~ Camino de Santiago part 1: from Burgos to Calzadilla de la Cueza ~
We came to Madrid late
on the evening we left Morocco
and successfully navigated to a backpacker hostel in the old part of town aptly
named ‘The Way’ (no association with the Camino). We pulled ourselves out of bed the following morning and caught a bus to Burgos , choosing to bring our bodies back up
to speed by
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| Burgos Cathedral |
sleeping en route. Burgos
seemed a ghost town upon our arrival. Making our way to the cathedral, we saw
nothing but closed shops and a few pedestrians with which to share the
afternoon. Siesta; we had forgotten all about the Spanish custom of an
afternoon rest and were shocked at how institutionalized it seemed. After
visiting a local café and asking after the bookshop, we learned of our folly and were directed to
the municipal albergue. These hostels were established for the sole use of
pilgrims traveling to Santiago. This one i s rather large and modern, maintained by The Friends of the Camino in cooperation with the City of Burgos . The albergue’s
hospitalero (warden) issued us the credentials that would be required to stay
in pilgrim hostels along the way and directed us to our beds. Bare mattresses in two of the hundreds of bunked beds that lined a cavernous hall were assigned to us. The room smelled
of sweat and fatigue, a scent that would become as much a part of us as it had
the pilgrims who occupied our room. They had been walking toward Santiago for weeks now and
deserved the right to stink.
We left our bags in the albergue and made our way back to
the bookshop at 5:00 that evening, the time that siesta was coming to an end. B
suggested that we purchase a guidebook and I agreed given our earlier confusion. Who knows what other cultural institutions may confound us in the future? The guide book would prove to be one of the best decisions
we made on this journey. After the bookshop we picked up a few provisions from a
grocer and headed back to the hostel for some sleep. Fatigue was still heavy on
our heads and we were eager to start on the Camino as early as possible.
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| The Meseta |
Rising before the sun, we had a small breakfast of bread and
cheese before walking out into Burgos .
We planned on getting to the bank the moment they opened in order to exchange
money and walk out of town. This saw us on the Camino around 8:30 as the air was
just starting to warm up. Our first day of walking was peaceful. The game was to find the little yellow arrows that marked out the path through urban and rural landscapes. We started
talking with a few other pilgrims under one such arrow in the small village of Rabe
Our muscles awoke screaming and stiff. The payment for our
first 21 kilometers was made with each step as we forced ourselves to strap on
our packs and step out into the morning after a breakfast of coffee and bread.
Our walking pace slowed to a crawl and we stopped at the town of  |
| Ruins of Convento de San Anton (XVIth cen.) |
We opted for a private albergue in Hontanas called El
Puntido. The hostel boasted a lively bar which filled with pilgrims shortly
before dinner was to be served. A couple of women that we met earlier in the
day who had visited Zambia
years ago invited us to dine with their group. The Camino sometimes forms
companies of travelers who walk together, dine together, and talk together; a
walking companionship. Most of these companions hailed from America and had started at St. Jean
Pied du-Port, the most popular trail head of the Camino Frances. Only a few had
started on their way to Santiago
further along as we had. Several of the members boasted of dwindling materialism
and of the spiritual growth already experienced over the past two weeks. One went so
far as to declare his wallet, passport, and smart phone to be all he had
concerns over losing these days. He eyed me warily when I suggested the only
thing worth the worry on a walk are ones own shoes. He stopped listening and began discussing his distaste for a group of pilgrims a day ahead to the companion on his left. Simple African wisdom wasn't receiving any welcome from him.
Dinner with the walking companions was a strange one. A
filmmaker seeking to find the motives behind modern pilgrimage prayed alone,
two young women speaking only to him, and trying to explain Peace Corps to a
French Canadian proved futile. I was fortunate enough to be seated next to a
large Dutchman named Bert who spoke little and drank much. In the subtle ways often prompted by gatherings of this sort we had chosen each other and created our own conversation of a more frivolous topic. We discussed fish
farming and wine over a couple of bottles of the house vino tinto, laughing
about the cultural faux-pas that we had committed. Perhaps the most honest man
at the table, Bert’s thirst surpassed my own and I left him to his cups late
in the evening.
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| Iglesia de San Juan (XVIth cen). Castrojeriz |
B and I had already decided to walk another 10 kilometers to
Castrojeriz to allow our muscles to rest and our experience with the walking
companions made this option more attractive. Seasoned pilgrims short on time,
they would continue on for at least a further 15 kilometers that day and
although I enjoyed dinner with Bert, B and I both felt that we would rather
walk alone. We spent the day hiking through the bleak meseta, a desolate rocky
landscape, and arrived at Castrojeriz early in the afternoon. The municipal
albergue had an atmosphere akin to an art gallery perched atop the village
civic building. Castrojeriz crumbles into the mesesta hills; ancient steps
and alleyways are largely abandoned throughout the day and one can literally
hear the medieval buildings collapsing brick by brick. We ate a fantastic meal
at a local restaurant flying the Brazilian flag and walked around the solemn
squares of this quite town. Castrojeriz is famous for its garlic (and the food
was indeed exceptional) but the local 16th century church (Iglesia
de San Juan) was the real attraction. The humble church demonstrated an interesting meeting of Gothic with earlier styles,
namely a Renaissance fountain, and an interesting pentagram window looked to the West. High above the village rests the ruins of a 9th century castle reduced by time to a few simple
stones. The entire village has a mystical air and a voice that seemed to ask us to stay for just one more night.
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| Entering the Castilla y Leon region |
We met a few pilgrims over breakfast the following morning
in good humor and found ourselves in a cadre of walkers hiking up a
great slope within the first few kilometers of the day. Climbing up and over the
hill led us out of the Meseta region and into Castilla y Leon region and the fertile farmland beyond. Known as the Tierra de Campos, this area
contrasted sharply with the bleak landscape behind us. Crops were being
harvested from golden fields as we crossed streams and rivers in this
relatively flat landscape. B and I met our friends from the morning 25
kilometers later when we reached Fromista. Dogged from the long walk, we
dropped off our backpacks and showered before going out to explore the town.
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| Iglesia de San Martin (XIth cen.) Fromista |
Fromista seemed considerably bigger than the villages that we
had visited so far. The town, built upon an association with the Camino and the rich agricultural lands surrounding, is frequently visited today for the 11th
century Iglesia de San Martin. Consecrated in 1066 A.D., the church is a
pristine example of the Romanesque loaded with intricate corbels detailing
figures from the bible and elsewhere. The church has been de-consecrated and
now acts as a national monument and museum but the powerful atmosphere within
the church remains to this day. We set out the next day with stiff muscles but
we felt capable, with less pain in our legs than that morning in Hornillos and
made our way slowly across the farmland of Palencia .
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| Santa Maria la Virgin Blanca (XIIIth cen.) Villalcazar de Sirga |
The rain came just before we reached Villalcazar de Sirga.
The Camino led us through a thin stretch of woodland along the river Ucieza and
the clouds graciously waited until we joined asphalt heading into town. One of
our friends from Castrojeriz, an Italian named Philipe, met us as we blundered
around the main square looking for the municipal albergue. We eventually found
our way to the hostel with little help from the locals. The
hospitalero was a short gray haired man named Miguel who spoke no English
whatsoever and was visibly intoxicated. Miguel suffered from a deformity on his
right hand that left him with a thumb and forefinger “claw” in the place of
five fingers yet he wielded his pen without fumble as he reviewed our credentials
and issued the stamp of the establishment. Philipe managed to translate a bit,
using the similarities between Italian and Spanish, and Miguel showed us to our
accommodation.
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| Santa Maria la Virgin Blanca (XIIIth cen.) Villalcazar de Sirga |
B found herself in the kitchen with Miguel after she made
inquiries into local restaurants and found that the hospitalero could manage a
chopping knife as deftly as a pen. I joined them in the kitchen as Miguel
poured glasses of wine and rambled in Spanish, pausing every so often to look
us over and say “no tu comprendes” in open acknowledgement that we had no idea
what he was talking about. I found Philipe downstairs on my way to replenish our wine and invited the Italian to join us. Philipe brought his friend who he had met in town, a Hungarian pilgrim, for dinner
along and helped translate some of what Miguel was trying
to tell us through his own broken Spanish. The hospitalero claimed to be a member of the
Knights Templar (an order long extinct with strong ties to the Way), known for his hot blood, and charged with defending pilgrims
on the Camino. He continued in this line throughout the evening in spite of our
sporadic attempts to go to bed, preparing more food for supper and producing a
bottle of strong grappa (a bootleg distillation of fermented grape-skins) which
he drank like water. His infatuation with the Knights Templar turned out to be
based around photographing female pilgrims in templar armor and holding a sword
for an album kept at the albergue. He showed Philipe and B his collection once the grappa had taken hold. His request for a new photo failed to translate and B politely declined his
request. Miguel directed his attention to the other female pilgrim staying the night for a moment before giving up. We all
retired late in the evening convinced that Miguel had gone a little insane from living alone in the albergue.
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| St. James in Villalcazar de Sirga |
Miguel roused us at 6:00 the following morning by blaring
Gregorian chants through the hostel and clamoring together a breakfast of
coffee and cheese. The hospitalero issued both B and I a certificate of an oath
to uphold the Templar code (he had administered the oath the previous night)
and sent us on our way. Feeling worse for the wear after a night spent
carousing with the templar, we walked a mere 6 kilometers before checking into the
pilgrim accommodations at the Convent of Santa Clara in Carrion de los Condes.
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| View from our cell window in the monastery |
The modern convent exist in the ruins of buildings dating
back to the 12th century. It is said that St. Francis of Assisi stayed in this pilgrim’s “hospital” on his way to Santiago . The
accommodations for pilgrims today are excellent. B and I were able to get the
rest that we needed and re-supply for the stretch ahead. Carrion de los Condes
has a rich history stretching back to an influential position during the Muslim
occupation of Spain .
It was the one-time financial capitol of the Tierra de Campos region, ruled by
the counts of Carrion. These leaders met an unfortunate end at the hands of El
Cid, after allegedly abusing the warlord’s daughters, and are buried at the
nearby Monastery of San Zoilo. We were fortunate to have enough time after our short walk to thoroughly explore this medieval gem before retiring to our cell early in the evening.
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| Start of the Via Aquitana |
We left town early in the morning, well rested and supplied
for the desolate stretch ahead. Only 17 kilometers lay between us and Calzadilla
de la Cueza, our destination, but there would be no opportunity for re-supply
or water once we reached the old roman road known as the Via Aquitana (Calzada
Romana). The day proved to be unseasonably warm as we made our way through
unending farm land. Arriving in the afternoon, we found Calzadilla de la Cueza
to be little more than an outpost among the fields. Every Spanish village has a
bar, thankfully, and we found the food and accommodations most welcome. Laying
in my bunk at night as pilgrims snored around us, I felt like we knew how we
were doing; perhaps not what we were doing, but the means had become clear. Still
green, we were starting to find a pace on this ancient road. Our backpacks didn’t seem as heavy anymore and our Spanish was improving exponentially. I fell asleep ready to follow the little yellow arrows around the next bend, wherever that may lead.
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| Yellow arrow waymarking the route through Rabe de la Calzados ~ |
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| Lunch in the ruins of the monastery of San Bol ~ |
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| Castrojeriz font ~
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| Welcome to Carrion de los Condes ~ |
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| St. James in Carrion de los Condes ~
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