Absorbed in One's Thoughts and Routines While on the Camino de Santiago

This is Part 5 of a 6 part series on my experiences while trekking along the Camino de Santiago (the St. James Way) in northwestern Spain. To read other parts of the series, please use the term “Spain” in this site’s search function.

A strong wind and biting cold greets us as we begin the day's trek. The conditions and the unwelcoming cold front are leftovers from yesterday's storms. Thankfully it is not raining for that would be a very hard way to set off first thing in the morning.

There are no views to speak of due to the fog. It is a shame since we are on the trail's high point and the views must be fantastic. As we walk, we note that we have seen no trail markers. We begin to wonder if we made a wrong turn.

I pull out my map. Which direction are we heading?  I cannot find my compass to figure things out. Meanwhile, the deep fog allows for no orientation via the sun. Soon, a French pilgrim comes along. He is certain we are heading in the right direction. After awhile, he is proven to be correct. We finally see boot prints in the mud and eventually the yellow scallop-shelled trail markers.

As we continue, we walk alone, in silence, absorbed in our own thoughts. Our heads are down. We place one foot in front of the other, our walking sticks clicking and clacking on the pavement or cobblestone streets. To pass the time, I start to recite the dialogue from old Andy Griffith shows. The one MK likes in particular is when Mr. Tucker, a harried business man, has to stay in town at Andy and Aunt Bee's house while his broken down car is being fixed.

It begins to dawn on me that there are different classes of people taking the Camino. All of us have grouped ourselves along tribal lines. First, there are the bicyclists. They are the elites. They only socialize with other bicyclists and don't associate with us.

Then, there are the walkers like us. We distance ourselves from the bicyclists and stick with our own kind. I notice though that sometimes there are divisions within our own group as well.

There are those that have been hiking since the beginning of trail way back in France who stay in the albergues and other group quarters. They sleep in bunk beds, 20 to 30 people to a room. They eat in large dining halls on picnic tables. The showers and baths are shared. They are the "true" pilgrims, walking the Camino like what was done in centuries past, enduring the most hardship.

They all hang out together and only on occasion will they acknowledge us, the "softer" walkers, those who dwell in the shadows, the lowest of the classes, with the creature comforts of pre-arranged private rooms, luggage transfers, and private baths showers at the end of the day. We are the minorities. In the eyes of others, we are not "true" pilgrims, but more like "tourist" pilgrims.

We are now into the next village. A woman herds her cattle down the Camino trail. She doesn't seem happy. It appears we have walked up on and amongst her cattle and as a result, they have scattered. I follow behind one of these large beasts as it keeps pace with us while we continue our walk down the trail. As if to pay for our intrusion into the herder's otherwise orderly task, this cow's business end decides to show me who’s the boss. Plop! It lands at my feet and I am splattered.

At the beginning of the trip, I mentioned that the small villages all have their own unique character. As the trip wears on though, I find that such an observation was just a case of early-in-the-trip excitement of the new experiences. For certain, the larger towns are all unique. Ponferrada, Villafranca, Triacastela and Sarria all have their own distinct character. But, in the small intervening villages, there are more similarities than not.

Life within the small villages is centered on the cafe and bar that exists not only to serve the passing pilgrims but to also serve as the town's communal space for the locals. In addition, each of the small villages have a dozen or so simple houses, a stone church, barns, the town dog, piles of manure along the trail, some chickens and cows, and the stink of shit.

On to the next village. Again, simple houses, a stone church, barns, the town dog, piles of manure along the trail, some chickens and cows, and, yes, the stink of shit. We are getting used to it. In fact, we're almost certain we can tell the differences between the grasses and grains fed to the cows in one valley versus those fed to the cows in the next valley for the smell of shit has a different, shall we say, piquant from one village to the next.

The trail is much more crowded now that we have reached the 100KM marker. In order to receive your Compostela, you must walk the last 100 kilometers of the Camino. As such, there are many who start their hike in Sarria. They, instead of us, are now the trail virgins. And hey! With their arrival, I believe our tribe has ascended in class from last to second from the bottom!

Simple thoughts and distractions settle in. I take an apple from my backpack and feed it to a horse that has nosed through the gate of its corral. MK takes a picture of an ostrich, yes, an ostrich, which pecks at the chain link fence that keeps it from wandering. We marvel at how incongruous it is to see an ostrich along the path in the middle of northern Spain.

Some villagers have kindly provided various fruits for the passing pilgrims. We take grapes and bananas from the tables sitting along the path, leaving a few coins that the honor system requires.

We listen to the sound of rain on our hoods and our walking sticks clicking on the trail. The repetitiveness of sounds serves as a metronome that lulls us into deep thought. I reflect on my life and career choices. I review my accomplishments and am happy with them. I think of that which I still want to do. I am grateful for my health and good fortune that, so far, will allow me to do them.

I break the reverie. I suggest that MK walk through the deep mud tracks in the trail.

"Give it up for St. James," I tell her.

I can't quit. I keep it up at almost every muddy section we see. By the end of the day she's had enough.

She responds, "And I pray to St. James that you give up repeating that comment!"

The sun is starting to shine. Some warmth has returned. Steam rises up off of any remaining wet, paved surfaces. Ahead, a group of people are gathered off the side of the trail. A priest has paused his pilgrimage to say Sunday mass. The low rock wall that is part of a farmer's field serves as his alter. In the background, an ancient stone pillar is topped with a cross, a monument from times past. This is his church. People sing, pray and kneel while the service is underway. MK and many of the others take communion.

We move on. A warm feeling fills our souls. After a couple of kilometers, we see to our left a cow in a field licking its new born calf. It is a blessing to see new life being born while along the Camino. But wait, the little calf is not moving. Its mother continues to lick its face, trying to coax it into standing. The calf is still. The mother cow moos mournfully, and then moves on. The calf is dead.

A farmer walks up from a far field. She seems unhurried as she approaches the calf to see what has happened. Other pilgrims standing along the trail next to us call out in Spanish.

"Muerte?" they ask the farmer. I can tell by the body language that the Spanish pilgrims are asking if the calf recently died or if it was still-born.

The farmer lifts the calf's head. It flops to the ground lifeless. Yes, she nods. By the farmer's motioning, still-born seems to be the answer.

The day and the miles wear on. Our minds are clear. Our daily routine, like today’s, is a picture of simplicity. We are really enjoying this. Removed from our lives are the hectic schedules we otherwise keep. You get up. Down to breakfast at an appointed time. Load the packs on your back and onto the trail. You walk. Take a break for water. Continue with your walk. Is it lunch time yet? You stop at a cafe and have a bocadillo and soup. Maybe a cerveza to quench your thirst. You duck into a church, maybe an albergue, to get your credencial stamped. We need at least three stamps a day. Onward. The day heats up. Remove the rain gear. Showers reappear. The rain gear is back on again. You're feeling foot sore. The aches have returned. You push through them. By mid afternoon, you're into your village and your night's lodging. Shower and clean up. Maybe read or write in your journal. If there's time, you get in a half hour nap. Down to dinner, either in your hotel or down the street at another establishment. Sleep comes quickly. The alarm goes off and you're at it again. Lather, wash, rinse, and repeat.

Through it all, MK keeps smiling.

We continue our pace. "Do the dialogue from another Andy Griffith Show," she asks cheerily.

I recite the one about Aunt Bee's kerosene cucumbers. "Shoo fly," Barney says as he tries to wave one off of the pickles. "Andy, it's dead!"