The more things stay the same, the more they change. Although spending every day walking 25km may seem like a consistent structure, every day is like jumping into the unknown. The framework of walking provides a constant stream of new people, places, challenges and experiences.
As I stayed in hotels rather than the communal albergues, and I didn’t read ahead to see where I was going, I played a daily game of “hotel roulette”. It wasn’t until I reached the reception desk that I knew if I would be bunking down at the Ritz, in somebody’s spare room, or at the Bates Motel. As long as it had a bed and a shower (hopefully without a stabbing), I just went with the flow.
A couple of the best hotels were beautiful, converted old monasteries. One was even a Parador, a chain of state-owned luxury hotels introduced in 1928 to promote tourism and make use of unused buildings.
At the other end of the scale was a spare room in a family home where I had a solitary dinner served by the family grandmother. I’d like to report that it was a wonderful meal and that the grandmother deserved a Michelin star, but sadly, the food was more gruel than gourmet. Still, there was plenty of it, and after walking all day, quantity definitely takes precedence over quality.
One night, I was the only guest at a small hotel run by a couple who, I suspected, may have had a falling-out since my reservation was booked, and in the interim had decided to close the hotel. As I checked in, the wife handed me an extensive menu for dinner. While I was deciphering it, she pointed out the only three items that were actually available. Soon afterwards, she reappeared to announce a change of plan as the chef, her husband, had now declared himself too ill to cook anything. Luckily, I found an alternative in town, but I slept rather nervously that night and left first thing.
Some of my favourite hotels were the mid-range ones where the facilities may not have been flash, but the service was personal and cheery; places where I felt at home in the communal areas, and where they actually made an effort with breakfast. I’m writing this article in one of those now, my laptop perched on an enormous stone slab that serves as a table in the garden, while jazz plays softly in the background.
I don’t read up on the day’s route, either, preferring it to unfold in front of me as I make my way through the countryside. This method can have its drawbacks, as I discovered one day when I left early with just a stale cheese sandwich and a bottle of warm orange juice for breakfast. I was planning on an early cafe stop to top up, but once I’d left the village, the dirt path stretched way into the distance across the flat of the Meseta without a handkerchief of shade, let alone bacon, eggs and an espresso machine.
My solitude was the result of having stayed at a hotel slightly off the main Camino so that I was on a parallel path for a few hours before they rejoined. This enforced break from food gave me the chance to rank my selection of protein bars, which I can now report range from “tastes a bit like cardboard” to “actually is cardboard”.
Accommodating oasis
By the time I’d reached the town of Mansilla de las Mulos (the further from civilisation, the more exotic the town names), I was looking like Lawrence of Arabia’s dad after a rough day in the desert. Fortunately, I was a winner at hotel roulette that day, as my lodging place was a delightfully ramshackle oasis. Initially, the woman in charge indicated that the kitchen was closed for lunch, then after a closer look at the pathetic figure standing in front of her, she divined that food was a necessity rather than an option. She ushered me towards a beautiful little courtyard where she sat me down with a beer and a hastily assembled three-course lunch.
This chaotic but charming establishment turned out to be one of my favourite hotels on the whole trip. It wasn’t flash, the ceiling fan in the room barely kept things cool enough to sleep, but the character of the surroundings, the charmingly cluttered communal areas and the accommodating staff made it a highlight.
Member of the pack
It was also at this hotel that I stumbled across what became my Camino “tribe”, a loose collection of pilgrims on roughly the same itinerary with roughly the same mindset; in this case, a welcome ability to laugh at any misfortune. They were from Australia and the US, and we swapped life stories over lubricating supplies of vino tinto. I’d briefly met one of them a week or so earlier, and we had other Camino friends in common, so shared news from the grapevine, including mutterings about a couple of individuals to be wary of. One of these had been drinking before a pilgrim blessing and had upset the others by answering back to the priest. I made a note not to drink before answering back to any priests.
Several cathedrals line the Camino Frances, and by the time I reached the city of León, I confess I was suffering from cathedral fatigue. While I admired the grandeur of the structures, I couldn’t help but feel that a bit of differentiation (other than the live chickens living in a wall in Santo Domingo Cathedral) might help. The builders tried their best to outdo each other with gilt and carving, but eventually it just becomes a little overwhelming. Or maybe that consistency of branding is the point? Something like Barcelona’s spectacular Sagrada Familia would have been a welcome diversion.
Molinaseca, a village not far after León, concealed a wonderful surprise. It had been a sweltering, challenging approach up and over the foothills after leaving the Meseta and I was looking forward to a lazy afternoon. From a distance, I could see the river running through the town, but I’d anticipated that, like most of the other rivers I’d crossed, it would be shallow and fast running. I’ve never been so happy to be wrong.
The River Meruelo had been dammed under a medieval bridge and steps had been installed in the riverbanks to create an outdoor swimming pool. The water was startlingly cold, but that didn’t stop me splashing around like a juvenile seal, rinsing dust from body and mind. “The Camino will provide,” as fatalists on the path are fond of saying.
As random as the Camino may be, there is only one destination, the cathedral at Santiago de Compostela now just 10 days away. It shows how my mindset had changed ‒ to think of somewhere as being “only” a 10-day walk away.
A number of my Camino buddies were struggling with injuries, but so far, my training seemed to be paying off and I was pain free. Surely I would make it now? I stepped out into the unknown.
This is Paul Catmur’s third instalment of his Camino walk.
