The Camino and Me

The Camino and Me
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  • My Camino Story
  • Posts
    • Camino Frances Introduction, Cork – St Jean Pied de Port
      • Day 1; St Jean Pied de Port – Roncesvalles
      • Day 2; Roncesvalles – Zubiri
      • Day 3; Zubiri – Pamplona
      • Day 4; Pamplona to Obanos
      • Day 5; Obanos – Estella
      • Day 6; Estella – Los Arcos
      • Day 7; Los Arcos – Logroño
      • Day 8; Logroño – Ventosa
      • Day 9; Ventosa – Cirueña
      • Day 10; Cirueña – Santo Domingo de la Calzada
      • Day 11; Santo Domingo – Belorado
      • Day 12; Belorado – San Juan de Ortega
      • Day 13; San Juan de Ortega – Burgos
      • Day 14; Burgos – Hontanas
      • Day 15; Hontanas – Castrojeriz
      • Day 16; Castrojeriz – Frómista
      • Day 17; Frómista – Carrión de los Condes
      • Day 18; Carrión de los Condes – Ledigos
      • Day 19; Ledigos – Calzadilla de los Hermanillos
      • Day 20; Calzadilla de los Hermanillos – Mansilla de las Mulas
      • Day 21; Mansilla de las Mulas – León
      • Day 22; Leon – Hospital de Órbigo
      • Day 23; Hospital de Órbigo – Astorga – 15 km
      • Day 24; Astorga – Foncebadón – 27.2 km
      • Day 25; Foncebadón- Ponferrada – 25 km
      • Day 26; Ponferrada – Villafranca del Bierzo – 23.5 km
      • Day 27; Villafranca del Bierzo – La Faba – 25 km
      • Day 28; La Faba – Triacastela – 26 km
      • Day 29; Triacastella – Sarria – 25 km
      • Day 30; Sarria – Portomarín – 22.4 km
      • Day 31; Portomarín – Palas de Rei – 24.8 km
      • Day 32; Palas de Rei – Ribadiso – 25.8 km
      • Day 33; Ribadiso – Lavacolla – 32 km
      • Day 34: Lavacolla – Santiago and Goodbye
      • The Camino and Me
  • Themes
    • Stepping into the Ring
    • Clear Intention
    • Enjoying the mystery
    • Fear and Courage
    • Risk and Vulnerability
    • Meeting and Letting go
    • Giving In
  • Category: Day by Day

    • Day 14; Burgos – Hontanas

      Posted at 4:36 pm by Mary Murphy, on February 9, 2020

      In the morning I left the albergue while Burgos was still in darkness, and even though the streets were lit, the Camino signs were difficult to make out, so much so that I couldn’t see them at all! Ahead in the near distance, I noticed a female pilgrim making decisions without hesitation and I decided to follow her. It turned out that I was following Brandi, a young American in her twenties, and we began walking together from the outskirts of Burgos. At our first coffee stop we met some people we knew, including Eugene and Heather. In fact when I arrived Eugene enveloped me in an uncharacteristic hug, as though I was some long-lost relative. After we found a table, Manoel and Sue joined us and I felt my happiness was complete. When I was feeling good, as I was on that morning, I found those impromptu meetings among the loveliest of my Camino experiences.

      Brandi and I parted company some time later and before lunch I met Wilhelm who, much to my surprise, was walking alone, as he was one of the seven men from Friesland! Naturally I enquired about his comrades and found out that they had not originated as a group of seven, as I had imagined. Wilhelm had set out to walk the Camino alone, but got no further than the airport before he found a ready-made walking group. The six men carried the Friesland flag on their luggage and that was what had brought them to Wilhelm’s attention. What intrigued me about them was how they walked together – more of a march really, as though they were in the army; they looked like they were taking part in their daily drill. The Camino seemed to be mostly a physical challenge to them, while for Wilhelm it was more than that – he had a real gentleness of spirit. So the first day I talked to Wilhelm was his first day alone. The rest of his group had finished in Burgos, while he was walking on to Santiago, and indeed beyond, to Finisterre.

      I had set myself a big task for the day: almost thirty-two kilometres, which was quite an increase under the circumstances. It was the first day of what would be a week of walking the great Meseta Alta, a barren wilderness that provided little or no shade from the relentlessness of the sun. So after lunch I set off on the remaining fourteen-kilometre walk to Hontanas, while others quite sensibly finished their day’s walk at lunch time. I knew it would be difficult; I just didn’t know how difficult until I encountered the reality of no cafés, no trees and no shelter of any kind – just endless walking in oppressive heat.

      When I arrived at my destination it was about twelve hours after my day had begun and I booked myself into the first albergue I saw: a bar. They had rooms upstairs, along with additional dormitories located in a series of random buildings at the back. My dorm accommodated ten people and four of them were present when I arrived. We exchanged the normal pleasantries but I didn’t know any of them and I was soon off to complete my chores. As I stood washing at an outdoor sink in what felt like a back alley, I could hear noise and laughter nearby, and I realised how disconnected I felt. The transition from walking alone to being surrounded by people and gaiety was challenging, particularly after the difficulty of the day. Down in the square, outside pubs and bars, the whole of the Camino seemed to have congregated – so many people and yet I felt so lost and alone.

      Later I went down to the square to face the world, but I felt that I stood out like a sore thumb. I could no more have engaged in conversation than I could have walked another fourteen kilometres. After walking around the village to get my bearings, I positioned myself at a table with a pot of tea and took out my journal to write. Writing helped me to process my feelings and explore what was going on. The holiday atmosphere really jarred with me and I felt out of sync with the rest of the world. I didn’t know what I wanted, while I had a list of all the things I didn’t want. At the centre of it was my ongoing resistance to the evening meal, the pilgrim menu. In addition, I was resisting drinking alcohol as a way of passing time, while others appeared to be doing it with gusto.

      The pilgrim menu, a standard three-course meal served everywhere along the Camino, varies hardly at all from place to place, either in variety or cost. A simple salad – by simple I mean lettuce and tomato – or soup to start, followed by hake or stew with potatoes, but rarely any other vegetables. Dessert might be a banana, Santiago tart (almond), a pot of yogurt or sometimes ice cream, all washed down with red wine for a total cost of about €10. So what was my objection? I should be so lucky, right?

      Well, for days I had been trying to figure out how to reduce the carbohydrate content of my diet and increase my vegetable intake. Vegetables were normally only available in the soup. So in order to have vegetables I needed the starter as well as a main course, and then while I was there, how could I refuse a dessert? While my body had some difficulty with the amount of carbohydrate and lack of fibre I was consuming, my mind was even more troubled.

      Journaling helped me to realise the bind I had got myself into, and I began to see that my resistance to the pilgrim menu symbolised my rejection of how things were, a refusal to accept what is, which meant that I vetoed everything around me. In an ideal world, one of my own making, I would have had more control over my diet, but if I was to have any peace, I had to accept what was available. I was doing the Camino, after all, and pilgrim dinners were part of the deal!

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged albergue, Alone, Burgos, Camino, Camino Frances, control, Hontanas, journal, journalling, lost, Meseta Alta, peace, pilgrim, pilgrim menu, resistance, Santiago tart
    • Day 13; San Juan de Ortega – Burgos

      Posted at 4:32 pm by Mary Murphy, on February 9, 2020

      I was awake and annoyed early as a result of the disturbance caused by two male cyclists preparing for departure. At first I hoped to get back to sleep, but once I was awake I found that impossible. I could only look on in disbelief at Jeanie who was sleeping soundly, oblivious to the circus going on around her.

      It was dark and cold outside (and inside), and it seemed to be taking longer than usual for daylight to appear. With no way to pass time and no comfort to pass it in, I was impatient to be off. But I wanted someone else to leave before me so I could follow them. My flashlight was a tiny, ineffective little thing and really not up to the task of dealing with darkness. Inexplicably, nobody else seemed to want to leave, so I set off anyway, but I really couldn’t see a thing and I soon returned to the albergue. Again I waited, and still there was no sign of anyone leaving. Once more my impatience got the better of me and at the second attempt I kept going.

      Over the next couple of hours, a rugged, nondescript, barren landscape unfolded around me. The sandy, dry soil only supported plants of a spiky variety, or so I thought until I noticed an abundance of tiny, delicate pink flowers growing all around me. The star-shaped flowers sat directly above the soil without any apparent support. I couldn’t see any stalks. What struck me most was their ability to grow and flourish despite the tough conditions. It was difficult for me to imagine how such elegance could exist in an environment so arid. On reflection I see this as a metaphor with personal resonance. The flowers represent the delicacy of the heart, which even though it may get trampled on from time to time, has the strength to survive and prosper.

      When Wolfgang appeared beside me later he talked about getting a bus through the industrial parts of Burgos straight into the city, arguing that walking through such areas did not add anything to the Camino. Sylvia and Christine (a couple of Dutch ladies) agreed, saying they would be taking the bus into the city at the earliest opportunity. Although it would have erased ten kilometres of difficult walking conditions, I declared there would be no bus for me; I would be walking all the way. Despite toying with the idea of catching a bus, Wolfgang walked all the way too, some of it with me. He was intending to stay two nights in Burgos and it was unlikely that I would see him again.

      At the big, modern, municipal albergue I was shown to my bunk, and I saw that Swedish Ann was already there. Within moments I overheard Sue’s South African accent, and when I went to say hello, I discovered that Elisabeth, Manoel and Sue were near neighbours. While I really needed a nap after my shower, I also wanted a beer with my old friends, and I decided to forgo a rest in favour of friendship and fun.

      After lunch we agreed to meet again later for dinner and we went our separate ways for the remainder of the afternoon. Sue and Elisabeth took a city bus tour while I headed for the cathedral, although I was so tired I didn’t get much out of the experience. It was vast and spectacular, but what I needed was rest so I returned to the albergue for a short nap. In the evening the streets were full of all the generations, dressed up and strolling in the sunshine, while lots of elderly people sat on the many benches soaking it all up. It was Friday night and there was a festive atmosphere, with a small circus act attracting a lot of children of all ages. It was very colourful and the children were excited as they sat in the miniature parade vehicles, becoming part of the entertainment while parents followed with clicking cameras.

      After the unexpected show, we moved off to get away from the crowds and found an outdoor table in a little piazza surrounded by shops and cafés. It was another world, set apart altogether from day-to-day Camino life. We ordered drinks; mine was a glass of cold, crisp, fruity white wine and I felt like I was on holiday. Then Sue spotted George, a Dutch man we had shared dinner with in Ventosa, in a book shop across from where we were sitting. She reacted quickly and went into the shop to invite him to join us for a drink. We were pleased to see him – well, some of us were anyway. I noticed that Manoel became very quiet and I wondered if he preferred to have the ladies all to himself!

      Once seated in the restaurant I knew I no longer wanted to be there. It was about 9 p.m., and I was just too tired and didn’t feel hungry. It was Elisabeth’s last night and although it would have been nice to have shared dinner, I didn’t have the energy for it. I would have been staying only out of politeness and I decided that was taking politeness too far. It was time for bed, so I said my goodbyes and headed back to the albergue alone.

      I had had a great day.

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged Burgos, Camino, delicacy, elegance, heart, municipal albergue, pilgrim, San Juan de Ortega, Ventosa
    • Day 12; Belorado – San Juan de Ortega

      Posted at 4:30 pm by Mary Murphy, on February 9, 2020

      A peaceful and quiet morning was made even more perfect by the appearance of two captivating vistas within the first couple of hours. The first gem was a field of sunflowers still in bloom. Having seen many dead or dying sunflowers already, I paused to move amongst them and examine them more closely. We were almost of equal height! Then soon afterwards, I was gazing into the distance at the simple beauty of a small hermitage built into a rock. The humble structure touched my soul more powerfully than the grandest of churches, including the Compostela in Santiago, its impact being in its pure simplicity.

      When I arrived at my destination, I saw that San Juan de Ortega was pretty much a one-horse town: an albergue, a church and a bar – that was it. While a couple of the Irish/Canadians headed for the bar to wait for other members of their group, I waited with the seven men from Friesland for the albergue, a former monastery, to open at 1 p.m. Once inside I saw that it wasn’t worth waiting for – the accommodation was really grim. The only positive I found was that males and females had separate showering facilities. At least I could shower in peace, I thought. I wouldn’t need to queue behind or among the seven men from Friesland. With that in mind, I went into the ladies bathroom where I was met by one of the seven men from Friesland stepping out of the shower. He obviously didn’t want to queue either! His unexpected appearance ruined the one and only thing about the albergue that gave me any feeling of comfort. I was annoyed with him, and to make sure he knew that, I pointed to the female symbol on the door. What could he do? Nothing! He just muttered something in Dutch and left. After my shower I sank into a deep sleep and when I awoke, I saw Jeanie and Elaine (the Canadians) in bunks next to me while the others (Heather, Eugene and Bob) had decided to walk on further.

      In the afternoon I sat on a bench across the road from the albergue having my lunch and pretending to write in my journal while I observed Jeanie and Elaine in the bar. Although I could have walked over to join them, I resisted. My internal dialogue was preoccupied with thoughts of all the things I didn’t want to do at that hour of the day. I didn’t want to sit in a bar and drink alcohol at four in the afternoon, neither did I want any other kind of drink. This was a regular dilemma – what to do when there seemed to be nothing to do except sit in a bar. What I really wanted was some kind of relief from the monotony, but I didn’t want to sit in a bar to get it.

      Later, at about six o’clock, I relented, and with a glass of red wine in my hand, I joined Jeanie and Elaine. They had booked a table for dinner and asked if I would like to join them. Initially I declined and later I relented about that too. Over dinner I got to know Elaine a little and discovered that she was not as aloof as I had thought. I knew Jeanie better; I had spent more time with her and knew she was a talker. They were work colleagues who had become friends, and along the way they had met Bob, also Canadian, as well as Heather and Eugene, who were both Irish and had begun the Camino travelling solo.

      We were joined at our table by a lady from Australia who was staying nearby at a Casa Rural. She was doing the Camino in more comfort than us, which for her was important, but she realised it meant that the camaraderie that resulted from albergue living was something she missed out on. I completely understand why people choose to stay in hotels, but having had the albergue experience, I know something huge would have been missing without it.

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged albergue, Belorado, hermitage, humble, journal, monastery, peace, resistance, San Juan de Ortega, Santiago de Compostela, Simplicity, Soul, sunflowers
    • Day 11; Santo Domingo – Belorado

      Posted at 4:25 pm by Mary Murphy, on February 9, 2020

      As I left Santo Domingo I began walking with Wolfgang, a young German man in his mid to late thirties. Although initially I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to walk with him, I allowed myself to find out. The previous evening we had sat across from one another at the dining table in the albergue. He had tried to include me in conversation with the people he knew at the table. However, I had retreated back into myself and it wasn’t easy to draw me out. It really says a lot about someone who continues to act kindly in the face of little encouragement. So having had that experience with Wolfgang I was positively predisposed towards him. After three or four kilometres together we were joined by Eugene, an Irishman from Cork who lived on the Isle of Man. He was walking the Camino with an Irish woman and a group of Canadians.

      As we approached the first village I could see the bar was busy and some people were sitting outside, amongst them the two Dutch ladies I had paid little attention to, as well as members of Eugene’s walking group. Instead of heading straight for the bar as I hoped, Wolfgang unexpectedly went into the church, and as soon as I saw him disappear, I felt lost. I wasn’t sure what to do. Although I wanted a rest over coffee, suddenly that seemed next to impossible. For some unknown reason I felt unable to walk into the bar with Eugene. To buy some time, I went into the church too. Really I was just hiding while I tried to work out what to do. In the end I decided to walk on.

      At the next village, four kilometres later, I stopped for coffee and within about ten minutes I was joined by Eugene while he waited for one of his group. He began by asking why I hadn’t stopped to join them earlier. In the face of his challenging enquiry, I lied and said I hadn’t felt the need to stop then. I decided it wasn’t a moment for truth. My experience of Eugene had already made me wary. I had the feeling that however unintentional it might be, he could trample on my sensitivities. In contrast, I felt safe with Wolfgang. With him I experienced kindness, gentleness and a respectful distance, while Eugene was a bit more of a bull in a china shop.

      In Belorado there were lots of places to stay, and as a result, the hospitaleros competed for pilgrim custom. One enterprising albergue owner came out to meet us, offering bottles of water while advertising his albergue at the same time. By coincidence it was his albergue that had already caught my attention so in my case his advertising wasn’t necessary. On the way inside, I met Elaine, one of the Canadians, and we both made reservations for the dinner the owners provided on site. Almost immediately I became aware of my attempts to ingratiate myself with Elaine. I was fully aware of what I was doing: I was trying to ensure I was part of the Irish/Canadian party for dinner.

      In the evening while we waited in the foyer before going in to dinner, I overheard someone say that Elaine had booked a table for six people. That worried me a little: I didn’t think it was necessary to book a table; I had assumed it would be a communal meal. Then I hoped I was the sixth person, as there were five members of the Irish/Canadian group. Wrong – it was a New Zealander named Les. I made the discovery while we waited in line on the stairs, and when I entered the dining room they were seated at a table for six. Other tables were set for smaller numbers and I wondered if they had also been reserved. I felt like a spare part. But more than anything I felt hurt by what I saw at the time as Elaine’s meanness. In the awkwardness of the moment, Les rose from his seat quickly, insisting I take it, saying he was the imposter. But the staff sprang into action and placed an extra chair at the end of the table, which I took. By then, whatever confidence I had about being there had evaporated, and in my mind I blamed Elaine for my discomfort. On more mature reflection, I know it would have been so much easier if I had asked to join them, thereby taking the power into my own hands, rather than placing it in someone else’s.

      With Eugene and Les either side of me, we talked about a variety of subjects. Les seemed a gentle, open soul, whereas I found I had little in common with Eugene. His conversation focused mostly on business, which is not something I have much interest in, and I had even less interest in what he had to say when he told me I was taking the Camino too seriously. His judgement felt really hurtful and stayed with me for days, although at the time I tried to conceal my feelings. I felt hurt because I knew I couldn’t have been more sincere in my endeavours, and yet somewhere within me I also knew there was a truth in what he said.

      Although I don’t know what prompted his comment, I imagine it may have been because of something repeated to him by Jeanie (one of the Canadians). When I had walked with her earlier in the day, I had told her I was seeking to experience a depth of inner aloneness, and that I was willing to tolerate the layers of vulnerability that came with it. On reflection, I realise that in some circles that makes me a little unusual. The notion of inner aloneness had come up at a retreat I attended a couple of months earlier. I understood it to mean the place beyond the illusion of separation, where inner aloneness is in fact experienced as unity with the Divine, rather than the aloneness I was more familiar with. And to experience unity I would need to dissolve the layers of separation.

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged albergue, Belorado, camino de santiago, Camino Frances, Divine, hospitaleros, illusion of separation, inner aloneness, lost, pilgrim, Santo Domingo, sincere, Soul, truth, unity, vulnerability
    • Day 10; Cirueña – Santo Domingo de la Calzada

      Posted at 12:47 pm by Mary Murphy, on February 6, 2020

      After six kilometres we arrived in Santo Domingo de la Calzada, where we stopped for coffee and a discussion about the day ahead. I wanted to explore the town without being under the pressure of time, although it became apparent, that my interest in Santo Domingo was not shared by all. It was clear that Sue wanted to pass through it as quickly as possible, in the same way we had done with many other places, and as we left the café I felt that the disharmony between us was evident.

      Santo Domingo, the man after whom the town is named, was an eleventh-century Benedictine monk who devoted his life to caring for pilgrims. However, what piqued my interest was a story featuring a young German pilgrim who paid the price for rejecting the local innkeeper’s daughter in favour of continuing his pilgrimage. She wasn’t best pleased, and decided to exact her revenge on him by planting a church treasure in his belongings. The crime was duly reported, the young pilgrim was charged with theft, found guilty and sentenced to death by hanging. All very swift.

      His parents, despite their grief, continued their pilgrimage to Santiago, and as they approached the town on their return journey, a voice told them that their son had been saved by Santo Domingo. Hearing this they went to see the judge who had sentenced the young pilgrim to death to tell him that their son was still alive, despite being hanged. The judge, who was in the middle of roasting chickens when he heard the news, was not inclined to believe them. ‘Your son is as alive as these chickens I am going to eat,’ he said. Just at that moment, the chickens he was cooking – a cock and a hen – leapt from the spit and crowed ‘Santo Domingo de la Calzada where the chickens crow after being roasted’. Since then, descendants of the cock and hen remain in residence in the cathedral in celebration of the local legend.

      The Cathedral was first on my list of places to visit, but I couldn’t gain access without a ticket; for that I was directed to the tourist office. There, I cast my eyes around at the souvenir collection and found myself particularly drawn to an emerald green rosary. As I touched the cross, tears came to my eyes and I began to realise that I was facing a decisive moment; continue ahead with my comrades or take a risk.

      As I walked around the Cathedral my decision became clear. Even though I had only walked six kilometres, and it was still hours before midday, I would stop in Santo Domingo. I accepted that I needed to slow down to really experience here, and to do that I had to take the risk of following my inner compass. Oddly, I also felt it was time to return to the municipal albergue experience. In some ways my Camino had begun to feel less like a pilgrimage and more of a walking holiday – or perhaps I hadn’t learned how to have both. The pilgrimage experience, something that is really personal to each individual in its meaning, was what I had come to experience. Although the social contact was important, I wondered if it took me away from my deeper journey, or maybe I just hadn’t learned how to navigate between them. My feelings had guided me to a deeper longing, and I sensed that my Camino at that point was about following the courage of my heart.

      At the agreed meeting time, I returned to tell the others my decision, which they accepted without question. Elisabeth had returned with pastries and we gorged on those before saying goodbye. I didn’t know if we would meet again, it seemed unlikely as they would be a whole day’s walk ahead of me. After they headed away I sat outside on a bench wondering how I would kill time until the municipal albergue opened at lunchtime. Not to mention the though of the long day stretching ahead with nothing to do and no friends to do nothing with.

      The albergue reception provided a view into the large downstairs dining room with access to a rough and ready garden for relaxing and hanging out washing. Upstairs I walked through the old, empty, dilapidated rooms. It was like going back in time to 1950s Ireland, with brown patterned wallpaper and lino floor covering, threadbare carpet, crooked walls, squeaky floors and stiff water taps. It didn’t feel in any way nurturing or comforting and I noticed how empty I felt after the exhilaration of my earlier decision. The reality of my loss began to sink in fully. I didn’t want to spend any time upstairs so I returned to the relative homeliness of the ground floor dining room. From there I had a good vantage point, and I watched some of the first pilgrims arrive; notable amongst them was the advance party of two who were booking beds for seven men from Friesland (a province in Holland). Such a request got my attention and I knew I would remember them.

      I felt more alone than ever as I realised all the familiar faces had gone ahead – not just Manoel, Sue and Elisabeth, but all my other Camino acquaintances. The full impact of my decision hit me and in part, I regretted my decision. It was like beginning all over again. I hadn’t anticipated how vulnerable I would feel without my friends, but at the same time I knew there wouldn’t be anything new without letting go of the old. In the dorm, I felt lost among all the new arrivals with their different languages and I asked two women where they were from without actually being interested in their response. Although they told me they were from Holland, they could have been from Mars for all I cared; my enquiry was merely an attempt to conceal how lost I felt.

      As I look back, I realise how important the group was for me. Its protection fortified me until I could set out on my own again. Yet to have remained with the group for longer than was necessary would have masked what I needed to resolve within myself.

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged Alone, Benedictine, Camino, cathedral, Ciruena, courage, heart, here, inner camino, inner compas, inner guidance, Loss, lost, municipal albergue, pilgrim, pilgrimage, Santiago, vulnerable
    • Day 9; Ventosa – Cirueña

      Posted at 4:29 pm by Mary Murphy, on January 19, 2020

      In the morning I awoke to the uplifting sound of Gregorian chanting as it wafted up the stairs from below. It felt like such an appropriate way to greet the day and I climbed out of my bunk to meet it. Over breakfast downstairs, I spoke to Debbie, an American lady who told me she was allowing her Camino to take as long as necessary. I saw the wisdom of that, of course, and although I had a return airline reservation, I had a little contingency that gave me some flexibility. Yet somehow I seemed reluctant to use it.

      When we left, the morning was still covered in darkness and Manoel, Sue, Elisabeth, Debbie and I were immediately in dispute about whether to go left or right to rejoin the Camino. For some reason I felt certain that we should go left and they followed me. But then we met a man going in the opposite direction and Debbie decided to turn around and follow him. Later we discovered that both directions worked, although perhaps we had taken the longer route. In any event we were rewarded with the most glorious sunrise after about an hour, and I felt that the experience softened any residual resentment about the extra kilometre or two!

      By then we had fallen into a rhythm of walking about twenty kilometres a day and this day was no different. However, half way through the day, the combination of the high temperature and my inflamed knees meant that I was struggling once again. Although Elisabeth, Sue and Manoel were ahead of me, I was able to get Manoel’s attention to say I was stopping and he relayed the message up the line. Everyone was agreeable to taking a rest, but Elisabeth suggested going a little further as she could see in the distance a more fitting resting site than the roadside spot I had chosen. I too had seen what looked like bales of straw and although my fatigue needed to be addressed urgently, I saw the wisdom of her suggestion.

      We had begun to routinely book our nightly accommodation in advance and we were heading for a private albergue in the small village of Cirueña. When we arrived we found our albergue, Virgen de Guadalupe, painted in a lively shade of blue with lots of homely and inviting potted plants and hanging baskets outside. However, inside was a different story. The house itself was in disrepair, but more important than that, it felt more like we were staying in an army barracks where the resident sergeant was on patrol. After meeting us at the door, we were instructed to follow the hospitalero upstairs, where he sat us all around the kitchen table to complete the registration process. Included in the offering was an evening meal, and before arriving I had imagined a warm, convivial evening with a welcoming host and fellow pilgrims. However, our host didn’t have the welcoming touch. It felt like we were more of an inconvenience to him than anything else, so when he showed us the evening’s menu, one by one, we all said we wouldn’t be staying for dinner.

      When we got to our room, I noticed the absence of the usual stack of blankets. So in anticipation of feeling cold during the night, I asked Manoel to see if he could get a blanket for me from the hospitalero. Manoel agreed to make the approach while I listened to the exchange from the safety of the dorm, and although I didn’t understand Spanish, his tone told me all I needed to know. In fact the hospitalero came into our room to shut the window we had opened. ‘If you kept the window closed you wouldn’t need a blanket,’ was the gist of what he said in Spanish. I wasn’t optimistic about my chances of a blanket!

      Unlike other places, I didn’t feel I had the freedom of the house. It felt too much like we were intruding on him and his domain and when the others wanted to go to the pub I joined them, even though I would have preferred to rest and journal. In the bar, we had a couple of hours to wait before they offered dinner service and passing time felt challenging. I knew I was going through the motions until we could order dinner and then sleep. Manoel was using the local services to access the internet while Sue was on her phone; we were all there but not together. Part of me wanted to tell them to put away the gadgets, but I knew I had no right. We did discuss the route for the following day and having consulted my guidebook, and read about Santo Domingo, I knew I really wanted to spend some time in the town. I didn’t want to walk through it and out the other side without experiencing it. Elisabeth and Manoel, too, were open to the idea, but Sue seemed less interested.

      Back in the albergue, my comrades offered me their jackets to keep me warm during the night as the hospitalero had not softened his stance on the blanket situation. And as I lay in bed, I began to acknowledge that although being in this group had real advantages, if I tied myself to it I might be compromising my own needs too much. In any event I knew we wouldn’t all finish together as Elisabeth’s Camino would end in Burgos a few days hence, and I thought that might be my exit too.

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged Burgos, Camino, Ciruena, compromise, Gregorian chanting, hospitaleros, journal, pilgrim, Santo Domingo, Ventosa, Virgen de Guadalupe
    • Day 8; Logroño – Ventosa

      Posted at 6:07 pm by Mary Murphy, on January 5, 2020

      In the morning I left Logroño with Elisabeth, Sue and Manoel, but I felt exhausted almost as soon as I began and immediately fell behind. My knee joints were inflamed and I struggled to find a walking rhythm. In truth, my body was telling me to rest but I was ignoring its wisdom. Furthermore, we had set out without breakfast and I just hoped that my comrades would stop at the earliest opportunity, but I thought I might have to wait an hour or more for one to present itself. Then while we were still walking through a large municipal park, I saw them disappear into a building in the distance. It was almost too much to believe that it could be a café and I tried not to get my hopes up. As I arrived outside I saw what appeared to be a public library, but once inside, its inner beauty was revealed. At the back of the bar was an outdoor terrace overlooking a lake, and I realised I would have food for my soul as well as my belly. However it was going to be a long wait, for there was only one man to fulfil the roles of server, chef and cashier.

      Swedish Ann was in the café and as usual she was in no hurry at all, and although I knew I needed to adopt more of her philosophy, I had still not accepted the pace that was right for me in that moment. A week into my Camino, I continued to believe I had to match the standard walking plan set out in John Brierley’s guidebook, which for most pilgrims is the Camino bible. It sets out daily walking stages and destinations, where in general, the availability of pilgrim accommodation clusters. I thought that if I could do as John Brierley’s guidebook suggested then I would be doing it properly! Really I was afraid to trust my own wisdom and knowing, for that could mean allowing others to go ahead of me. Each day I wanted to be there, wherever that was; I found that there was, in fact, elusive. I was having trouble allowing myself to be here, in the present moment.

      As the afternoon progressed, the others were ahead of me again. Somehow I pulled myself along, knowing that it couldn’t last forever, I would get there eventually. In time, I arrived at a sign which indicated a left turn to Ventosa, a couple of kilometres further, and another dull straight road delivered me to the village. As I was about to enter the albergue I met Manoel on his way back out; he was coming to find me. We had booked the albergue over breakfast in the park that morning and it did not disappoint. The moment I stepped inside, I noticed the house was furnished and decorated with care, and I knew I was going to feel at home. The hospitaleros were professional, and provided a very clean, efficiently run house with a small shop on the ground floor that sold food in pilgrim-friendly quantities. Upstairs they had segregated bathroom facilities, which made things a little more comfortable, particularly as the clothes washing and drying facilities were housed separately at the top of the garden.

      While journaling later, I allowed myself to consider the possibility that I might not complete the Camino, and it was a thought that was not easy to accept. Even though I tried to console myself with the knowledge that the Camino is at heart an internal journey, not an external one, I still wanted to complete it! But I knew I needed to take the risk of slowing down and trust that my body would guide me physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually in accordance with its needs, rather than trying to implement a preconceived idea of how I thought it should be.

      While Elisabeth and I sat in the garden in the late afternoon and early evening we discovered that we had misplaced Manoel and Sue. Where could they be? In the pub. They were drinking beer and eating crisps with George, a new acquaintance and a fellow pilgrim from Holland. Truth be told Manoel was a bit tipsy when we discovered his whereabouts, and wasn’t that inclined to want to leave, but with a little persuasion he came with us to a local restaurant for a lovely meal and a very enjoyable night with George.

      Sue, Elisabeth, George, Me and Manoel
      Posted in Day by Day | 2 Comments | Tagged body wisdom, Camino, emotionally, fear, guidance, guidebook, heart, here, hospitaleros, inner beauty, internal journey, John Brierley, journal, knowing, letting go, Logrono, mentally, pace, physically, pilgrim, present moment, Soul, spiritually, there, trust, Ventosa
    • Day 7; Los Arcos – Logroño

      Posted at 9:12 pm by Mary Murphy, on December 22, 2019

      The breakfast spread at Casa de Abuela looked inviting and I wanted to do it justice, so I took as much time as I could to enjoy what was before me. But I couldn’t linger too long as there was the small matter of a twenty-seven kilometre walk ahead of me to the City of Logroño. It was a walk I wasn’t particularly looking forward to as my limbs had taken a battering over the previous couple of days, and I would also have preferred to avoid trekking across a big City. Sue had left with the morning still bathed in darkness, while Manoel was coming to terms with losing his map and the consequence of its loss. The previous day’s experiences had left me feeling in an optimistic, positive mood so I asked Manoel if he wanted to leave with me, and my map, when daylight appeared.

      Mid morning we stopped for coffee in a small village where some other pilgrims were already gathered, and I sat outside with Dublin John. He was on a two-week Camino, which he intended to finish in Burgos a week later. While I waited for Manoel to join us, our conversation focused on John’s injured foot. We pondered whether or not he would be able to make it to Logroño that day at all. Typically, feet and legs are high up on the Camino conversational agenda, but it could get a bit tedious, speculating on exactly what had been hurt, and how long it might remain hurt. I needed some light relief, which I hoped would come from Manoel, but when I looked around, I noticed he had joined another table. Interesting.

      Just as Manoel and I were leaving the café, Elisabeth arrived. Earlier in the morning we had left her sitting at the kitchen table in the albergue. At sixty-eight, Elisabeth was an impressive walker, much better than me, and she caught up with us shortly after her coffee break. Soon Manoel and Elisabeth began to converse in French. He had lived in France during his Royal Air Force days, so he found speaking French easier than English. While they talked, I lost interest and fell behind, partly because I wasn’t part of the conversation, but mostly because I was feeling sluggish. In the distance I could see Viana, where we intended to stop for lunch. It looked deceptively close due to the flatness of the surrounding landscape, whereas I felt the reality of the actual distance with each step I walked – for me it couldn’t be close enough.

      In Viana, my spirits lifted at the sight of the enticing and extravagant display of tapas that covered the entire length of the long bar, its beauty alone felt restorative. While we sat outside enjoying a delicious lunch Dublin John came into view and joined us. Quite soon I sensed Manoel wasn’t very keen on John being with us. That seed had been sown in my mind when he hadn’t joined our table at the cafe earlier, and over lunch he seemed to make very little effort to include John. Secretly, I hoped John would push off on his own after lunch so that the awkwardness wouldn’t continue further into the afternoon and he duly obliged.

      As we rested outside in the shade Manoel phoned ahead to a private albergue in Logroño to book beds for the three of us. It was a relief to have accommodation secured and comforting to know that I would be staying in a private albergue. Before leaving Viana, Manoel found a supermarket nearby, so I was able to stock up on black tea bags. I had been missing my morning cuppa, as most albergues had vending machines that dispensed only lemon tea.

      Refuelled, we set out on the remaining ten kilometres to Logroño, which for me was even more difficult than the hours before lunch. By then the day was very hot, and although I tried to keep up with the others, I really struggled. My knee joints were swollen and my legs felt like dead weight. Every step felt torturous. I knew I should just stop and take a break. In fact I should have taken as many breaks as I needed, but I was reluctant to either let the others go on ahead of me or ask them to wait.

      As the afternoon progressed, walking in the heat felt almost unbearable, and by the time we got to the outskirts of Logroño I just wanted it to be over. Every step required physical, emotional and mental effort, so I left the navigation through the city to Manoel and Elisabeth. Then as we drew closer to our destination, I thought I spotted the albergue and I tried to point it out – they ignored me, and continued on. While I was annoyed at being dismissed, I still followed them, as I wasn’t entirely certain of what I had seen either. Within minutes we arrived outside the building I had identified earlier, having gone the long way round, which wasn’t very long at all; still, I was irritated as it confirmed I had been correct, although not confident, in my observation. As we arrived, we met Sue emerging from the albergue and I felt even more resentful. She was heading out for a walk around the City having arrived well ahead of us and seemed to have taken the twenty-seven-kilometre walk in her stride. I didn’t like her being so carefree when the experience had taken so much out of me. I was more familiar with seeing myself as the one striding ahead, rather than the one struggling behind and I didn’t like this new turn of events.

      Inside the albergue, the check-in process was unusually laborious and I found my patience further tested. I needed to rest so badly, but the hospitalero moved at a snail’s pace and she had an appetite for collecting more information than I was used to providing. When we were shown to a large, thirty-bed dormitory, I felt really disappointed. I just couldn’t believe my eyes as I looked around at what was more akin to an open-plan office and not at all the kind of private albergue experience I had in mind.

      When I lay down to sleep, it proved very difficult, as a group of young Spanish students were making a lot of noise, despite other pilgrims telling them to be quiet. As I sat up again in exasperation I caught the eye of a familiar Spaniard resting in his bunk across the room. ‘They are very loud,’ he said. ‘They certainly are,’ I replied before I burst into tears and lay down again in my sleeping bag. I sobbed uncontrollably. I didn’t know why I was crying; I just was. When Manoel realised what was happening, he stood by my bed and held my hand. Between the sobs I said to him ‘I can’t stop,’ he replied in his best English, ‘why you want to?’

      When my tears began to abate, Manoel and Elisabeth asked what they could do, and I suggested a cup of tea with my newly purchased teabags. As I sipped my hot tea, the Spanish guy from across the room came over to enquire if I was all right. He wondered what had happened to cause the tears. Nothing had happened as far as any of us knew; that puzzled him, I think. After he returned to his bunk, conversation turned to plans for dinner and while I was absolutely shattered I though I would regret it later if I didn’t summoned my strength to join them. However as we walked around the City savouring the atmosphere, I was very much a follower, just as I had been earlier in the day. During dinner my companions began to speak again in French and I felt increasingly more excluded as it continued. Truthfully I felt hurt by Manoel’s insensitivity in particular, as he was the person I had the primary relationship with. To prevent myself receding into the background completely I asked him to speak in English. It took some courage to voice as I was speaking from a place of hurt, a small place, a child place, rather than from a position of adult confidence and strength. It was an awkward moment as he didn’t seem too happy with my request, although he did acquiesce.

      After dinner and an eventful day, there was a lovely quiet hum in the albergue as people completed their bedtime rituals just before lights out. And as I sat up in my bunk the Spanish pilgrim from earlier mouthed across the room, ‘Are you okay?’ My nod indicated yes, I was feeling better. Sue observed the exchange, and I could see from her expression that she wondered what she had missed. But I chose not to enlighten her; I didn’t want to share my vulnerability any further.

      Earlier in the evening, Elisabeth suggested that my tears were caused by tiredness. Although, it was certainly true that the difficulty of the day dismantled my defences, I also felt that something deeper was being exposed, without knowing what specifically it might be. With hindsight, I see much more in the symbolism of the adults walking ahead of me, speaking a different language while I languished behind, unable to let them go, get their attention or voice what I needed.

      I met my inner child so many times on the Camino, this was just one of those encounters.

      Posted in Day by Day | 1 Comment | Tagged albergue, Burgos, Camino, Camino Frances, Case de Abuela, defence, emotional, Inner child, Logrono, Los Arcos, mental, physical, pilgrim, Viana, vulnerability
    • Day 6; Estella – Los Arcos

      Posted at 6:46 pm by Mary Murphy, on December 15, 2019

      There was an amazing still quality to the morning as I walked through the town of Estella. I felt present to the awakening of the day while the town’s residents were still mostly asleep, except for the early morning delivery workers. In my normal everyday life, when I step out of the house the city is already fully alive and active, whereas on the Camino, I got to experience each day slowly unfolding, and it was a beautiful, precious thing to witness.

      After a gentle start to the day I came upon a painted yellow arrow that didn’t fulfill its promise, which is to direct pilgrims out of town while remaining on the Camino. As I stood trying to figure out the direction it was pointing towards, Monika from Brazil arrived on the scene. She was on her own that day, whereas normally she walked with her boyfriend and his father, and until that morning we were Buen Camino acquaintances only. Without a common language we communicated with gestures and a few words agreeing which road to take, more in hope than certainty. After a couple of kilometres, the absence of Camino signs and other pilgrims became concerning, as we found ourselves in a part of town that was as dead as a dodo. There wasn’t a living soul to ask directions of, but rather than retrace our steps, we kept going in the hope that once we reached the edge of town, we would be reunited with the familiar yellow arrows of the Camino. It was a risk that paid off, as soon afterwards we knew we were on the right track when we reached the Bodegas Irache landmark.

      Mid morning, when I was alone again, I went into the church in the small village of Villamayor de Monjardín. Inside I rested my rucksack against a pew and waited as my eyesight adjusted to the darkness. The church was held in near total darkness as the narrow windows were more like slits that allowed in very little daylight. Gradually three men came into focus: two pilgrims and a man with a Camino stamp standing alongside an altar of lighting candles. While I searched for my Camino passport, the two pilgrims left and I walked over to present myself to the man with the stamp. He immediately clasped my hand and held it while he said a few words in Spanish. I beamed as the sincerity of his blessing landed within and I felt elevated to another world by his powerful, loving presence.

      Walking away from the church my heart felt full, and as I looked across at the vines in the fields, I saw what was around me through new eyes. I felt oneness with nature and I wanted to walk alone to savour the grace of the moment, however I could see Swedish Ann just ahead, waiting for me. When I reached her, I didn’t have the heart to say I wanted to walk alone. I told her about my experience in the church, but I felt a bit cheated that the spell I was under had been broken.

      Soon afterwards I walked ahead of Ann; her pace was too slow for me, whereas the previous day I had willingly fallen into step with the quite gruelling pace set by David. That hadn’t suited me either, but I had stayed with him and as a result my left leg was sore.

      After lunch I caught up with Manoel who was also walking alone. At first I didn’t know if I wanted company, but I discovered that walking with Manoel was actually very comfortable. He was undemanding company, and it was easy to walk with him in companionable silence or talk as the mood took me. When we arrived in Los Arcos, Manoel phoned Sue to get her location and we followed her directions to the private albergue where she was staying.

      The hospitaleros, a husband and wife team, had converted a house previously owned by the woman’s grandmother and had named it Casa de Abuela (Little Grandmother). As soon as I stepped into the intimate family kitchen it felt familiar and homely. Bread was baking in the over and through the glass oven door I could see that it looked like a large doughnut. Upstairs I was sharing a small dorm with Manoel, and Elisabeth from Paris while Sue was in another room. We also had the luxury of having the hospitaleros do all our washing by machine for an extra fifty cents. Washing clothes each day is very much part of the daily ritual, but washing by hand doesn’t really get clothes clean – at least, not the way I washed them.

      The afternoon was comfortable, lazy and carefree. I had lunch in the albergue kitchen, followed by conversation and map reading with Monika, my Brazilian friend from the morning’s adventure, along with Sue, Manoel and Elisabeth. Afterward I went for a walk, found a bank to get some money and sat in the square with some Australian pilgrims having coffee. When I returned to the albergue, the kitchen was quite and I chatted to the male hospitalero while he did his chores. I wanted him to know how much I appreciated what they offered, in their attitude and their facilities. I also wanted to know more about the bread! I was in luck – he was about to make a second loaf for our breakfast in the morning. This was a level of hospitality that I hadn’t experienced till then and that afternoon I became the apprentice bread maker at Casa de Abuela.

      Looking back, I can see that Day Six had everything!. In particular staying in Casa de Abuela was one of the most relaxing and enjoyable experiences of the whole Camino for me. A week in, I was beginning to find more of myself, I felt more available to others and sharing the journey changed it completely.

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged altar, awakening, Blessing, Bodegas Irache, Buen Camino, Camino, Camino stamp, Casa de Abuela, elevated, Estella, grace, heart, hospitaleros, Little Grandmother, Los Arcos, oneness, pilgrim, Sincerity, Villamayor de Monjarin, wine fountain, yellow arrow
    • Day 5; Obanos – Estella

      Posted at 6:08 pm by Mary Murphy, on December 8, 2019

      After breakfast in Puente de la Reina, Manoel, Sue and I separated, and until mid morning, which on the Camino is about 9.30, I walked alone. Then I met David, an Irish musician in his mid thirties, who lived in Paris with his girlfriend. We hit it off straight away, and I realised as the hours passed that I didn’t want to share him with anyone else. It seemed we could talk about anything, and our conversation flowed freely. We talked about life, struggles, heartbreak, personal histories, influences; we covered a lot in one day! I usually think of myself as an open person, but on the Camino that was not how I was at all. However with David I was completely open. I let him see me and I saw him.

      After five hours of walking together and only one brief coffee stop we reached Estella. Immediately, I faced a choice between a further uphill climb into town to find a private albergue, or settle for the big municipal hostel that stood in front of me. Despite my preference for small homely places, my tiredness dictated my decision. Initially we waited in the street with a few other pilgrims for the scheduled 1 p.m. opening time, not realising it was in fact already open. While we waited I noticed that the ease I had felt while I had walked with David had gone. I now felt awkward about our arrival together, as that often meant sharing a bunk, or at least ending up in close physical proximity. I also didn’t want anyone to assume we were a couple. Quite why that had any importance I don’t know, but at the time it did.

      Once inside the albergue, David placed his rucksack on the ground before he set about a comprehensive rummage through his belongings. I was puzzled about what needed to be so urgently rescued when we only required the usual items: a Camino passport and €5 in cash. Why anyone would bury them in their belongings I couldn’t understand. I didn’t know whether to wait for him to find whatever he was looking for or not. In the end I decided to register without him, and when I received my bed number I went upstairs, leaving him to continue his search in the foyer.

      Shortly after arriving in the dorm, Dublin John appeared next to me. He had been allocated the bunk above mine, and as we prepared our nests for the night, we did our best to navigate around each other without touching. There was still no sign of David. I thought perhaps the rummaging in his bag had been a delaying tactic, and I wondered if I had lost him. Despite the connection I had experienced with him, or perhaps because of it, I was relieved not to be sharing close physical quarters with him – it was easier for me to share such confinement with strangers – but I didn’t want to lose him either.

      We hadn’t eaten along the way, and even though I was really hungry, I delayed lunch further in favour of chores. That was a mistake! By the time I had finished washing, the supermarkets were closed for siesta, so any ideas I had about making lunch in the homely albergue kitchen were quashed. Instead, I found a soulless, empty bar along the street serving food, and while I could have explored the town afterwards, I had neither the interest nor the energy for more activity. It might have been a pretty town, but I was unlikely to see it, except on the way out in the semi-darkness of the morning.

      Late in the afternoon, I observed a few people, including David and Dublin John, chatting in the garden, and although I wanted to join them, I hesitated. I questioned whether or not I should. Maybe David wants some space, I thought, and as I second-guessed what David wanted, I held back and denied my own needs. In the evening, Dublin John was rounding up people for dinner, but I wouldn’t join them – by then I had lost any ability for conversation.

      With hindsight I have a clearer understanding of the events that triggered my reactions that day. In David I had found a kindred spirit, someone who spoke my language. He was the first person I was willing to confide in, and while we walked I felt held in a protective bubble, without interference from the external world. But when we were reunited with the world, it was a transition I found difficult to make; I felt challenged by the reintegration process. During the day when I observed David in conversation with others, I told myself not to be a burden to him, yet at the same time I felt burdened by what seemed to be required of me – assimilation into a wider group and the ordinary conversations of Camino life.

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged albergue, Camino, Camino Passport, Closed, Connection, Extella, heartbreak, kindred spirits, Obanos, Openness, pilgrim, Puente de la Reina
    • Day 4; Pamplona to Obanos

      Posted at 6:37 pm by Mary Murphy, on December 1, 2019

      On the outskirts of Pamplona I met Manoel and Sue again and we walked while we exchanged stories about how we had spent the previous night. However, the conversation didn’t last long as quite soon I began to slip behind with fatigue. When slowing down didn’t provide enough relief I decided it was time to take a break. ‘I’m going to have to give in,’ I shouted to let them know I was stopping.

      I felt I really had to stop, even though the environment around me wasn’t conducive to resting. The dry, cracked earth was home only to some spiky-looking plants. With little comfort to choose from, I considered an upright, concrete Camino bollard as a seating possibility. Once I was sure there wasn’t a softer option, I sat on it, and although it was a seat of sorts, it was not a comfortable one.

      As I contemplated my situation, I couldn’t believe that four days into the Camino I was already exhausted; it was so much harder than I had expected. Apart from the physical weight on my back, I was also carrying some very heavy emotions, and they were often more difficult to carry than the rucksack. Once again, I returned to thoughts about the kind of Camino I had imagined I would experience and this was nothing like it! In my imagination, the Camino was a healing escape, one that I was meant to fall in love with, and I had naively hoped I’d bypass the difficult stuff. I had underestimated completely how the conditions of the Camino would work to strip away my defences, layer by layer. This was going to be a struggle for which I was ill prepared.

      A couple of hours passed before I stopped again at a pilgrim monument on the top of Alto de Perdón where the seating options were marginally improved. The monument, a line of life-size pilgrim figures cut from iron, conveyed to me a sense of what it took to be a pilgrim in earlier times. Then, pilgrims had journeyed with minimal comfort in order to complete their Camino, and it seemed to me they must have walked with great commitment and sincere hearts. It was humbling to be reminded of what others were willing to endure on their pilgrim quest. While I rested there, I thought about what I needed to help me manage the challenges the Camino was presenting me with. I had already noticed that where I stayed and how supportive it felt was important to me, so I reflected on my options. The next official stop was Puente de la Reina, a big town, and at the start of the day it was where I assumed I would stay. Now I thought that is perhaps not what is best for me. Instead of falling in with what most pilgrims were planning I decided that I would stop in the small village of Obanos, a few kilometres before Puente de la Reina. Satisfied with my decision, I communicated my plan to Sue and Manoel before I took off again.

      After lunch the afternoon stretch was very dry and hot, hot, hot. The intense heat felt torturous and fatigue took me over completely. Manoel and Sue had fallen behind and I was walking alone, which is how I wanted to keep it. I am not enjoying this Camino one bit! By then, I was in such a resentful state that I didn’t want to speak to anyone. However, I sensed a presence close behind me and when I turned around I discovered my stalker was a beautiful black Labrador and hugs and kisses were exchanged. A dog was no threat! Within moments, the dog’s master, a man in his forties, appeared beside me and began speaking to me in Spanish. Although I tried to respond, I also wished he would just walk on and leave me alone. Then he demonstrated himself collapsing under a great weight and I realised the meaning of his words. ‘Yes, heavy and tired,’ I said. On cue, he lifted and held my rucksack up off my back and as I adjusted the straps, I felt the weight shift from my shoulders to my hips. In response, I almost cried with relief while I clasped his arm to communicate my thanks, repeating my words over and over. Soon afterwards he handed me his walking stick, insisting that I walk with it to ease the pressure. He still talked away in Spanish, none of which I understood, until I heard him say fiesta and I wondered if he was inviting me to a dance! Then as some others came into earshot behind, my companion fell back to talk to them and I took my chance to pull away.

      Prior to arriving in Obanos, I was reunited with Manoel and Sue and we headed straight for the albergue. However, we were in for some deflating news: it was closed due to a local fiesta. The Spanish man had not been inviting me to a dance after all! In disbelief, I gazed through the window, in the vain hope of seeing some life inside, but it really was closed. Moreover, it was the only albergue in the village. Sue and Manoel would have walked on, but I was absolutely determined not to go another step and I declared I was going to stay in a hotel. I had seen a sign on the way into town and I wanted to retrace my steps to find it.

      The sign I had seen was in fact a Casa Rural, a private house with accommodation on a room-only basis. Then while we stood outside the house, the man with the black Labrador reappeared and caught my arm by way of saying goodbye. He seemed to acknowledge that something special had passed between us; I felt it too. Before we parted, I offered to return his walking stick, but he refused to take it; it was mine to keep.

      Inside the house, I felt my spirits lift after the adventures of the day. We were shown to a lovely room which was like a treasure trove with pieces of antique furniture throughout and a little outdoor balcony where we could hang our clothes to dry. There were two soft single beds in place along with fluffy towels and an en-suite shower. An additional camp bed was provided for the third person; Manoel insisted that was him. I felt truly blessed by the kindness of my fellow pilgrims. It was their willingness to support me that meant I had both companionship and comfort.

      Emilio’s wife, Sue, Manoel, Me, Emilio – Obanos

      On our way back to the Casa Rural after dinner, we saw the hospitalero with his wife sitting outside the house enjoying the evening sun and we stopped to greet them. Within seconds he pulled at my arm to place me beside him, and although we had no common language, I felt we could communicate. Emilio, a man in his sixties, enjoyed comparing the colour of his skin with mine; it seemed to amuse him to touch my pale, white, cold arm with his sun-drenched, dark, warm skin. While we talked, he shared with us his store of fresh walnuts, breaking the shells against the wall with the palm of his hand. I felt relaxed and connected as I enjoyed Emilio’s hospitality and the companionship of my new friends.

      Back in our room, Manoel took out a Brazilian postcard that he had carried with him from home, perhaps for just such an occasion, and we all wrote our gratitude to the hospitaleros for their generosity. That day I felt touched by the generous interventions of strangers, and as a result, more connected to myself and those around me. At the time I wasn’t particularly open to receiving kindness. Yet those restorative experiences were exactly what I needed.

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged Alto de Perdon, blessings, Camino Frances, generosity, gratitude, hospitaleros, kindness, Obanos, Pamplona, Puente de la Reina, support, Zubiri
    • Day 3; Zubiri – Pamplona

      Posted at 6:13 pm by Mary Murphy, on November 24, 2019

      I was awake at about 6 a.m., and while it was still dark I crossed the yard to the dining room, where breakfast for me consisted of a humble banana and coffee. Deborah, (Walking for love of God) was up early too and already tucking into a big bowl of fresh fruit, while a man I didn’t know kept a watchful eye on a small stove as he heated milk for his cereal. Observing the importance they had given their breakfast, I wished I too had planned ahead for the nourishment my journey required. Not just in terms of something more substantial to eat, though that was part of it, it was more about the sacredness of their morning ritual. It symbolised to me, patience, self care and apparent ease with themselves. In contrast, I couldn’t wait to be off.

      Packed and ready to go, I waited impatiently outside for daylight to appear so I could be reunited with the yellow arrows that would lead me out of town – and to greater ease, I hoped. However, I soon realised that I could not get away from what I was feeling inside and I knew it was going to be a repeat of the day before. The Camino I was experiencing was not the one I had imagined. I had misjudged it completely. Before leaving home, I thought I would love walking in expectation that I would get lost in the peace and beauty of it all. How wrong I was!

      During the morning I crossed paths with Sue and Manoel for the first time, while they had met a couple of days earlier in St Jean. Sue, a South African in her early fifties, had begun the Camino with her father, but they had separated soon afterwards to walk at a pace that suited them individually. Manoel, a sixty-something Brazilian, fell into step behind, while Sue and I talked, Sue every so often relaying to him the substance of our conversation and throwing in the few words of Portuguese he had been teaching her.

      After a while I walked on ahead of them as I found it challenging to be around people for any real length of time. The pain I was carrying inside felt like a dead weight and made it difficult for me to speak and connect with others. It was as though we were orbiting different planets and what I really wanted was to scream and lash out at the world I felt locked within, but instead of screaming I remained silent.

      My utter disbelief at how awful my experience felt didn’t get any easier to accept as the hours rolled by. In fact, it was further compounded by the struggle between my need for rest and my desire to run for the hills as I faced the challenge presented by the first opportunity to stop for coffee. Facing people I knew was difficult. I couldn’t say how I was feeling, so I knew I would have to pretend I was fine and I found that incredibly hard.

      At a busy outdoor tavern an array of brightly coloured rucksacks stood lined up against the wall while their owners sat at the many outdoor tables, chatting and having fun. I noticed the chatty young South African woman with her Dutch companion from the previous day, and while I stood at the bar waiting for my coffee, I scanned the environment for other seating possibilities. Seeing no alternative, I steeled myself to go and join the faces I recognised and although I tried to participate in conversation it was a huge effort for me. Then as soon as I finished my coffee, I fled. I had to get away to recommence my walk; I had to be alone. When I was with others, it amplified the painful depth of my disconnection from the world, and although I felt compelled to be alone, I also felt the pain and isolation of aloneness. I felt as though I was a small island adrift from the mainland, without the means to return home but I also know that even if I had been sent a life raft, I would not have taken it.

      Another, less crowded, opportunity to stop presented itself about an hour from Pamplona. There I was joined by Christian, a young German man I had met at the outdoor tavern earlier. As we talked he became the first person to ask why I was doing the Camino. On hearing his question, initially I felt stumped. While it sounds like a small, simple question, it’s actually quite big and I didn’t know whether I wanted to answer it sincerely or say something general that would deflect him. I was aware that a sincere response would feel exposing for me but I decided to take the risk. In hindsight I see that answering sincerely was more for my benefit than for his. As I began to find the words, tears came. ‘I’ve come to meet, and be alone with, myself,’ I said. In response, Christian wondered if that was not something I could do at home and I said ‘not in the way I want to experience it’. Actually I had come in the hope of experiencing a deep encounter with my soul. I wanted to be close to God, although I didn’t say so. I noticed my reluctance to name God and soul. Even on the Camino, where I might have assumed pilgrims were accepting and open about their spirituality, I felt vulnerable and reluctant to reveal mine.

      When I arrived in Pamplona in the blazing heat of the early afternoon, I found myself standing outside a homely and inviting two-storey stone house that advertised itself as an albergue and I decided to check it out. Inside it looked and felt just like a family home, and once the preliminaries were completed, I was shown to my bunk in one of the upstairs rooms. It was a complete contrast to the night before – more like staying in a bed and breakfast, where breakfast was offered for an extra €2.50. I found a little more of myself there, as the hospitaleros, two German men in their fifties, offered a more caring experience, in contrast with the no care experience of the previous night.

      In the evening, I was partly filling time and partly hoping to have a spiritual encounter that would connect me with God and myself so I joined a small local community for rosary in the Cathedral. Just when I though the rosary had reached an uneventful conclusion, I noticed the congregation joining the priest to walk in procession around the large, almost empty, church, while they were accompanied by what sounded like a choir of angels. Immediately, I felt moved to join them but I hesitated, telling myself I didn’t know where they were going! However, I felt drawn as if by magnet to the procession, and I put aside any reticence I felt about my spirit being so visible. While I walked slowly around the church, something within me melted as I sank deeper into connection. Then when I came into line with the choir I stopped to digest the experience fully, taking in the ordinariness of the group of men in front of me. As they sang, they channelled pure love and I felt transported to another world. The one I had inhabited earlier in the day had dissolved into a puddle.

      To witness the coming together of the local community to honour their connection with God, with themselves and each other touched me deeply. It was the apparent ease with which they took their place in honour of their God that affected me most, and I realised my struggle lay in the tension between my longing to satisfy the needs of my soul and my resistance to its fulfilment.

      Despite the uplifting experience in the Cathedral, once I returned to the albergue, I noticed myself withdraw. I didn’t have it in me to go and join the group in the garden for a drink, even though I had regained more of myself that day. As I lay down on my bunk I could hear laughter downstairs, and I wished I had a buddy to make my experience easier. I seemed to need someone to open the door for me, so most of the time I felt as if I was on the outside looking in, wanting what others had while I stayed in the shadows.

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged aloneness, beauty, Camino, Connection, disconnection, ease, emotional pain, God, Home, hospitaleros, isolation, longing, morning ritual, Pamplona, patience, peace, resistance, sacredness, self care, separation, Soul, spirituality, Zubiri
    • Day 2; Roncesvalles – Zubiri

      Posted at 4:09 pm by Mary Murphy, on November 18, 2019

      When I set off on my second day I hoped that walking would bring some ease to my inner discomfort. However, with each passing kilometre I felt more overwhelmed by how alone I felt in the world. What I felt was the confusion of a child standing alone in a playground while others played together. It felt like being locked inside, unable to get out.

      By the time I reached my first coffee stop at a roadside bar, I felt really cross, frustrated and deeply resentful. I was desperate for a break but when I saw groups of people gathered outside chatting comfortably, I considered walking on and it took every ounce of will to push myself in through the doorway. Once I re-emerged, I sat with my coffee and bacon sandwich at the only unoccupied outdoor table available, where I was joined by a brazen village cat who wasn’t put off by my lack of encouragement. Within minutes a young, very chatty South African woman and her Dutch walking companion joined my table. There followed the usual opening questions before she told me that the experience was, for her, wonderful. At the time, I couldn’t imagine how that was possible, and part of me thought, she’s can’t be doing the Camino! The contrast in our experiences could not have been more marked, and it was that very contrast that meant I couldn’t stay with her for long and soon I was eager to be off again.

      Leaving my lunch companions behind, I continued to walk until I reached Zubiri at about 1 p.m., and I headed straight for the municipal albergue. On arrival I could see a large, derelict yard at the front of the building. It really was particularly uninviting and although it put me in mind of Colditz, the prisoner of war TV series, I still approached. Inside, the warden sat in a small office, sandwiched between two large dormitories. After registering, he showed me to one of them and the Colditz feeling grew. At first I was amazed to find so many beds in a clammy room, and not only that – the bunk beds were welded together in pairs. In part I thought, you’re having a laugh, while another part said, I can do this.

      Shortly afterwards I made my way across the yard to the very basic, unisex, communal shower block. The lack of frills I could cope with; however, I was less keen on the absence of a shower curtain and the necessary equipment to lock the door. Although I was alone in that moment and glad to be so, I was aware that the situation could change very quickly. Then while I was under the shower, I discovered that I had left my soap in Roncesvalles. Things are going really well!

      After a hasty shower, I sat up on my bunk telling myself, via my journal, that I was well able for this, no bother to me at all. But as I looked around the room, my self-delusion began to fade. How would I fill this day, I wondered. I felt in a world of one, in an unfamiliar land, surrounded by strangers and languages I didn’t understand. In fact I wasn’t really there; I was waiting to go, waiting for the relief of darkness to come so that the discomfort would be over and I could get away.

      Later, as I sat at a bench in the shade, I was joined by a couple of Italian men who were waiting for more of their group to arrive. In my naivety I asked if they were staying at the albergue. No, they were waiting to be picked up by a bus that would take them to a hotel in Pamplona. My heart sank as I considered what they were escaping to while I remained in Colditz. The luxury of a hotel room was very appealing and in complete contrast to my circumstances. In retrospect, I see that hotel comforts actually make the Camino more of a holiday, despite the physical challenge, and I realised my four-star pilgrim experience the previous year had been really a holiday too. No wonder I enjoyed it so much.

      As I climbed back onto my bunk, thinking I might read, I was approached by Deborah, an Australian girl who told me she was on a mission to walk the world for love. I had noticed her earlier. She stood out because of the way she was dressed. To me she looked like she was on safari in deepest Africa, as almost every part of her skin was covered. Up close, I could see written on her wide-brimmed hat the astonishing words, Walking for love of God. Such a public declaration of her pilgrim intent shocked me, as I imagined that she might face ridicule and alienation for being so open. It’s only on reflection that I realise my thoughts revealed my own struggle to be open about my relationship with God. In my rucksack, I carried the book Conversations with God, and when I took it out to read later I folded back the cover so it couldn’t be seen. I was afraid that if people saw what I was reading I would be judged and labelled one of them. In hindsight I see how significant it was that Deborah approached me; she was reflecting for me my dis-ease with my own feelings.

      Then at bed time I discovered the long-awaited answer to the question of who would share my bed – well not quite share, but closer than I would have liked. A German man that I had met in St Jean had the honour! There, he had occupied the bunk above mine, and to acknowledge that we were getting closer, I said, ‘We are destined to share a bed’. But I don’t think he understood my attempt at humour. That marked the beginning and the end of our conversation. Besides, I was ready for lights out and oblivion. However, for that I had to wait a little longer, until everyone settled down. Until then, the overhead light remained on while people folded and repacked their noisy plastic bags in readiness for the next day’s departure.

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged Alone, Camino Frances, Discomfort, Isolated, Loney, municipal albergue, relationship with God, Roncesvalles, Zubiri
    • Day 1; St Jean Pied de Port – Roncesvalles

      Posted at 5:17 pm by Mary Murphy, on November 3, 2019

      On a drizzly Sunday morning my Camino officially began with less composure than I had anticipated, for I hurried through town trying to catch up with those who had set out ahead of me. After about half an hour, my efforts to draw level were rewarded, but I was cautious in my interactions and I didn’t speak to anyone for an hour or two. My first attempt at conversation was with a Japanese man in his seventies. He was with a group, although when I met him they had stretched out and he was walking alone. We proceeded together for a short distance before I acknowledged to myself that I felt ill at ease and I moved on ahead.

      Later I met two girls from South Korea and we walked together to Orisson, where we stopped for coffee after quite a strenuous ten-kilometre climb. Outside the bar there were lots of tables and stunning views. So after being served I went outside with my coffee, leaving the girls to decide which cake to choose. As I waited for them to emerge, I covertly searched my rucksack for something of my own to eat, when out of the corner of my eye I noticed the girls walking across the road to the terrace on the other side. I hadn’t expected that, and I didn’t actually want to be on my own, yet I didn’t move to join them. Looking around at the other occupied tables, I observed that I was the only person sitting alone and I began to feel out of place. Shortly afterwards, I waved goodbye to the South Korean girls and left to continue the climb.

      Along the route, although I wanted to connect with people, I remained cautious about engaging in conversation. As the day wore on, I realised that the Camino was going to be challenging for me in ways I had hoped not to experience. While most pilgrims observed the practice of wishing each other ‘Buen Camino’ (enjoy it) my greeting was quietly spoken, if at all. Later I had lunch at a rest point which doubled as a Camino census station; actually it might have been more a census station that doubled as a rest point. This consisted of a mobile unit, where a man recorded on a white board the number and nationality of passing pilgrims. Looking closely, I saw that three Irish people had passed before me that day and I fantasised about catching up with them, as I imagined I would feel less alone if I met someone from home.

      Although the views across the Pyrénées were at times spectacular, I was more focused on the destination than the journey. I was worried about securing a bed in Roncesvalles, and my anxiety meant that I didn’t take as much rest as I needed. So by the time I arrived I was frustrated by the physical and emotional struggle, and ready to collapse with exhaustion.

      At about 4 p.m. I stepped through the albergue doors and into a large, modern facility with a busy reception desk. While I searched for my Camino passport and money, I chatted briefly and distractedly to a French girl I had met in St Jean. At that moment only three things in life mattered. My first priority was to secure a bed for the night. Next on my agenda was my desire to peel off the clothes that were stuck to my body and feel the comfort of a warm shower. Then I wanted to curl up for a nap. All other matters faded into the background.

      In Roncesvalles men and women had separate shower facilities, and one became available straight away. Once inside the cubicle, I saw a small shelf for toiletries and a hook for items of clothing. These were then protected from water spray by the shower curtain. When I was ready, I pressed the knob to release the water and stood back in case it was cold, but the water stopped almost as soon as it started. I pressed again and the same thing happened. In fact the water stopped each time on the count of eleven. Showering on the Camino was a functional experience; there wouldn’t be any luxuriating under a stream of hot water for some time.

      The large dorm was divided into four-person cubicles and mine was located just outside the men’s bathroom. This turned out to be unfortunate. Although I had earplugs, they were totally ineffective at blocking out the noise that escaped from the hand dryer every time the door opened, so sleep was impossible for me. Plus I was sharing a cubicle with three snoring Spanish men and at least one of them had smelly feet.

      Then I considered three possibilities for dinner. I could cook in the lovely kitchen, eat at one of the local hotels serving dinner after Mass, or finish the leftovers in my rucksack. As it turned out cooking wasn’t really an option – the small village didn’t have a local shop, and with nothing to cook, the kitchen remained in pristine condition. I didn’t want to go on my own to a hotel for dinner, and I hadn’t met anyone I wanted to have dinner with either. So I opted for leftovers and went to the dining room to finish my bread, cheese and meat. There, I was joined by the French girl I had met in the foyer earlier, with two young female companions, and I felt envious of her ability to make friends so quickly.

      With chores and dinner out of the way, the most difficult part of the day by far was upon me. With nothing to do, no friend to talk to, no distraction to occupy me, and nowhere to go, the remainder of the day felt endless. It was also when I felt most vulnerable and alone. All I could do was wait, firstly for Mass time to arrive, and then after Mass I waited for sleep.

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged Alone, Buen Camino, Camino Frances, Connection, disconnection, fear, Home, Lonely, Orisson, pilgrim, pilgrimage, Pyrenees, Roncesvalles, Saint Jean Pied de Port, St Jean Pied de Port, vulnerability
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    • Mary Murphy

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