The Gateway To Gallica

Into the misty hills I ventured into a new Landscape of people and what people I´ve met. The closer I get to Santiago the more insane the people get. Alas, the nut cases I have met are another days story. Heres one particular day from a long time ago.

Day 46 Foncebadon to Molinaseca 20km

I cranked my eyes open slowly and somewhat unwillingly after a heavy nights sleep. The Lads were packing with their flashlights bouncing off the walls and ceiling of the loft sleeping dorm, warm and comfortable. The Nordic girl was packing nosily also and to my brief irritation. I turned over and went back to sleep to awake later when the light dimmed by the blanket of clouds filled the space completely.

Just the Mexican doctor remained still sleeping in the bed next to me, the room full of empty beds now, except a new visitor had arrived and after a time of observation and contemplation I realised with a start that it was the yoga teacher with long hair and white beard. I reacted and decided it best to leave so as not to interrupt the session. Sabrina, the Canadian girl, emerged from behind a bunk bed with a stretch and a smile, I waved and packed on furiously. She joined the yoga, as I declined the offer, to my regret later on.

It was a heavy morning and I walked, I trodded, along the damp mountain paths . The morning was cool in the hills and the way was shrouded in a thick early mist, similar to the fog that my thoughts ampled though in my mind, happily though. I was finding the walking difficult, an entirely new sensation for me from the past weeks and something I tried to deny for a time without any success.

When an evening comes about on the Camino in Spain, and someone suggests a glass of wine, and when the bottle is 3€, you usually just each get one of them, and when that one is gone and swallowed and so is everyone elses, you find that another one is never that stretch too far. And so it had been the night before in Foncebadon, and so now it was; the result; the next morning.

Part of my mind was free to skip around the backstreets of my memories and dance into my ideas unrestrained by the other much larger part, the part responsible for my day to day operation, communication and commonsense; This part was trying to ignore that I had gotten up at all and had turned over resentfully, like I had done an hour before, trying not to consider the light shining in through my sleepy eyes, like it didn't exist.

Not long after a brief and rather one sided conversation with a horse and his friends, I arrived at a mighty cross. A thunderous thing and at its base; the memories and momentos of a hundred thousand visitors. All colours and flags, stones and key rings, ribbons and toilet rolls, photographs and messages, all mixed up in with rubble and piled about 4 metres high around the thick mast of the cross, like an upside down ice cream cone. I clambered up the slope, stepping on photographs and breaking plastic things till I arrived at the post and began to read the messages dreamily and with an air of unconcern for the past away people remembered and notes to lost friends along the way, yet to arrive. In my hand I was rubbing a smooth stone with a little yellow arrow painted on it, similar to the arrows that guide you through Spain. The stone was something that, I reflected, could have been worth a great deal to the person who carried it and left it here, perhaps, now it found its way into my hand and I carried it to a nearby shelter to smoke a cigarette and relax. My Earphones drowned my world in music to protect me from any conversational advances from other walking fool as I. As it turned out I was gently jeered by a group of young forrest workers, They pointed the way to me and urged me on, laughing. Feeling my moment of peace shattered, I arose and with a hearty goodbye, to indicate my thanks for their encouragement, I left, back into the mists and wooded track.

After 2Km and an unknown time I Arrived at Mahjarin, a deserted, ruined town left behind by the inhabitants because of its remoteness and harsh weather. It was however the place of stay of the Templar knight Tomás. He walked the way and realised along it that he was the reincarnation of a Templar knight. After this enlightening he choose stay in Mahjarin and devote his life to helping pilgrims in the squalor of his unofficial albergue. The WC being the only luxury is located across the road in what appeared to be a roofless ruined stone shed although I didn't feel the need to visit it. I poured a cup of coffee just in time for his eleven o' clock prayer and collapsing on a bench, I watched as he began clanging his rusting sword against a bell, his hiking trousers were held together with safety pins and he wore a hooded white robe with the Templar cross in red on it along with various stains and dirt. He droned away in Spanish for a prolonged period of time as the cats pawed and clawed and jumped into spaces unseen, under the tables filled with derelict crap and over the cold stone surfaces. An open fire was burning just outside the gate and the warmth and aroma filled the room making the space quite pleasant to be in after the cold and damp mist of the walk before. Javier and Manollo where standing piously taking in the prayer. At first Tomás wouldn't look them in the eyes but as the minutes flowed he got more confident and it ended up like he was talking directly to them and not some unseen God to pray to. I could see Javier getting uncomfortable to my amusement. Looking at Tomás I could see that he really enjoyed the attention. Finally, the ultimate part of his half hour incomprehensible prayer; we stood in a ring all holding hands, he uttered some more lines and we raised our hands to the heavens.

I retired outside quickly to smoke a cigarette by the fireside, joined, as it happened by Dermot, an Irish man from limerick, Dermot speaks with the nature of an enlightened Boger. His being is gentle and his words caress rather than jab at you. In the evening he sits on his bunk bed in the half lotus meditating with self satisfied smile of someone who has recently attained a new peace and spiritual height and is enjoying immensely letting everyone know about it. We were also joined by a Spanish guy whose name escapes. An Australian girl came back from the WC with a look of bewilderment on her face, and I couldn't stop the corners of my mouth turning into a smile. There were dogs chained up around around us and one or two lose ones. All well kept and happy, every now and then one would start barking and begin a chorus, only to be whisst by Pedro, Tomás' helper leaving only one dog, out of sight, barking. After a bark or two from him the whole chorus would begin again.

"Dogs can sense things ya know" Dermot leaned into me to tell me this, as if it was important, and proceeded to talk as much shite as Tomás, but I listened happily, I knew why he was talking crap, about reincarnation and spiritual blabber. The place was in the hills, cold and shrouded in mist, damp stone huts all around us and an open fire at our feet, it was medieval and the fire gave it something extra, the smell and the warmth, almost spiritual, if it wasn't for the twenty cyclists in bright coloured skin tight pants joking and laughing on the road. I poked fun at Dermot but I felt similar even if it didn't manifest in shite talk.

I arose and went to get my bag. Inside, Tomás grabbed my arm at the elbow. He started talking again, the only words I could make out were, Camino, Cosmicka, Spirit-u-al. He repeated these over and over. His fingers would land on his chest for Camino, then raise up above his head along with his eyes up to the heavens for Cosmicka or spirit-u-al! It was terribly awkward for me, I thanked him about ten times before I was able to escape, again, back into the mists and the damp tracks.

Just down the road I met a beautiful cow, with a bell around her neck, she was drinking water from a trough and caught me with an enquiring look. I called her Daisy.

(Daisy)

And then it began to rain. It rained and rained and I told myself over and over, that it would stop any minute, and I'd dry off, that continued until eventually I was drenched. I stopped to put on my leggings, cursing myself for not having put away my camera sooner.

I didn't walk too much farther that day but alot happened. I ate a massive steak for instance, I met a belgian guy who smoked more than me, alarmingly, he'd take a cigarette to the toilet with him, just in case like. I sang "horse with no name" with a dutch girl over the stall in the shower, I stopped after the song but she kept singing all the time in this over the top operatic voice, i couldn't stop laughing until I started to enjoy it.

Manollo

Later that evening, after a nap we ate salad and drank wine. A crazy gay old man who seemed to live in the albergue took an interest in us, because of our wine, and he would come over to refill his glass and sing a song, as if in payment. We would laugh as he went off again. But after a while it started to catch on with Manollo singing some Flamenco and me banging the table in rhythm. We had such fun that night he continued singing most nights all the way to Santiago. Soon everyone joined us, and a big group sat walloping the table making the room reverberate. Sabrina arrived hours late. It was dark and wet outside and she came straight in to join and warm up.

I told her all my faux stories of woe to make her laugh . She showed me nerve ending points on my feet, I felt ripples shoot up my spine.

"Oooo you can really feel that in you,re spine...." as i pressed down on the point

"Yeah! that's your spine" she laughed "well done"

I felt as happy as a child getting an answer right.

I,d talked to her, the day before, for the first time. She was walking ahead of me on the rocky path and bent down to pick up a stone,

"I found a white stone" she said in her lovely hippy, lazy drawl of a voice, beaming a smile.
Jaysus, I thought, you wont get far if pick up every white stone you come across love. But I didn't say. I did say "Nice" and looked it over admiringly.

I would spend all the time I could with Sabrina, she was a naturally happy person and always smiled. She accepted the world around her as a wonderous place and looked around curious and interested in everything. We became good friends.

Back in Molinaseca we sat and laughed and sang that night, the whole group of us, Irish, Canadian, Spanish, Brazillian, Peruvian and deutsch and more i cant remember, until the lady of the house came down to tell us to be quiet and go to bed which we did, happily.