May 21: Lorca-Estella-Irache-Monjardin
May 22: Monjardin -Los Arcos - Logrono
May 23: Logrono - Ventosa
I'm still in the Navarra region.
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Leaving the area I pass by unidentified pink wildflowers before approaching the marked Camino. Now on a shrubby path I come across a stone and mortar bridge/tunnel that looks relatively new. It leads to a dirt path beside a field of grasses, red poppies and a charming but crudely built fence of wooden posts and ... what's that? ...unsightly plastic-coated-colored wire.
Ahead on the steep climb out of Irache, on a natural path and woodlands of pine and Holm Oak, I encounter another large crowd. Many pilgrims are talking loudly and ambling four abreast even slower than me. A most unlikely experience. Then I notice the lack of backpacks, or those so small they might hold one bottle of water and a granola bar. I tried for ten minutes or so to walk at their pace. They were oblivious. I felt myself becoming impatient and cut in front of one, and then another, and another.
Finally I was free of this “rat pack.” I soon noticed a bus waiting for these noisy and overweight tourists, whom I did not consider pilgrims. This was the first of many times I would be reminded it’s not necessary for one to carry a large backpack, and walk the entire 500 miles to be considered a pilgrim. Whoops. My prejudices are showing. I gave up the mind-set for the day only for it to surface many times thereafter.
Following the wooded path was a wide dirt road that could accommodate a vehicle, although I didn’t see one this day. I wondered if the red soil contributed to the success of vineyards. Further ahead the bank is lined with distinctive rip-rap tidily holding back the soil. Here is a shelter of sorts while I read about the 13th century Fountain of the Moors. The hillside behind is cut out to provide access to the back of the small, open, free-standing structure.
Finally I was free of this “rat pack.” I soon noticed a bus waiting for these noisy and overweight tourists, whom I did not consider pilgrims. This was the first of many times I would be reminded it’s not necessary for one to carry a large backpack, and walk the entire 500 miles to be considered a pilgrim. Whoops. My prejudices are showing. I gave up the mind-set for the day only for it to surface many times thereafter.
Following the wooded path was a wide dirt road that could accommodate a vehicle, although I didn’t see one this day. I wondered if the red soil contributed to the success of vineyards. Further ahead the bank is lined with distinctive rip-rap tidily holding back the soil. Here is a shelter of sorts while I read about the 13th century Fountain of the Moors. The hillside behind is cut out to provide access to the back of the small, open, free-standing structure.
Welcome to Villamayor de Monjardin
I walked nearly 20 kilometers (12+ miles) today and just before reaching Villamayor de Monjardin I saw the tower of the 12th century San Andres Church. Church steeples are always the highest point in the villages.
Passing in front of a small albergue the hospitalario must have thought I looked tired and lost and probably saw me checking my watch. A sign indicated the albergue would not be open until 4. Instead he beckoned me in from a distance, assigned a bed in one of two rooms, and encourage me to relax. Later at 4 p.m. he registered all pilgrims, asking for our legal passports, credencials and payment of seven euros. His sello stamp read: www.oasistrails.org S. Juan 14:6."I am the way, and the truth, and the life; no one comes to the Father but through Me.”
My back felt cold when I laid down. I didn’t realize the three shirts I had on were wet from perspiration, even though it was cold outside. The close quarters of one co-ed the bathroom was uncomfortable. The shower started off cool, but got somewhat warmer. Much like my mood of the day.
Instead of napping a fellow pilgrim in the room was an inspiration to us as she climbed to the peak above the village to view the ruins of St. Stephen’s Castle. She showed us wild flowers and herbs she'd picked along the way that smelled refreshingly like a pungent combination of chamomile, mint and eucalyptus.
A group of four entered the dormitory room where I had unpacked and stretched out. This was a small room with beds for seven others. I recognized the tall man; “You are the doctor.”
He replied, “And you are the one who found my sleeping bag.” Again he expressed his gratitude. With him was a sullen, petite woman who did not appear to be his wife, but appeared she would like to be. Except later I overheard that her husband would be joining them the next day on bicycle. An older couple walked with them for several days. Chaperones?
The weather turned cold that afternoon. The hospitalario brought in wood and lighted a roaring fire in a small freestanding chimney in an equally small reception room. At one time there were 12 of us tightly huddled around the fire getting our various body parts as close as possible to the heat.
A group of seven pilgrims came in looking for shelter. Alas, there was ‘no room in the inn.’ By this hour the Albergue was fully booked, as was everything else in the small village. The hospitalario telephoned a cab. The seven waited in the already packed reception area until their ride arrived.
Later the doctor’s group of four from the U.S. headed off for an evening meal at the only bar in the village. I would have liked to join in their conversation. My research showed that only 5% of the pilgrims are over the age of 65 and 1.7% are from the United States.
I was still curious about the circumstances surrounding the death of the fellow pilgrim on day #1. I think the doctor would have been able to fill in more of the blanks. I could have invited myself, and might have under different circumstances, but I felt the sullen lady probably would not have liked my intrusion. So I dined alone a few tables away in this village café listening to more music by Elvis.
After dinner a single pilgrim arrived at the albergue needing a place to sleep. The doctor offered to give up his bed and slept on the floor (in the sleeping bag I retrieved for him) downstairs by the fireplace. The sullen woman’s bed was empty most of the night. She came back to bed @ 6 a.m. teary eyed. So much for illicit romances on the Camino.
I walked nearly 20 kilometers (12+ miles) today and just before reaching Villamayor de Monjardin I saw the tower of the 12th century San Andres Church. Church steeples are always the highest point in the villages.
Passing in front of a small albergue the hospitalario must have thought I looked tired and lost and probably saw me checking my watch. A sign indicated the albergue would not be open until 4. Instead he beckoned me in from a distance, assigned a bed in one of two rooms, and encourage me to relax. Later at 4 p.m. he registered all pilgrims, asking for our legal passports, credencials and payment of seven euros. His sello stamp read: www.oasistrails.org S. Juan 14:6."I am the way, and the truth, and the life; no one comes to the Father but through Me.”
My back felt cold when I laid down. I didn’t realize the three shirts I had on were wet from perspiration, even though it was cold outside. The close quarters of one co-ed the bathroom was uncomfortable. The shower started off cool, but got somewhat warmer. Much like my mood of the day.
Instead of napping a fellow pilgrim in the room was an inspiration to us as she climbed to the peak above the village to view the ruins of St. Stephen’s Castle. She showed us wild flowers and herbs she'd picked along the way that smelled refreshingly like a pungent combination of chamomile, mint and eucalyptus.
A group of four entered the dormitory room where I had unpacked and stretched out. This was a small room with beds for seven others. I recognized the tall man; “You are the doctor.”
He replied, “And you are the one who found my sleeping bag.” Again he expressed his gratitude. With him was a sullen, petite woman who did not appear to be his wife, but appeared she would like to be. Except later I overheard that her husband would be joining them the next day on bicycle. An older couple walked with them for several days. Chaperones?
The weather turned cold that afternoon. The hospitalario brought in wood and lighted a roaring fire in a small freestanding chimney in an equally small reception room. At one time there were 12 of us tightly huddled around the fire getting our various body parts as close as possible to the heat.
A group of seven pilgrims came in looking for shelter. Alas, there was ‘no room in the inn.’ By this hour the Albergue was fully booked, as was everything else in the small village. The hospitalario telephoned a cab. The seven waited in the already packed reception area until their ride arrived.
Later the doctor’s group of four from the U.S. headed off for an evening meal at the only bar in the village. I would have liked to join in their conversation. My research showed that only 5% of the pilgrims are over the age of 65 and 1.7% are from the United States.
I was still curious about the circumstances surrounding the death of the fellow pilgrim on day #1. I think the doctor would have been able to fill in more of the blanks. I could have invited myself, and might have under different circumstances, but I felt the sullen lady probably would not have liked my intrusion. So I dined alone a few tables away in this village café listening to more music by Elvis.
After dinner a single pilgrim arrived at the albergue needing a place to sleep. The doctor offered to give up his bed and slept on the floor (in the sleeping bag I retrieved for him) downstairs by the fireplace. The sullen woman’s bed was empty most of the night. She came back to bed @ 6 a.m. teary eyed. So much for illicit romances on the Camino.
Gotta get an early start
May 22
I got an early start and didn't get turned around this time.
May 22
I got an early start and didn't get turned around this time.
Later that morning in another small village I ate a mid-morning bocodilla where I stopped to examine a minor pain in my little toe. My first blister. A small one. I would treat it once I am settled and can unload my backpack and find the sewing kit. I was lucky. Many hearty pilgrims are brought down by the lowly blister.
Doctor Lin performs surgery
Despite what a ‘know it all’ back in Tucson previously said about never opening a blister, I followed directions from hundreds of pilgrims and sewed with needle and thread a cross into the skin where it could drain. It did not hurt the next day, or from then on. I’m one of the lucky ones. Must be my Kansas farm girl feet. Either that or I toughened them by walking on the tiles floors at our home in Tucson. I read that not drinking enough water is another cause of major blisters. Another reason to drink up while walking. Those little water bottles don’t cut it for me.
Earlier that morning I stupidly jumped across a ditch and felt the painful twitch of a groin muscle. At Los Arcos I decided to give the sore muscle a day’s rest. I heard ‘Taps’ playing over PA system and the ringing of church bells. I never learned what that was about. Then I boarded a bus a little after 11:00.
Doctor Lin performs surgery
Despite what a ‘know it all’ back in Tucson previously said about never opening a blister, I followed directions from hundreds of pilgrims and sewed with needle and thread a cross into the skin where it could drain. It did not hurt the next day, or from then on. I’m one of the lucky ones. Must be my Kansas farm girl feet. Either that or I toughened them by walking on the tiles floors at our home in Tucson. I read that not drinking enough water is another cause of major blisters. Another reason to drink up while walking. Those little water bottles don’t cut it for me.
Earlier that morning I stupidly jumped across a ditch and felt the painful twitch of a groin muscle. At Los Arcos I decided to give the sore muscle a day’s rest. I heard ‘Taps’ playing over PA system and the ringing of church bells. I never learned what that was about. Then I boarded a bus a little after 11:00.
Hop on the bus: Los Arcos - to Logrono
During the short, 17-mile bus ride from Los Arcos to Logrono I noticed the vineyards as we cross over into the the La Rioja Region, which I was already familiar since our local Trader Joe’s carries this wine.
Sometime around noon after arriving I located a good walking map from a visitor’s center at the bus station and found my way to the 88-space municipal Albergue de Peregrinos, located close to the cathedral. It was filled up by 2 p.m. Completo. Many were turned away. A blessing I took the bus. I started to worry about future days. How early would I have to get up to put in enough miles and yet find a place to stay?
You meet the nicest people on the Camino
A 40-ish man had just claimed his assigned lower bunk spot when I came along. After seeing I had the upper bunk he volunteered to switch with me. I did not get his name. I thanked him and then he went to sleep. When I got back from doing laundry, shower, etc. he was gone, so I could not repeat my gratitude to him.
A paunchy Italian man in the next lower bunk one over moaned and groaned for an hour or so while his svelte wife, or lady friend, sternly tended his blisters paying no attention to his cries. I felt especially blessed that my little blister was nothing. I overheard someone say, “We should be grateful for pain.”
During the short, 17-mile bus ride from Los Arcos to Logrono I noticed the vineyards as we cross over into the the La Rioja Region, which I was already familiar since our local Trader Joe’s carries this wine.
Sometime around noon after arriving I located a good walking map from a visitor’s center at the bus station and found my way to the 88-space municipal Albergue de Peregrinos, located close to the cathedral. It was filled up by 2 p.m. Completo. Many were turned away. A blessing I took the bus. I started to worry about future days. How early would I have to get up to put in enough miles and yet find a place to stay?
You meet the nicest people on the Camino
A 40-ish man had just claimed his assigned lower bunk spot when I came along. After seeing I had the upper bunk he volunteered to switch with me. I did not get his name. I thanked him and then he went to sleep. When I got back from doing laundry, shower, etc. he was gone, so I could not repeat my gratitude to him.
A paunchy Italian man in the next lower bunk one over moaned and groaned for an hour or so while his svelte wife, or lady friend, sternly tended his blisters paying no attention to his cries. I felt especially blessed that my little blister was nothing. I overheard someone say, “We should be grateful for pain.”
You call that a bull ring?
I wasn’t going to get any rest with the Italian racket. Dick Dickson told me about the book, "La Fiesta Brava" and after reading Logrono had a bullring, I went in search mid afternoon and found it easily enough nearby the River Ebro. Although I seriously doubted it was really a bullring. Perhaps the site of an old bullring. I thought it looked like a UFO. Or perhaps a giant hamburger.
I checked for signs in front to verify it was a bullring, but no signs were to be found. I pointed in the direction and asked the youngest of several men, sitting outside a bar a block or so away, what that round, flying saucer shaped building was. I asked the youngest because I figured he was most likely to understand English, or my halting Spanish. He said it indeed the enclosed structure is a bullring. I still had my doubts until I arrived home and hit the Google button. Sure enough, more interestingly in 2010 it was temporarily transformed for the Davis Cup tennis games.
Some buildings show their antiquity, while the sides of other buildings look freshly stuccoed. Knee-high metal posts are positioned along sidewalks to protect pedestrians from the combination of erratic drivers and narrow streets.
I wasn’t going to get any rest with the Italian racket. Dick Dickson told me about the book, "La Fiesta Brava" and after reading Logrono had a bullring, I went in search mid afternoon and found it easily enough nearby the River Ebro. Although I seriously doubted it was really a bullring. Perhaps the site of an old bullring. I thought it looked like a UFO. Or perhaps a giant hamburger.
I checked for signs in front to verify it was a bullring, but no signs were to be found. I pointed in the direction and asked the youngest of several men, sitting outside a bar a block or so away, what that round, flying saucer shaped building was. I asked the youngest because I figured he was most likely to understand English, or my halting Spanish. He said it indeed the enclosed structure is a bullring. I still had my doubts until I arrived home and hit the Google button. Sure enough, more interestingly in 2010 it was temporarily transformed for the Davis Cup tennis games.
Some buildings show their antiquity, while the sides of other buildings look freshly stuccoed. Knee-high metal posts are positioned along sidewalks to protect pedestrians from the combination of erratic drivers and narrow streets.
I take another walk around the 14th century Gothic Cathedral de Santa Maria de la Redonda. I see a note, no doubt from one fellow pilgrim to another, tucked into the fence. A man who appears to be drunk, or drugged, is leaning across the metal gate leading to the entry. I don’t bother him and continued walking to observe the creamy white façade. The Camino attracted artisans and craftsmen to complete these beautifully carved stone, twin towers, as well as most of the ancient churches along the way. I wondered if these have been sand blasted or treated like Basilica de Sacre Coeur I saw being cleaned in Paris a few years back.
After gathering my dry clothes from the outdoor clothes lines I grab a dreadful sandwich from the vending machines in the albergue. Have to try it once. I didn't bother with a cafe. The food catered to the pilgrims is mediocre in large cities and not nearly the same quality as in small villages.
Today and over the course of many days and nights I would repeatedly hear doors slamming and wondered if this was a European custom, or did the doors not fit right, or what was the problem? Or was I becoming hypersensitive and missing my quiet environment at home?
Today and over the course of many days and nights I would repeatedly hear doors slamming and wondered if this was a European custom, or did the doors not fit right, or what was the problem? Or was I becoming hypersensitive and missing my quiet environment at home?
You have arrived in Navarrete
May 23. I check my watch. I left at 6:10 and by 9 I had traveled up the steep stone steps to Navarrete - spelled like the name of SMA mission-trip friends, Diego and Elena.
Here I order an almond croissant and eat on the run. For a while I stopped ordering hot tea at my rest stops. While coffee is served in cups, hot tea is served in clear glasses without a handle and it’s too hot to grab onto for at least ten minutes, all the while the clock is ticking. I’m always in a hurry.
Further on, an old man is picking wild asparagus on the roadside. When he saw me, and other pilgrims, he stopped to straighten up. It was as if he didn’t want others to see his favorite “picking spot.” It reminded me of the late LaDonna Schneider in Kansas who would not divulge her secret wild morel mushroom patch.
May 23. I check my watch. I left at 6:10 and by 9 I had traveled up the steep stone steps to Navarrete - spelled like the name of SMA mission-trip friends, Diego and Elena.
Here I order an almond croissant and eat on the run. For a while I stopped ordering hot tea at my rest stops. While coffee is served in cups, hot tea is served in clear glasses without a handle and it’s too hot to grab onto for at least ten minutes, all the while the clock is ticking. I’m always in a hurry.
Further on, an old man is picking wild asparagus on the roadside. When he saw me, and other pilgrims, he stopped to straighten up. It was as if he didn’t want others to see his favorite “picking spot.” It reminded me of the late LaDonna Schneider in Kansas who would not divulge her secret wild morel mushroom patch.
In villages and towns, alike, many homes touted window boxes in the front, planted mostly with red and white geraniums, while roses bloomed in backyards. I mentioned it earlier, but it bares repeating. These flower boxes are a charming European custom I especially like.
Arriving in Ventoso
Arriving in Ventoso
Arriving in Ventosa just before noon I decided to stay there instead of going on to Najara. It was the first sunny day – all day – of the journey.
Uta and the uber hospitalio: At a privately-owned Albergue San Saturnino, Uta , the hospitalira appeared cranky with pilgrims. When it was my turn in line to get registered and pay for my bed I was determined to put forward my most cheerful and appreciative face. It worked. Either that or she respected her elders. She greeted me in a good mood.
I had walked a short distance with a man who talked with interest of owning an albergue. I hinted to Uta this man might make her an offer. She smiled tightly and said, “You have no idea what you would be getting yourself in for. It’s a seven days a week job." She implied at the ingratitude of some pilgrims.
This colorful and clean albergue was one of the most charming on the pilgrimage. Small and intimate there were eight beds each in six rooms. It was nice for a change to share a room with only women. Toilets and showers were also separated. The lush backyard patio was lovely with adequate clothes lines for all.
Inside the albergue a small market, no more than an interior room locked off for this purpose, offered pilgrims a chance to purchase fresh produce, wine, and toiletries.
Uta and the uber hospitalio: At a privately-owned Albergue San Saturnino, Uta , the hospitalira appeared cranky with pilgrims. When it was my turn in line to get registered and pay for my bed I was determined to put forward my most cheerful and appreciative face. It worked. Either that or she respected her elders. She greeted me in a good mood.
I had walked a short distance with a man who talked with interest of owning an albergue. I hinted to Uta this man might make her an offer. She smiled tightly and said, “You have no idea what you would be getting yourself in for. It’s a seven days a week job." She implied at the ingratitude of some pilgrims.
This colorful and clean albergue was one of the most charming on the pilgrimage. Small and intimate there were eight beds each in six rooms. It was nice for a change to share a room with only women. Toilets and showers were also separated. The lush backyard patio was lovely with adequate clothes lines for all.
Inside the albergue a small market, no more than an interior room locked off for this purpose, offered pilgrims a chance to purchase fresh produce, wine, and toiletries.
Andy, a 40-ish German young man, my son’s age, introduced himself. He was the one who offered me the lower bunk last night. He asked to sit at my table, where I was journaling, and offered a glass of excellent white Rioja, which I later learn is not exported. Senorio d Unuela. It tasted like heaven in the middle of the afternoon.
In the compact kitchen Asians started cooking their vegetables and noodles around 4 p.m. which was typical. Other pilgrim’s took turn cooking. Some ate, while others hung their hand laundry on clothes lines in the sun.
Andy said he liked to cook and said he often prepared meals for himself and his mother. He took his turn in the kitchen. The second time he came to sit beside me he had cooked a skillet full of pasta (which he neither offered to share, nor did I expect that of him ).
I had just received a text from Randy saying that 50 to 70 people were following my progress on the Camino. I was so surprised and immediately teared up with this touching news. I don’t like to be around people when I’m weepy. I was determined to learn how to breathe through deep emotion, rather than letting tears hold back communication.
Andy may have felt uncomfortable with my tears, which I tried to hide, and didn’t stay long at my table although beforehand he told me he works at a casino in Wiesbaden mentioned in Dostoyevsky’s book, “The Gambler”. He hates the job and environment, but it pays well. He said his passion and degree were in social work.
In the compact kitchen Asians started cooking their vegetables and noodles around 4 p.m. which was typical. Other pilgrim’s took turn cooking. Some ate, while others hung their hand laundry on clothes lines in the sun.
Andy said he liked to cook and said he often prepared meals for himself and his mother. He took his turn in the kitchen. The second time he came to sit beside me he had cooked a skillet full of pasta (which he neither offered to share, nor did I expect that of him ).
I had just received a text from Randy saying that 50 to 70 people were following my progress on the Camino. I was so surprised and immediately teared up with this touching news. I don’t like to be around people when I’m weepy. I was determined to learn how to breathe through deep emotion, rather than letting tears hold back communication.
Andy may have felt uncomfortable with my tears, which I tried to hide, and didn’t stay long at my table although beforehand he told me he works at a casino in Wiesbaden mentioned in Dostoyevsky’s book, “The Gambler”. He hates the job and environment, but it pays well. He said his passion and degree were in social work.
Later that evening a couple asked I would like to join them for dinner at a family owned restaurant. By now I knew I was on the spiritual path because I thought the black dog in the above photo had the eyes of Christ.