Writer Paul Catmur has long wanted to walk the Camino de Santiago, the ancient network of pilgrimage routes leading to the cathedral at Santiago de Compostela in Northern Spain. Diagnosed with aggressive prostate cancer in 2022, he decided the time was now. In this, the third instalment, he gets into rhythm but finds it’s not all mountains and wildflowers.
A week or so after the first trauma of crossing the Pyrenees and I’ve settled into a rhythm designed to maximise comfort while reducing the possibility of an early demise. I get up an hour before breakfast, attempt some stretches, then retrieve my gear from where someone had come in the night and thrown it around the room. As I patch my blisters, reminding myself that it’s only pain, I often hear the chatter of pilgrims outside, heading for an early start to beat the sun. I wear thin shorts, a merino T-shirt and toe socks. Although merino is not as strong as cotton and my T- shirts are already showing signs of wear, it is much better at wicking away the sweat, and dries quickly when washed. I don’t trust the theory that merino can be worn for several days without smelling and have declined to test it on my fellow travellers.
I don’t bother with a jacket as even on cool mornings I know I’ll soon be warm, and the chill encourages me to walk quicker. I’ve been incredibly lucky with the weather (touch wood) as, while those who had started a week or two earlier have had several days of rain, so far I’ve walked in a drought.
Blisters thrive on heat and distance, so halfway through the day’s walk I swap my trail runners for hiking sandals. I wear socks with my sandals to help keep plasters in place and as an extra layer of protection on top of the Vaseline I slap on. If you value style over comfort, the Camino might not be for you. I carry hiking sticks in my pack and use one stick when the ground is rough and two going up or down steep hills.
Lunch is often a salad and orange juice to maintain my five-a-day intake as the Spanish can be less than generous with their vegetable servings. My choice leads to contemptuous looks from the local farmers enjoying their brandy and cigarettes. Few cafes have reliable menus outside, and I’m sometimes at the bar before realising I have the awkward choice of cold tortilla (Spanish omelette), a week-old pastry of indeterminate origin or an embarrassing shuffle back to the door.
Once I’ve walked my four to six hours and arrived at my destination, I have a shower, wash that day’s clothes in the sink, and set an alarm for a strict half-hour nap. Then I get up and look around the town before maybe watching some football and heading out to find dinner. The $20-$30 three-course pilgrims’ menus with bread and wine are good value rather than a gourmet’s delight, but I’m always hungry and gulp down whatever is put in front of me. Apparently, the constant hunger means it’s unlikely you’ll lose weight on the Camino, but you will doubtless gain muscle.
There is plenty of time for introspection and a common question for pilgrims is why on Earth are we doing this? But many people come back for more – Noel, from Ireland, is a veteran of 10 Caminos in eight years. It’s an incredible experience and, like life, there are plenty of ups and downs. And not just the mountains.
The Camino passes through some incredibly beautiful scenery, but it is not solely a nature ramble. The path deviates from the countryside and takes you along main roads, shopping areas or industrial areas. This is just part of the overall experience, like rain, hills or that first nagging realisation that you have a blister coming through.
The Camino wasn’t laid out to satisfy nature lovers, it was just the quickest way to get to Santiago by foot. So while you sometimes need to pass the car yards, DIY centres and road junctions to get to the riverbanks, wildflowers and free wine, the price is worth it.
At the wine fountain at Ayegui, wine flows out of a tap in the wall for any passing pilgrims to help themselves. I didn’t fancy emptying my precious water bottle to refill it with wine, so I left it to the youngsters and moved on. After all, it was only 8am.
The Camino is similar to a river in that even after it has cut its own course, it continues to have a profound effect on the areas that it passes through. Castles, cathedrals, hotels and restaurants have been built to supply and protect the stream of pilgrims as they shuffle past. There is a continuing drift in Spain away from the countryside to the towns, and some villages are kept alive purely by custom from the pilgrims.
In the cities, pilgrims are a mild inconvenience, blocking the pavements and confusing bar staff with our awkward Spanish. There have been some anti-Camino protests, but they’re rather sheepish compared with the happenings in Barcelona [where anti-tourism protesters fired water pistols at visitors]. After all, you can’t really be a NIMBY when any disruption preceded your arrival on Earth by more than 1000 years and half of the people who walk are Spanish anyway.
Time for contemplation
Some days, I bump into a kindred soul or two and we natter away for hours, with far more candour than you would normally see with a random stranger. These condensed friendships quickly run deep, and with hours to go, there’s no need to cut a long story short. Some days were more solitary, and I once walked for five hours without seeing a living soul other than birds, mice and giant Spanish slugs with murderous intent. Conversation and contemplation is the way of the Camino, and each way of walking provides a break from the other.
I was having lunch with a fellow pilgrim when a man stopped to talk, having noticed the Kiwi patches on my rucksack. He was from England but lived locally. I politely asked what he did for a living. He said he was a writer.
“Me too,” I said. “What do you write?”
“Books,” he said. “I’ve written 11 books.”
“That’s great,” I said. “What are they about?”
“Me,” he said. “They’re about me, and the Camino, and how I discovered God.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but as I struggled to phrase a question that wouldn’t be taken as an insult, he seemed to sense that he’d picked the wrong audience and shuffled off. Probably in a rush to go and start number 12.
Before long, I was in Burgos, a well-heeled city with a fine cathedral and a number of satellite churches gathered like ducklings around mama duck. I had a day off and explored at my leisure, glad of a rest before the coming trials.
Burgos marks the start of the famed Meseta, where the Camino runs for a week through flat, listless countryside, with heat as the main enemy. I’d heard that this was where many a pilgrim’s conviction had wavered, so I stocked up on protein bars and prepared myself to gain advantage from adversity; dusty, lonely paths would give me plenty of thinking time to start on the first of my 11 books.
