Day 8. September 21, 2015. Bilbao to Pobena. 27 kms
Adam wore a fig leaf,
But I'd as lief, sink my teeth, into the fruit beneath.
Verily, warily, I open it wide,
For there inside may worms abide.
Don't stay at this Alberge de Peregrinos if want to enjoy a few beers in the evening. The Alberge is two kilometres from and 300 feet above the nearest bar, and the toilets are a hundred yards away from the dorm.
Now this could happen anywhere, of course, but during the night I was awoken by probably the loudest snoring I have ever heard: a cross between the roar of the MGM lion, only ten times as loud, and the sound of bath water going down the plughole, or down the gurgler as Australians would say. It was probably a Spaniard, but it may have been the German, for at times it sounded like a Panza tank. When I took the long hike to the washroom, I could still hear him a hundred yards away.
The walk was fairly easy today, but seemed longer than it was supposed to be. I spent most of the morning walking along the west bank of the Rio Nervion to Portugalete. No hills for a change! And then it was west along footpaths and bicycle trails to the sea.
Fig trees grow wild along the roads. The figs aren't quite ripe yet, or more likely the ripe ones have already been picked. I always examine them very carefully, a habit from childhood, for the figs in our back yard had often been attacked by fruitflies.
At Portugalete, I ran into a young Spanish couple who had spent the night at the Alberge. They had been talking about the snoring and wanted to know how to spell the word in English. They said they were interested in etymology and informed me that the word "mosquito" was of Spanish origin and meant "little fly".
Every so often, I receive a comment. This time I'm going to publish it in full, because it arrived at a very appropriate time. It comes from my old mate George, who hails from the land of the kangaroo and the recent prime minister who described his country as the suppository of good fortune. Here it is:
You speak of boots with reverence with no mention of their partner, the humble sox. Thick sox are necessary for old walkers with depleted padding on the ball of their foot. Sadly, thick sox dry too slowly for the transient pilgrim and so the answer is to wear three pair of thin sox. Rotate the sox, washing the inner sox each day for comfort and convenience.
Every peregrino has a routine to pass onto the ignorant and inexperienced. What is your number one recommendation for travellers.
Are you walking to or away from some reality that you are not sharing with us?
The last question is a little close to the bone. Only yesterday at breakfast we were talking about someone who had walked 16 caminos. Someone asked rhetorically, how many caminos does a person have to do? Perhaps I will come back to that one.
That reminds me of another Australian prime minister ( I forget whom), who years ago, was interviewed by Time Magazine. He had asked for the questions in advance so he could prepare his answers, but at the end of the interview he was thrown a zinger: "What do you see as Australia's future?" He replied, "Aw, can I get back to you on that one."
As for the socks, you might like to follow George's suggestion. Everybody has their own preference. I wear Tilleys or Darn Toughs because they have a guarantee against wearing out. I wear them out and get a replacement. Free socks for the rest of my life!
I'll tell you what happens when I take them back. I think it would make a good discussion in an ethics class on the topic "Moral Culpability and the Malleable Conscience". With me, it's the heels that go; I return the socks when the heels are quite threadbare. One employee says that the company won't accept them unless there's a hole in them, and then produces a pair of scissors, spikes the socks, and gives me a new pair. Another employee says that the company won't accept them unless there's a hole in them, and then produces a pair of scissors, gives them to me, and turns his back. I say, perhaps I'll wear them a little longer. Both the employees ask me, did I wash my socks? Apparently, they have to live with the basket of worn-outs until they send them back at the end of the year.
I appreciate George's comment about the ball of his foot. I was having severe pain in my foot a couple of days ago as I walked on the rough track in the forest. I was thinking that I might have to take my boots back to MEC because they didn't fit, but I losened them off and that solved the problem. I remembered one of my own tips: it is far better to buy boots that are too large rather than too small. Feet swell.
As for the tips, I published a list on 29 June, 2012, if you want to look for it in the archives of this blog.
Some bear repetition. Only this morning I was caught yet again in a toilet with a timed switch and when it timed out, I had to feel my way around in the dark to find it. Usually, the timer in the switch is set to leave the light on for about a minute, and I don't know about you, but that's not long enough for me.
If only a chap
Could have a crap,
While sitting in the light.
I need some time
To spend a dime,
Before the fall of night.
But I'd as lief, sink my teeth, into the fruit beneath.
Verily, warily, I open it wide,
For there inside may worms abide.
Don't stay at this Alberge de Peregrinos if want to enjoy a few beers in the evening. The Alberge is two kilometres from and 300 feet above the nearest bar, and the toilets are a hundred yards away from the dorm.
Now this could happen anywhere, of course, but during the night I was awoken by probably the loudest snoring I have ever heard: a cross between the roar of the MGM lion, only ten times as loud, and the sound of bath water going down the plughole, or down the gurgler as Australians would say. It was probably a Spaniard, but it may have been the German, for at times it sounded like a Panza tank. When I took the long hike to the washroom, I could still hear him a hundred yards away.
The walk was fairly easy today, but seemed longer than it was supposed to be. I spent most of the morning walking along the west bank of the Rio Nervion to Portugalete. No hills for a change! And then it was west along footpaths and bicycle trails to the sea.
Fig trees grow wild along the roads. The figs aren't quite ripe yet, or more likely the ripe ones have already been picked. I always examine them very carefully, a habit from childhood, for the figs in our back yard had often been attacked by fruitflies.
At Portugalete, I ran into a young Spanish couple who had spent the night at the Alberge. They had been talking about the snoring and wanted to know how to spell the word in English. They said they were interested in etymology and informed me that the word "mosquito" was of Spanish origin and meant "little fly".
Every so often, I receive a comment. This time I'm going to publish it in full, because it arrived at a very appropriate time. It comes from my old mate George, who hails from the land of the kangaroo and the recent prime minister who described his country as the suppository of good fortune. Here it is:
You speak of boots with reverence with no mention of their partner, the humble sox. Thick sox are necessary for old walkers with depleted padding on the ball of their foot. Sadly, thick sox dry too slowly for the transient pilgrim and so the answer is to wear three pair of thin sox. Rotate the sox, washing the inner sox each day for comfort and convenience.
Every peregrino has a routine to pass onto the ignorant and inexperienced. What is your number one recommendation for travellers.
Are you walking to or away from some reality that you are not sharing with us?
The last question is a little close to the bone. Only yesterday at breakfast we were talking about someone who had walked 16 caminos. Someone asked rhetorically, how many caminos does a person have to do? Perhaps I will come back to that one.
That reminds me of another Australian prime minister ( I forget whom), who years ago, was interviewed by Time Magazine. He had asked for the questions in advance so he could prepare his answers, but at the end of the interview he was thrown a zinger: "What do you see as Australia's future?" He replied, "Aw, can I get back to you on that one."
As for the socks, you might like to follow George's suggestion. Everybody has their own preference. I wear Tilleys or Darn Toughs because they have a guarantee against wearing out. I wear them out and get a replacement. Free socks for the rest of my life!
I'll tell you what happens when I take them back. I think it would make a good discussion in an ethics class on the topic "Moral Culpability and the Malleable Conscience". With me, it's the heels that go; I return the socks when the heels are quite threadbare. One employee says that the company won't accept them unless there's a hole in them, and then produces a pair of scissors, spikes the socks, and gives me a new pair. Another employee says that the company won't accept them unless there's a hole in them, and then produces a pair of scissors, gives them to me, and turns his back. I say, perhaps I'll wear them a little longer. Both the employees ask me, did I wash my socks? Apparently, they have to live with the basket of worn-outs until they send them back at the end of the year.
I appreciate George's comment about the ball of his foot. I was having severe pain in my foot a couple of days ago as I walked on the rough track in the forest. I was thinking that I might have to take my boots back to MEC because they didn't fit, but I losened them off and that solved the problem. I remembered one of my own tips: it is far better to buy boots that are too large rather than too small. Feet swell.
As for the tips, I published a list on 29 June, 2012, if you want to look for it in the archives of this blog.
Some bear repetition. Only this morning I was caught yet again in a toilet with a timed switch and when it timed out, I had to feel my way around in the dark to find it. Usually, the timer in the switch is set to leave the light on for about a minute, and I don't know about you, but that's not long enough for me.
If only a chap
Could have a crap,
While sitting in the light.
I need some time
To spend a dime,
Before the fall of night.
So when you go into the cubicle, make sure you know where the switch is, so that you can turn the light back on if it goes out.
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The beach at Pobena
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I am writing this in the dorm at the alberge at Pobena. It is completo. All the beds are taken,12 double bunks, cheek by jowl, and the pilgrim overflow, another dozen or so, sleep on mattresses in the dining room. This is not what I expected on this Camino. These are the numbers typical of the Camino Frances, but from one account, the crowds there are "horrendous". As someone said, it's all because of the film.
Day 9. September 22, 2015. Pobena to Castra Urbiano. 24 kms
Break, break, break,
On thy cold grey stones, O sea,
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
I spent a reasonably good night at the alberge, despite the close quarters. A fairly late arrival, I was relegated to a top bunk, but fortunately I only once had to make the dangerous descent during the night. And I was next to the window, so I controlled the airflow.
I left the hostel and popped into a bar for breakfast. I have to say that I think the Spanish breakfast is superior to the French. Not the croissants, I find them heavy and sticky. But I love the tortillas. And I think the coffee is better as well. For my grand cafe, I've learned to ask for a cafe solo doble, a Spanish oxymoron.
I climbed a long flight of steps, and as I neared the top I could hear the roar of the surf. And there it was. The bay was in front of me. A lone figure was strolling on the beach, and the waves were rolling in. A few ships were in the offing, waiting to enter the port at Bilbao. For five kilometres I continued along this magnificent coastal path, gorse to the left of me, green, brown, with the occasional yellow flower remaining, but on my right, the rolling grey sea with white foam where the waves were crashing on the rocks, and the seagulls crying overhead. And from inland, the plaintive call of the dove.
Ahead of me on the trail were some cows on pilgrimage. I looked carefully before I passed them. I have had some unsettling experiences with bulls.
On thy cold grey stones, O sea,
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
I spent a reasonably good night at the alberge, despite the close quarters. A fairly late arrival, I was relegated to a top bunk, but fortunately I only once had to make the dangerous descent during the night. And I was next to the window, so I controlled the airflow.
I left the hostel and popped into a bar for breakfast. I have to say that I think the Spanish breakfast is superior to the French. Not the croissants, I find them heavy and sticky. But I love the tortillas. And I think the coffee is better as well. For my grand cafe, I've learned to ask for a cafe solo doble, a Spanish oxymoron.
I climbed a long flight of steps, and as I neared the top I could hear the roar of the surf. And there it was. The bay was in front of me. A lone figure was strolling on the beach, and the waves were rolling in. A few ships were in the offing, waiting to enter the port at Bilbao. For five kilometres I continued along this magnificent coastal path, gorse to the left of me, green, brown, with the occasional yellow flower remaining, but on my right, the rolling grey sea with white foam where the waves were crashing on the rocks, and the seagulls crying overhead. And from inland, the plaintive call of the dove.
Ahead of me on the trail were some cows on pilgrimage. I looked carefully before I passed them. I have had some unsettling experiences with bulls.
Then it was a long sweep inland, although I found out later that I could have taken a short cut along the coast and saved five kilometres. But after a long climb, it was downhill and pleasant hiking along a disused railway line. And then into Castro-Urdiales which is reminiscent of San Sebastián with its long promenade, sweeping beaches, and posh hotels.
The bay is dominated by the medieval castle and the Gothic church of Santa Maria de la Ansunciation.
.Also, as in San Sebastion, the alberge is on the far side of town. Once again it is full to the gills, and I am in a top bunk. And it's raining.
Day 10. September 23, 2015. Castra Urdiales to Laredo. 27 kms
O humble snail, thy home upon thy back,
Why wendest thou thy way across this track,
When cometh from afar the fearful sound
Of pilgrim's feet upon this sluggish ground?
I do but fear thy destiny and his,
Will meet in one horrendous squiz.
And he'll walk on, oblivious to thy fate,
While thou remainest, slimy on the slate.
I was moved to read that some Americans were planning to wear an extra shell in memory of Denise Thiem, a pilgrim who was murdered on the Camino Frances in the spring. I suspect that this will become a much wider movement.
My face clouded over as I poked it out the door of the alberge. It was raining. No longer was I of sunny disposition. Wrestling with my poncho, I stormed out in a foul mood.
Even so, it was good to leave the alberge: just too many people crammed into one room. There was nowhere to put your gear, and always the risk of something vital from from your pack getting mixed up with someone else's. As I left, I noticed a cockroach crawling defiantly across the kitchen floor.
I walked up the hill, and then down to Andelagua, where I was hoping a bar night have been open for breakfast, but it wasn't. Then it was down minor roads to the coast, and along a path where the view should have been spectacular, but the sea and the mist were one. The rain fell steadily as I walked, soaking my Tilley hat, running down my legs into my boots, and whipping under my poncho.
I always dither over whether to bring a rain jacket and rain pants or a poncho. It doesn't matter that much; you are going to get wet anyway, either from rain without or sweat within. At least with a poncho you don't get cold and clammy, just wet. But it's a bit difficult to don; it takes a strong upward swing to fling it over your backpack. And then you look like the hunchback of Notre Dame.
The coastal path ended at Islares, and there I found a cafe. After that, it was either a long hike up the mountain in the rain, or a short cut along the road. Guess which one I took. Even so it was still a long climb as the road wound its way around the hill. I walked with Susanne, a Quebecoise from Montreal. Our political views were remarkably similar, and we discussed the differences between great statesmen (Pierre Trudeau and Rene Levesque) and expedient politicians (Steven Harper and Tom Mulcair). We agreed with Jean Chrétien that Harper had done more harm to the country than any other prime minister.
I was planning to finish early on this miserable day, but when we arrived at Liende three hours before the opening of the alberge, I was too wet and cold to sit around and wait, so I kept on walking.
As I walked in to the streets of Laredo, there were no cowboys. No white linen either, not on my bed anyway, for once again I will spend the night in my sleeping bag, at an alberge, this time run by nuns.
I do feel sorry for dogs with no redeeming feature. One just walked into the bar where I am writing this. He is a yap dog, a kind of cross between a Pom and a Peke, and he may have some cat in him. He has a skirt and a beard, I kid you not, a real bushy growth out of his neck, and a upward protruding lower tooth. He would have won a Dog's Ugliness Contest. He yapped all the time his master sat at the bar, and everyone was thinking, Get that bloody dog out of here.
Why wendest thou thy way across this track,
When cometh from afar the fearful sound
Of pilgrim's feet upon this sluggish ground?
I do but fear thy destiny and his,
Will meet in one horrendous squiz.
And he'll walk on, oblivious to thy fate,
While thou remainest, slimy on the slate.
I was moved to read that some Americans were planning to wear an extra shell in memory of Denise Thiem, a pilgrim who was murdered on the Camino Frances in the spring. I suspect that this will become a much wider movement.
My face clouded over as I poked it out the door of the alberge. It was raining. No longer was I of sunny disposition. Wrestling with my poncho, I stormed out in a foul mood.
Even so, it was good to leave the alberge: just too many people crammed into one room. There was nowhere to put your gear, and always the risk of something vital from from your pack getting mixed up with someone else's. As I left, I noticed a cockroach crawling defiantly across the kitchen floor.
I walked up the hill, and then down to Andelagua, where I was hoping a bar night have been open for breakfast, but it wasn't. Then it was down minor roads to the coast, and along a path where the view should have been spectacular, but the sea and the mist were one. The rain fell steadily as I walked, soaking my Tilley hat, running down my legs into my boots, and whipping under my poncho.
I always dither over whether to bring a rain jacket and rain pants or a poncho. It doesn't matter that much; you are going to get wet anyway, either from rain without or sweat within. At least with a poncho you don't get cold and clammy, just wet. But it's a bit difficult to don; it takes a strong upward swing to fling it over your backpack. And then you look like the hunchback of Notre Dame.
The coastal path ended at Islares, and there I found a cafe. After that, it was either a long hike up the mountain in the rain, or a short cut along the road. Guess which one I took. Even so it was still a long climb as the road wound its way around the hill. I walked with Susanne, a Quebecoise from Montreal. Our political views were remarkably similar, and we discussed the differences between great statesmen (Pierre Trudeau and Rene Levesque) and expedient politicians (Steven Harper and Tom Mulcair). We agreed with Jean Chrétien that Harper had done more harm to the country than any other prime minister.
I was planning to finish early on this miserable day, but when we arrived at Liende three hours before the opening of the alberge, I was too wet and cold to sit around and wait, so I kept on walking.
As I walked in to the streets of Laredo, there were no cowboys. No white linen either, not on my bed anyway, for once again I will spend the night in my sleeping bag, at an alberge, this time run by nuns.
I do feel sorry for dogs with no redeeming feature. One just walked into the bar where I am writing this. He is a yap dog, a kind of cross between a Pom and a Peke, and he may have some cat in him. He has a skirt and a beard, I kid you not, a real bushy growth out of his neck, and a upward protruding lower tooth. He would have won a Dog's Ugliness Contest. He yapped all the time his master sat at the bar, and everyone was thinking, Get that bloody dog out of here.
I'm sorry the picture's out of focus, but I had to be quick and discreet. I mean, why would I want to take a photo of this dog? But I like the dogs in Spain. They are all shapes and sizes and colours, of indeterminate ancestry, often with a spot where it shouldn't be, or a limp or a lurch or a lean or a leer. They are the hoi polloi of dogs, and would not fit in on Dallas Road or Wellington Crescent.
Day 11. September 24, 2015. Laredo to Santander
As I walked along the Bois Boolong
With an independent air
It was a charming evening at the Alberge Casa de la Trinada. These were joyous nuns with beaming faces who wanted to share their hospitality with pilgrims and wanted us to share our stories with them. There was a mass, of course, with a pilgrims' blessing; and then a musical interlude where we sang religious songs, led by a nun with guitar, accompanied by another on drums, with a couple of priests bobbing along as well; and in between the songs we introduced ourselves, saying who we were and why we were doing the Camino, and the nuns and priests spoke too, the older man saying little because he knew less was more, but the the younger one feeling that he had to give a little homily; and then we ate, the nuns preparing the first course, while we provided the second, a kind of potluck of bread and cheese and wine. There was an innocence about it all, a return to simpler times.
The next morning, as I strolled along the promenade I found myself singing the air that I quote above, that my old Maths teacher was wont to sing, he who had been called out of retirement to teach us, he who had hit a six out of the WACA, he from whom I had learned that 22 is the square root of 484. My Latin teacher, however, would sing "Come into the Garden, Maud". It is interesting how how we retain these connections with past eras through individual memories like this. I remember students telling me that "antidisestablishmentarianism" was the longest word in the English language. How could that word from the days of home rule for Ireland have survived in Canada had it not been passed down from father to son as a curiosity of the former's childhood? It was anachronistic when I was a student. Aspects of an age ignored or forgotten by historians may survive for several generations through individual memories.
I was a walking washing line, a veritable ambulatory Hill's Hoist of socks and undies and tee shirt. I had had to wash my shorts as well, and normally these would have taken three days to dry, but I draped them over a water heater during the night, so this morning they were damp but wearable. I was "drying on the outside and drying on the inside", so to speak.
With an independent air
It was a charming evening at the Alberge Casa de la Trinada. These were joyous nuns with beaming faces who wanted to share their hospitality with pilgrims and wanted us to share our stories with them. There was a mass, of course, with a pilgrims' blessing; and then a musical interlude where we sang religious songs, led by a nun with guitar, accompanied by another on drums, with a couple of priests bobbing along as well; and in between the songs we introduced ourselves, saying who we were and why we were doing the Camino, and the nuns and priests spoke too, the older man saying little because he knew less was more, but the the younger one feeling that he had to give a little homily; and then we ate, the nuns preparing the first course, while we provided the second, a kind of potluck of bread and cheese and wine. There was an innocence about it all, a return to simpler times.
The next morning, as I strolled along the promenade I found myself singing the air that I quote above, that my old Maths teacher was wont to sing, he who had been called out of retirement to teach us, he who had hit a six out of the WACA, he from whom I had learned that 22 is the square root of 484. My Latin teacher, however, would sing "Come into the Garden, Maud". It is interesting how how we retain these connections with past eras through individual memories like this. I remember students telling me that "antidisestablishmentarianism" was the longest word in the English language. How could that word from the days of home rule for Ireland have survived in Canada had it not been passed down from father to son as a curiosity of the former's childhood? It was anachronistic when I was a student. Aspects of an age ignored or forgotten by historians may survive for several generations through individual memories.
I was a walking washing line, a veritable ambulatory Hill's Hoist of socks and undies and tee shirt. I had had to wash my shorts as well, and normally these would have taken three days to dry, but I draped them over a water heater during the night, so this morning they were damp but wearable. I was "drying on the outside and drying on the inside", so to speak.
My shorts needed washing because I had tried to nip past a girl on the coastal path, but had slipped in the mud and fallen at her feet between two piles of goat crap. Folly cometh before a fall.
Several kilometres further on I arrived at an inlet where a little ferry came to pick me up, pushing its prow into the sand and throwing a little ladder over the bow. After a five-minute crossing, we arrived at Santona. And like a hobbit, I ate a second breakfast.
Several kilometres further on I arrived at an inlet where a little ferry came to pick me up, pushing its prow into the sand and throwing a little ladder over the bow. After a five-minute crossing, we arrived at Santona. And like a hobbit, I ate a second breakfast.
