach.  In the building was a restaurant/hotel that seemed to be permanently closed and two hundred yards back of the lighthouse is a gift/snack shop, not as tacky as many. In short, it's unremarkable but pleasant and sitting at the edge of the cliff you do have the sense that there's only ocean beyond, that you are at the end of the earth.

    Tradition has it, that when you get to the point, you burn your old clothes and any extra stuff --- start anew with your life. We didn't have anything to burn. We were going to write some things on a piece of paper and burn that, but we didn't bother --- largely because we forgot to bring matches. We thought there would be a special designated burn spot, but people just light things wherever they want. It wasn't awful with half-burned debris so there must be some sort of burned trash patrol.

The next day the rain had returned and we took a bus back to Santiago. We looked for souvenirs but had no luck. We can deal with over-priced, or cheap, or tacky, or ugly, but not all at once. We visited some of the sites we had seen before, including the good Modern Art Museum (where we staged our own small performance art piece).

We had to leave a day before we intended, as we got the last two train seats -- the last seats for nearly a week -- back to Barcelona. And Barcelona is a wonderful city. The architecture is like nothing found anywhere else:  It extends from bits of ancient Roman to Medieval, Gothic, Renaissance, Neo-Gothic, Deco, Beaux-Arts, Art-Nouveau, Moderne, and Modern. And most notably: Gaudi and his few disciples. It's a rare treat to just wander around and look at the buildings. And a fitting end for our journey. (Barcelona is more noted for the older styles, but it has a share of modern: A giant pickle, a multi-story museum with a radical overhang, and a giant flea market -- the underside of the roof is a giant mirror)

(I'll write one more entry about the Via Podiensis)

BOOK OF THE DAY: The Satyricon (Petronius) and The Apocolocyntosis (Seneca) I read these when I was young, but there's a lot more buggery going on in this edition (Penguin, J.P. Sullivan translation) than I remembered. I'm sure what I read many years ago was a Bowdlerized version. This translation has a modern flavor (none of that "thee" and "thou" and "forsooth" stuff) and is pretty amusing. Certainly not a must read, but it is entertaining.

POEM FOR THE DAY:

It comes out every summer,
     but doesn't tell anyone it's there.
Every time I catch one I treat it with care.
It's a beautiful butterfly, flying so high --
It's just wonderful to see, and that's no lie.
All you see is yellow and red
   just flying over your head;
It makes the world a beautiful place;
   makes you feel safe.
The way butterflies fly over your head
     makes you feel you're as beautiful as a butterfly.
             --- Aphinity Jumping Bull (age 13) ---

But Petronius has a comment about poets:
   "Some of the people walking about in the colonnades interrupted Eumolpus' (poetic) recitation with a shower of stones. Being familiar with this sort of appreciation of his genius, he covered his head and fled from the sanctuary. I was nervous myself in case they should call me a poet too. So I followed his fleeing figure, (and stopped only when) we were out of range."

And so it goes. DJA