June 5: Sarria to Mercadoiri - @ 11 miles
I awake this morning and think of the song Cat Stevens made popular in the 70s.
Morning has broken, like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for them springing fresh from the Word.
Think Green from here on now. I'm in the region of Galicia that most resembles Ireland in its climate, culture, bagpipe music and lush pines and oak trees. On the way out of Sarria I pass by Igrexa de Se Santa Mariña, the church where I got the credencial stamped last night.
I awake this morning and think of the song Cat Stevens made popular in the 70s.
Morning has broken, like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for them springing fresh from the Word.
Think Green from here on now. I'm in the region of Galicia that most resembles Ireland in its climate, culture, bagpipe music and lush pines and oak trees. On the way out of Sarria I pass by Igrexa de Se Santa Mariña, the church where I got the credencial stamped last night.
Igrexa de Sanitago is another 12th century church. This one, like several others I’ve seen, has an adjacent cemetery–mausoleum. I’ve learned a new word: Tympanum – the semi-circular or triangular decorative wall surface over an entrance to a church often containing religious imagery. I’ve seen many already and didn’t know what these are called.
The path continues green, leafy, lush and scenic. Calla lilies appear to grow wild next to stone walls. There’s more unexpected beauty around each curve in the road.
A sunny path. More fields of foxglove. A group of four pilgrims – one wearing a tee-shirt from Southwork, England – are resting in the grass under a tree reviewing their guide books.
An allee of shade trees. I pass by a farmer on his tractor pulling machinery that produces perfectly formed rolls of hay. Stacked lichen-covered, ancient stone walls define property lines. In sharp contrast is the modern technology of wind turbines in the distance.
Around the corner the Camino path passes directly through a farmyard where a farmer is tending cattle. Pilgrims carefully trod around a plentiful supply of cow dung.
A Brea marks 100 kilometers. I ask a fellow pilgrim to take my photo, and I take hers. Unfortunately, this marker is badly covered from top to bottom with graffiti. An ugly sign of disrespect for the Camino. Since this is the minimum number of kilometers one must be walk to quality for the Compostela, Sarria is the first starting point for many pilgrims who have limited time. I expect the Camino to be crowded from this point on, but it is not.
Around 1 p.m. I hoof it in to Mercadoiro - population one - says the guide book. The Albergue La Bodeguina is divided into eight rooms which makes it difficult to find one’s assigned room because one goes through each bedroom to find one's own. On the positive there are only four bunk-beds to a room, so I only have seven roommates tonight - all women.
Today was a tough 11 miles. All miles are tough at this point. I would have stopped earlier today, but I didn't see any albergues to stay in along the rural hamlets of Galicia. Everyone agrees that training back home at 8 to 12 miles is nothing like walking the Camino.
We met before:
I eat a pleasant, mid-day big meal under a shade umbrella at the Mercadoiro albergue. The café was the only place to sit, aside on my lower bunk. Around 4 p.m. I went to the loft area of the café to journal and read the guide book. I hear English spoken, put aside my book, walk downstairs and ask if I might join the women. What pilgrim would say "no?"
Debby and Lacy are mother and daughter from Bonner’s Ferry, Idaho. I used to live in Boise. From this far distance it seemed we were almost neighbors. Daughter is one of three girls. She’s in college. Mother is divorced, close to her daughters, a retired emergency nurse, but still has her hand in the local EMT scene in Idaho. It’s typical to ask another pilgrim where they started their Camino. They started in St. Jean Pied de Port, as did I. I told of my experience with the man dying. The mother looked stunned. “Do you remember me?”
No, I thought, why would I?
“I’m the one who attempted to resuscitate the dying man on the ground,” Debby said.
Debby told me the woman I saw ( Colleen) standing next to the stricken man was someone he met that morning as they left St. Jean PdP and they continued walking the next 15 + kilometers together. Colleen told Debby the man’s wife died within the year and he had just come from her Memorial service. Colleen said the stricken man seemed tired. He wanted to stop and sit by the side of the road for a while, and then he slumped over. Debby came upon him and started chest compression. That’s when the doctor from North Carolina came along.
I told Debby my story about finding a sleeping bag along the road, and even though I had to fight a gale wind I went into the meadow to retrieve the stuffed sack. I wasn’t being a hero. Having found something like that along the Camino, and even though it’s only my first day, I understand this is an important item to have. I told Debby about attaching the bag to my backpack. My ride back down the mountain. Turning the bag in at the check-in desk. And later after mass hearing a man three beds over saying, “I almost converted to Catholicism because my sleeping bag was found and returned.” I told Debby that he was the doctor who was trying to retrieve the stricken man on my first day on the mountain.
All the while Debby’s mouth is agape. “He’s the doctor,” she said. “I asked him to give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, while I continued with the chest compression. I could tell he didn’t want to. He said, 'It’s too late. He’s gone.' The doctor took off after a while. So did I after the ambulance showed up,” Debbie said.
Debby went on to tell her tale of horror about falling on the downside of the Pyrenees, which was my biggest fear. If it wouldn't have been for her daughter the mother doesn't know what would have happened. Her daughter had to carry both backpacks and help support her mother. They arrived after dark and happy to have survived.
In the meantime a fourth pilgrim joins us. We finished Debby's bottle of wine. I bought a second. By now I know a bit of her life story. Unfortunately I did not get her e-mail address and I didn't give her mine. But I suspect someone out there knows how to get in touch with Debby and Lacy.
Today was a tough 11 miles. All miles are tough at this point. I would have stopped earlier today, but I didn't see any albergues to stay in along the rural hamlets of Galicia. Everyone agrees that training back home at 8 to 12 miles is nothing like walking the Camino.
We met before:
I eat a pleasant, mid-day big meal under a shade umbrella at the Mercadoiro albergue. The café was the only place to sit, aside on my lower bunk. Around 4 p.m. I went to the loft area of the café to journal and read the guide book. I hear English spoken, put aside my book, walk downstairs and ask if I might join the women. What pilgrim would say "no?"
Debby and Lacy are mother and daughter from Bonner’s Ferry, Idaho. I used to live in Boise. From this far distance it seemed we were almost neighbors. Daughter is one of three girls. She’s in college. Mother is divorced, close to her daughters, a retired emergency nurse, but still has her hand in the local EMT scene in Idaho. It’s typical to ask another pilgrim where they started their Camino. They started in St. Jean Pied de Port, as did I. I told of my experience with the man dying. The mother looked stunned. “Do you remember me?”
No, I thought, why would I?
“I’m the one who attempted to resuscitate the dying man on the ground,” Debby said.
Debby told me the woman I saw ( Colleen) standing next to the stricken man was someone he met that morning as they left St. Jean PdP and they continued walking the next 15 + kilometers together. Colleen told Debby the man’s wife died within the year and he had just come from her Memorial service. Colleen said the stricken man seemed tired. He wanted to stop and sit by the side of the road for a while, and then he slumped over. Debby came upon him and started chest compression. That’s when the doctor from North Carolina came along.
I told Debby my story about finding a sleeping bag along the road, and even though I had to fight a gale wind I went into the meadow to retrieve the stuffed sack. I wasn’t being a hero. Having found something like that along the Camino, and even though it’s only my first day, I understand this is an important item to have. I told Debby about attaching the bag to my backpack. My ride back down the mountain. Turning the bag in at the check-in desk. And later after mass hearing a man three beds over saying, “I almost converted to Catholicism because my sleeping bag was found and returned.” I told Debby that he was the doctor who was trying to retrieve the stricken man on my first day on the mountain.
All the while Debby’s mouth is agape. “He’s the doctor,” she said. “I asked him to give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, while I continued with the chest compression. I could tell he didn’t want to. He said, 'It’s too late. He’s gone.' The doctor took off after a while. So did I after the ambulance showed up,” Debbie said.
Debby went on to tell her tale of horror about falling on the downside of the Pyrenees, which was my biggest fear. If it wouldn't have been for her daughter the mother doesn't know what would have happened. Her daughter had to carry both backpacks and help support her mother. They arrived after dark and happy to have survived.
In the meantime a fourth pilgrim joins us. We finished Debby's bottle of wine. I bought a second. By now I know a bit of her life story. Unfortunately I did not get her e-mail address and I didn't give her mine. But I suspect someone out there knows how to get in touch with Debby and Lacy.