September 17, 2015. Markina Xemein
Tomorrow is another day
When I stopped walking in the spring, I didn't finish at the most accessible of towns. I had simply run out of time, and had to stop. Now I had to get back there, to Markina Xemein, by plane to Bilbao from Victoria via Toronto and Frankfurt, and then by a couple of buses to the town. And it took the best part of two days to get here.
As I flew, I wondered how long we would continue to enjoy this convenient but very dirty means of getting from one side of the world to the other. Apparently, air transport contributes 10% of total atmospheric pollution. I once met a woman who was principled enough not to travel by air for that reason. Only one, though. Not so long ago a British prime minister mused about limiting Brits to one overseas flight a year, but his concern for the environment wasn't as strong as his fear of losing the next election, so he backed down. Expediency always wins in the end.
There is a confraternity, or should I say consorority, of Camino walkers, and we recognize one another, even when far from the trail, not from a secret handshake but the more visible symbol of the backpack. On one of the flights as I lined up with fellow zone-four travellers, mine initiated a conversation with a lady who had recently walked the Camino Frances and whose friend was now walking the Primitivo. It happens all the time. The only other person I spoke to was a Trinidadian, who, learning I was Australian, proceeded to give me a ball-by-ball description of every cricket match he had seen during the past 50 years. Actually, I didn't speak much at all; I just made the appropriate response as someone hit a six or bowled a maiden over. Stumps was called only when the typically long Tim Hortons line split into two at the counter.
A word about boots. This time I am wearing a pair of Scarpa Active leather boots. Expensive, and perhaps a little heavy (1.71 kg), but very comfortable. I am sticking with leather boots, especially after my blistered experience with a pair of lighter-weight Keens a few years back. I wore out my recent pair of Zambs in the spring, the sole having given way completely. I had worn them from Paris to Saint-Jean, and then Montpellier into Spain, but even so, this was nothing compared to the pair I had bought in 1990, which lasted at least 15 years and quite literally thousands of miles. Strangely, it was just as I was entering the medieval town of Conques that they finally conqued out.
Now here is another example of why MEC is such a great store. I took the Zambs back, saying that they had lasted nowhere nearly as long as my first pair. "Well", said MEC, "our policy is to give you your money back if you are not satisfied." Ah, very good, I thought. "But," she went on, "in fact, your boots lasted as long as they were supposed to." She told me that nowadays boots were made to be comfortable rather than durable, and that was why my new Zambs hadn't lasted as long as the old ones.
For the first time in my life I declined to accept a refund. That may seem rather noble of me, but I reflected that on one occasion in my original Zambs I had suffered a nasty case of shin splints, but not so in my recent pair, and were I given a choice between comfortable and durable footwear I would choose the former. Besides, MEC has always been extremely fair to me in the matter of refunds. So my Zambs will end their days as a geranium planter at the cabin..
Back in Victoria, I have two other pairs of extant leather boots. Asolos, which like liberal shepherds, I sometimes give a grosser name, since I wore out the soles on one walk, and Meindls, which I'll never wear out as they were made many years ago when men were men and soles were soles.
There seem to be more people in the hostel than in the spring, most of them young and female and Spanish. I haven't met any French, and I haven't met any compatible deaf old buggers with whom I can carry on a diverting conversation. But there's always tomorrow. For supper I ate the pilgrim's menu: thin soup, thinner steak, and frost-bitten ice cream.
When I stopped walking in the spring, I didn't finish at the most accessible of towns. I had simply run out of time, and had to stop. Now I had to get back there, to Markina Xemein, by plane to Bilbao from Victoria via Toronto and Frankfurt, and then by a couple of buses to the town. And it took the best part of two days to get here.
As I flew, I wondered how long we would continue to enjoy this convenient but very dirty means of getting from one side of the world to the other. Apparently, air transport contributes 10% of total atmospheric pollution. I once met a woman who was principled enough not to travel by air for that reason. Only one, though. Not so long ago a British prime minister mused about limiting Brits to one overseas flight a year, but his concern for the environment wasn't as strong as his fear of losing the next election, so he backed down. Expediency always wins in the end.
There is a confraternity, or should I say consorority, of Camino walkers, and we recognize one another, even when far from the trail, not from a secret handshake but the more visible symbol of the backpack. On one of the flights as I lined up with fellow zone-four travellers, mine initiated a conversation with a lady who had recently walked the Camino Frances and whose friend was now walking the Primitivo. It happens all the time. The only other person I spoke to was a Trinidadian, who, learning I was Australian, proceeded to give me a ball-by-ball description of every cricket match he had seen during the past 50 years. Actually, I didn't speak much at all; I just made the appropriate response as someone hit a six or bowled a maiden over. Stumps was called only when the typically long Tim Hortons line split into two at the counter.
A word about boots. This time I am wearing a pair of Scarpa Active leather boots. Expensive, and perhaps a little heavy (1.71 kg), but very comfortable. I am sticking with leather boots, especially after my blistered experience with a pair of lighter-weight Keens a few years back. I wore out my recent pair of Zambs in the spring, the sole having given way completely. I had worn them from Paris to Saint-Jean, and then Montpellier into Spain, but even so, this was nothing compared to the pair I had bought in 1990, which lasted at least 15 years and quite literally thousands of miles. Strangely, it was just as I was entering the medieval town of Conques that they finally conqued out.
Now here is another example of why MEC is such a great store. I took the Zambs back, saying that they had lasted nowhere nearly as long as my first pair. "Well", said MEC, "our policy is to give you your money back if you are not satisfied." Ah, very good, I thought. "But," she went on, "in fact, your boots lasted as long as they were supposed to." She told me that nowadays boots were made to be comfortable rather than durable, and that was why my new Zambs hadn't lasted as long as the old ones.
For the first time in my life I declined to accept a refund. That may seem rather noble of me, but I reflected that on one occasion in my original Zambs I had suffered a nasty case of shin splints, but not so in my recent pair, and were I given a choice between comfortable and durable footwear I would choose the former. Besides, MEC has always been extremely fair to me in the matter of refunds. So my Zambs will end their days as a geranium planter at the cabin..
Back in Victoria, I have two other pairs of extant leather boots. Asolos, which like liberal shepherds, I sometimes give a grosser name, since I wore out the soles on one walk, and Meindls, which I'll never wear out as they were made many years ago when men were men and soles were soles.
There seem to be more people in the hostel than in the spring, most of them young and female and Spanish. I haven't met any French, and I haven't met any compatible deaf old buggers with whom I can carry on a diverting conversation. But there's always tomorrow. For supper I ate the pilgrim's menu: thin soup, thinner steak, and frost-bitten ice cream.
Day 5. September 18. 2015. Martina Xeneim to Gernika
The oak tree at Gernika
But look, the morn in russet mantle clad
Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastward hill
On this very pleasant day, I witnessed some curious phenomena and encountered some interesting people. It was rather gloomy as I left the alberge, but soon the sun tinged the distant clouds, and a little later I was walking in full sunlight.
After leaving town, I followed a gentle path along a brook for about five kilometres, and then took a soggy track up into the hills towards the ubiquitous wind turbines. After the recent rains it was slippery, even slooshy, as a Lancashire friend used to say, and I splashed confidently through the puddles in my leather boots while another pilgrim tried to negotiate the mud in his light hiking shoes. Up to the top, and then down a slippery gully, worn bare by torrents of water and many boots, into the valley where I reached the next village, and I continued on into Gernika along lanes lined with apple trees and walnuts and the occasional fig, all bearing fruit which I sampled from time to time.
As I turned a corner, I came upon what seemed to be a field of brambles with huge vines leaping over one other in an effort to conquer more ground. What a shame, I thought, for the farmer to have given up good land so easily. Then I noticed the kiwi fruit. So that was how they grew. I had never seen them before.
And then I came upon the largest zucchini I have ever seen, which dwarfed my size ten Scarpa leather boot.
I scarpered on and came to a field of corn, the individual plants earning their keep as bean poles. Was the maize for the cattle and the beans for the humans? Or vice versa? How was it harvested? Upon reflection, I decided it was all cattle fodder. What a meal! Beans and corn. Happy cows indeed! And much gas.
Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastward hill
On this very pleasant day, I witnessed some curious phenomena and encountered some interesting people. It was rather gloomy as I left the alberge, but soon the sun tinged the distant clouds, and a little later I was walking in full sunlight.
After leaving town, I followed a gentle path along a brook for about five kilometres, and then took a soggy track up into the hills towards the ubiquitous wind turbines. After the recent rains it was slippery, even slooshy, as a Lancashire friend used to say, and I splashed confidently through the puddles in my leather boots while another pilgrim tried to negotiate the mud in his light hiking shoes. Up to the top, and then down a slippery gully, worn bare by torrents of water and many boots, into the valley where I reached the next village, and I continued on into Gernika along lanes lined with apple trees and walnuts and the occasional fig, all bearing fruit which I sampled from time to time.
As I turned a corner, I came upon what seemed to be a field of brambles with huge vines leaping over one other in an effort to conquer more ground. What a shame, I thought, for the farmer to have given up good land so easily. Then I noticed the kiwi fruit. So that was how they grew. I had never seen them before.
And then I came upon the largest zucchini I have ever seen, which dwarfed my size ten Scarpa leather boot.
I scarpered on and came to a field of corn, the individual plants earning their keep as bean poles. Was the maize for the cattle and the beans for the humans? Or vice versa? How was it harvested? Upon reflection, I decided it was all cattle fodder. What a meal! Beans and corn. Happy cows indeed! And much gas.
And then I admired a very effective way of stacking wood.
I met some interesting people along the way: among them an Irish banker and his French partner who had just quit her job in finance and was walking the Camino while she thought about a more satisfying career; a Quebecker who played "Amazing Grace" and O Susanna" on his mouth organ at the pub, as part of a fund-raising venture which brought in contributions for every tune he played on the Camino; and a young New Zealander, who had left the main stream with the perfect excuse, a collapsed bridge which had cut off his access to school after the earthquake in Christ Church, and was now living a hippy and happy life along the Camino and around the world.
I arrived at Gernika at the same time as as a former soldier of the Spanish Royal Guard and a retired postman who lived only a couple of blocks away from me in my home town, and finding the hostel full we decided to look around for a room together, whereupon the Spaniard, who had volunteered as a hospitalier in Markina and made many contacts, negotiated free rooms for us at a pension, provided we ate at the associated restaurant.
I visited the legislative building next to the famous oak tree around which the Basque people had assembled for a thousand years or more. Miraculously it had survived the bombardment, but was now in its third incarnation, each derived from a slip of its predecessor. Vaguely familiar with the story of Gernika, I continued on to the museum to find out more. Franco had always denied that his government had collaborated in the bombing, claiming that the Communists had burned the town. This had been definitively refuted by foreign journalists at the time, but according to the museum, the Germans only admitted their role in the bombing in the bombing in 1989, and the Spanish military denies their part to this day. Now the town is modern, spacious and alive, in sharp contrast to the death and destruction shown in the photos taken after the bombardment.
I met some interesting people along the way: among them an Irish banker and his French partner who had just quit her job in finance and was walking the Camino while she thought about a more satisfying career; a Quebecker who played "Amazing Grace" and O Susanna" on his mouth organ at the pub, as part of a fund-raising venture which brought in contributions for every tune he played on the Camino; and a young New Zealander, who had left the main stream with the perfect excuse, a collapsed bridge which had cut off his access to school after the earthquake in Christ Church, and was now living a hippy and happy life along the Camino and around the world.
I arrived at Gernika at the same time as as a former soldier of the Spanish Royal Guard and a retired postman who lived only a couple of blocks away from me in my home town, and finding the hostel full we decided to look around for a room together, whereupon the Spaniard, who had volunteered as a hospitalier in Markina and made many contacts, negotiated free rooms for us at a pension, provided we ate at the associated restaurant.
I visited the legislative building next to the famous oak tree around which the Basque people had assembled for a thousand years or more. Miraculously it had survived the bombardment, but was now in its third incarnation, each derived from a slip of its predecessor. Vaguely familiar with the story of Gernika, I continued on to the museum to find out more. Franco had always denied that his government had collaborated in the bombing, claiming that the Communists had burned the town. This had been definitively refuted by foreign journalists at the time, but according to the museum, the Germans only admitted their role in the bombing in the bombing in 1989, and the Spanish military denies their part to this day. Now the town is modern, spacious and alive, in sharp contrast to the death and destruction shown in the photos taken after the bombardment.
Day 6. September 18, 2015. Gernika to Lezama. 20 kms
I'm walking backwards to Christmas
Across the Irish Sea
I had planned to meet my Canadian and Spanish friends for breakfast, but they were sound asleep when I tapped on their door at seven o'clock. So I followed a Spanish party out of town, who darted this way and that, trying to find the Camino. This is often a difficult task as the municipalities do not always like their inner streets adorned with yellow arrows.
Eventually, the way took off into the forest and up the hill, a tortuous and torturous stony path, straight up, onwards and upwards. But it was an honest climb, with no false summits promising relief and offering but a short deceptive descent before the next climb. No, it was straight up, the way I like my scotch, until we reached the plateau. And then a couple of rusty, misshapen steel gates, a farm track across a field, where the sun was already dispersing the mist (above), a bit of bitumen, and a further climb up into logging country, where a couple of times I had to stand off to one side as large trucks, laden with logs and a large crane for loading them onto the back, waddled from side to side as they made their way across the uneven ground.
Then it was downhill, again with fruit trees growing almost wild along the road. The ditch was full of rotten apples, and I thought of the Peter Sellers character, the aristocrat whose noblesse obliged him to give his rotten apples to the poor. I thought of him yesterday, as well, when I met the Irishman. "Paddy, you played a bum note." I have always admired Peter Sellers, ever since listening to the Goon Show every Sunday night on the ABC many years ago.
I pushed myself today, hoping, successfully, to find a place at an alberge with only 20 beds, two-thirds along the way to Bilbao. Otherwise it would have been a 35-kilometre hike, difficult after the long climb, well over a thousand feet.
A loyal reader has asked me about the differences I have noticed between walking in France and walking in Spain. It is early days yet, but food and drink are certainly cheaper here. Beer and coffee is perhaps half the price, and even if you are by yourself, and you have a red with your meal, the bottle is left on the table. Mind you, it is often Pamplona plonk, although last night, because of the presence of our royal guard-cum-hospitalero, we drank a very good bottle of wine. And I well remember, on my last walk in Spain along the Camino Frances in 2003, when I ordered a scotch, the barman would pour it as if it were a glass of wine, talking to his companion as the bottle gurgled and my eyes gaped. I hope that practice hasn't changed. And as a final example, for lunch today I paid 5€ for a salad mixte, a large beer, and an espresso.
The dogs are certainly more friendly in Spain. As a general rule, they don't bark at the strangers who walk by. In France the reverse is true. I think it's because they feel they have to live up to the sign that confronts every visitor: Chien Mechant. And there are other differences too, for another post.
Across the Irish Sea
I had planned to meet my Canadian and Spanish friends for breakfast, but they were sound asleep when I tapped on their door at seven o'clock. So I followed a Spanish party out of town, who darted this way and that, trying to find the Camino. This is often a difficult task as the municipalities do not always like their inner streets adorned with yellow arrows.
Eventually, the way took off into the forest and up the hill, a tortuous and torturous stony path, straight up, onwards and upwards. But it was an honest climb, with no false summits promising relief and offering but a short deceptive descent before the next climb. No, it was straight up, the way I like my scotch, until we reached the plateau. And then a couple of rusty, misshapen steel gates, a farm track across a field, where the sun was already dispersing the mist (above), a bit of bitumen, and a further climb up into logging country, where a couple of times I had to stand off to one side as large trucks, laden with logs and a large crane for loading them onto the back, waddled from side to side as they made their way across the uneven ground.
Then it was downhill, again with fruit trees growing almost wild along the road. The ditch was full of rotten apples, and I thought of the Peter Sellers character, the aristocrat whose noblesse obliged him to give his rotten apples to the poor. I thought of him yesterday, as well, when I met the Irishman. "Paddy, you played a bum note." I have always admired Peter Sellers, ever since listening to the Goon Show every Sunday night on the ABC many years ago.
I pushed myself today, hoping, successfully, to find a place at an alberge with only 20 beds, two-thirds along the way to Bilbao. Otherwise it would have been a 35-kilometre hike, difficult after the long climb, well over a thousand feet.
A loyal reader has asked me about the differences I have noticed between walking in France and walking in Spain. It is early days yet, but food and drink are certainly cheaper here. Beer and coffee is perhaps half the price, and even if you are by yourself, and you have a red with your meal, the bottle is left on the table. Mind you, it is often Pamplona plonk, although last night, because of the presence of our royal guard-cum-hospitalero, we drank a very good bottle of wine. And I well remember, on my last walk in Spain along the Camino Frances in 2003, when I ordered a scotch, the barman would pour it as if it were a glass of wine, talking to his companion as the bottle gurgled and my eyes gaped. I hope that practice hasn't changed. And as a final example, for lunch today I paid 5€ for a salad mixte, a large beer, and an espresso.
The dogs are certainly more friendly in Spain. As a general rule, they don't bark at the strangers who walk by. In France the reverse is true. I think it's because they feel they have to live up to the sign that confronts every visitor: Chien Mechant. And there are other differences too, for another post.
Day 7. September 20, 2015. Lezama to Bilbao. 17 kms
All's well that ends welI
I had bacon and egg, orange juice, and a large coffee this morning, all for 3€. I have now had breakfast, dinner and tea, so to speak, at this restaurant, and the proprietor seems to really care about his pilgrim clients, so I recommend it. On Egin, on the right of the highway, just as you arrive at Lezama.
After walking about five or six kilometres along the highway, I took off across the fields towards the hills. According to the sign, it was only five kilometres to Bilbao. (As it happens, it was, but to the outskirts, not the centre.) Then it was a long climb up a hill, through the woods, down the other side to the outskirts of the city.
I haven't waxed effusely about animals for a while, the donkeys heehawing in the field, the contented cows chewing their cuds, the pigs wallowing in the muck, or the chooks clucking about in the yard, so I will tell you now about the capricious gathering of goats I encountered just after leaving the highway. There they were, a line of them, happily munching at some bales of hay. And one was lying on top of a bale, as goats are wont to do. I noticed that the one tree in their field was stripped bare; goats normally prefer leaves to grass. But what struck me most was their gentle goatherd, who looked at me amicably, curiously, advisedly, not warily. Clearly he was un perro and not un chien. Were he the latter, a sign on the gate would or should have read: Chien Gentil.
I have a great respect for goats as I was once a goatherd myself in a very 20th century way. But if you want an animal to mow your lawn, get a sheep, not a goat. Otherwise you'll have long grass and short trees. Very short trees!
This is now a very short post. It was once a very long one, but I have just deliberately deleted half of it. There is nothing so boring as someone else's tale of woe, and why should I present myself as the fool in my own narrative?
Suffice it to say, I walked five unnecessary kilometres, climbed up 396 unnecessary steps, and disturbed a tavern full of Spaniards watching a football game. And my guide book now has good reason to sing the third line of "Amazing Grace". And I have resolved to be more careful and to learn some Spanish.
After walking about five or six kilometres along the highway, I took off across the fields towards the hills. According to the sign, it was only five kilometres to Bilbao. (As it happens, it was, but to the outskirts, not the centre.) Then it was a long climb up a hill, through the woods, down the other side to the outskirts of the city.
I haven't waxed effusely about animals for a while, the donkeys heehawing in the field, the contented cows chewing their cuds, the pigs wallowing in the muck, or the chooks clucking about in the yard, so I will tell you now about the capricious gathering of goats I encountered just after leaving the highway. There they were, a line of them, happily munching at some bales of hay. And one was lying on top of a bale, as goats are wont to do. I noticed that the one tree in their field was stripped bare; goats normally prefer leaves to grass. But what struck me most was their gentle goatherd, who looked at me amicably, curiously, advisedly, not warily. Clearly he was un perro and not un chien. Were he the latter, a sign on the gate would or should have read: Chien Gentil.
I have a great respect for goats as I was once a goatherd myself in a very 20th century way. But if you want an animal to mow your lawn, get a sheep, not a goat. Otherwise you'll have long grass and short trees. Very short trees!
This is now a very short post. It was once a very long one, but I have just deliberately deleted half of it. There is nothing so boring as someone else's tale of woe, and why should I present myself as the fool in my own narrative?
Suffice it to say, I walked five unnecessary kilometres, climbed up 396 unnecessary steps, and disturbed a tavern full of Spaniards watching a football game. And my guide book now has good reason to sing the third line of "Amazing Grace". And I have resolved to be more careful and to learn some Spanish.
