(This is a series of six weekly emails I wrote in 2022 while walking the 700+km of the Camino de Santiago. I was on sabbatical and had time to think, to walk, to write, and to drink).
To my nearest and dearest,
Today is Day 5 and I’m in Estella. I left Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port in France on Wednesday and stopped over each night in Roncesvalles, Larrasoaña, Pamplona and Puente la Reina. It’s sunny and I’m happy.
It’s strange to think it’s only been a week. Basque Spain is unrelentingly beautiful; both the landscapes and the men. The hills and fields are varied and green — at least as beautiful as the Tsitsikamma Trail — and it just keeps going on and on, weaving through the little towns dotted with cafes for the locals. Nothing feels touristy or commercial, which is wonderful. The Basque people are very proud and confident but still friendly and warm. We visited the bull-fighting stadium in Pamplona and saw the photos and videos of the matadors and the running of the bulls. The final act of repeatedly stabbing the bull as the crowds cheer is so brutal and grotesque, but the cultural theatricality, ceremony and bravado is so enticing it just draws you in. It’s problematic and beautiful and poetic, and it made me think about all the small prices we pay in the form of symbolic violence and competition and status, all in service of domesticating aggression and avoiding war. Perhaps Putin didn’t win enough judo tournaments as a kid (or Russia’s Olympic medals no longer mask that they are not a superpower) and so we are now flirting with World War 3. More matadors please.
It’s 3pm and most of the locals are inside for siesta. These small-ish towns we walk through have thriving local communities that meet for drinks after work and make parenting look so suave. I am green with envy at how blissfully communal they all are — middle-aged men cycling home from work, greeting a friend at an outdoor table near a bar and being easily convinced to stay and have a drink before cycling on. Then it happens three more times with three other friends at 45-minute intervals, punctuated with laughter and beer.
It’s wild to think it’s only been a week. On the very first day I met a Hungarian guy (Gergő) who walked at a similar pace and we’ve been walking mostly together, picking up a German (Patrick) and two Americans (Sameer and Dean). We generally book the next day’s hostel and walk, sometimes together, sometimes alone, as you like. We stop for coffee and bocadillos (pastrami and cheese baguette) and pains au chocolat more often than we should. I am the chief offender. I am certainly not losing weight. It’s also quite normal here to drink cervezas at all and any time of the day, so we do likewise so as not to offend the locals.
Everyone is unusually friendly and open. Many midlife crises, career transitions (30%+ have just left their jobs), many many ‘sabbaticals’, all of whom are shocked that mine is a “paid sabbatical”. I think sabbatical is the new catch-all phrase for ‘uncertain life transition in need of a name’.
The chats while walking are almost always interesting and I constantly surprise myself at how wrong I can be about people. Today a mid-40s looking woman (Athena) who I thought was tapping her walking sticks too loudly — irritatingly so — ended up being a 59-year-old Greek woman, two divorces down and a short-lived romance with a 28-year-old later, now going back to university to study classics. I asked her what keeps her looking so young and she doesn’t skip a beat: “a good surgeon and plenty of needles”, and then laughs in a good-natured way. Needless to say things quickly turned to Hollis and Jung and meaning and all the things that make life worthwhile. I’m sure I will see her along the way.
The walks are long. Every day has been longer than the longest hikes we do in Cape Town, and it’s more the length and carrying a backpack than any serious elevation or heat. It’s usually 23–25km a day and we walk from 7am to about 2pm. It rained a bit on the first day but we’ve had really good weather. My feet are fine — no blisters so far — but my left Achilles is a bit sore and swollen. I’m currently sitting with one foot in the Ega river typing this, at least as cold as Clifton. We have to push through to Sansol tomorrow (28km) so hopefully it won’t be an issue. Inshallah.
The hostels are basic but hygienic. Patrick (the German paramedic/mechanic) walks into yesterday’s one and says “oh nice, looks just like a prison”, because everything was blue and the bunk beds were pretty close together — think 12 double bunks in my bedroom in Cape Town. Granted it was €7. He ended up sleeping in the kitchen because his bunk was next to the radiator and stupidly warm.
It’s funny how the one thing no one suggested I take but I thought to bring myself (sleeping pills) has been the most important thing after my shoes and Merino shirts. The snoring is intense, intense, intense. Your bunk mate often moves around and lights go on and off — a bit of a light sleeper’s nightmare. But sleeping pills do the trick (thanks C!).
Today I decided to walk most of the day alone and listened to Bon Iver — Basque countryside in lieu of my bath — and eventually had to put my sunglasses on because I kept crying lightly for no apparent reason. C’est la vie.
I haven’t really had time to do huge amounts of introspection or miss life in Cape Town, but I have thought on so many occasions how happy I am that I like the work I do and the people I work with. My fellow ‘peregrinos’ (what the Spanish call us pilgrims) are all open-minded and adventurous, from a Dutch 23-year-old who doesn’t want to get a job and just be like everyone else, to a pair of 65-year-old French sisters walking it together in matching outfits. The types of people are so different to each other — Isobel from the UK (“the only thing I’m good at is writing bad poetry”) and Hazmat (the guy in a full-body rainproof onesie that looks like a hazmat suit and can’t really speak any English) and parents with their kids — and all are happy to put on their shoes and head out in the morning.
I’m healthy and happy and safe, and hope you all are too. I’m very grateful for these two little legs who are happily carrying me across Spain.
I wrote down some quotes in my notebook before I left and thought I’d share two that are sticking with me these past few days:
“He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep the pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.”
— Aeschylus, Agamemnon
“We cross our bridges as we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and the presumption that once our eyes watered.”
— Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead
Please send me news about yourselves — even if just one line — I’d love to hear from you. Will check again next Sunday.
Hugs.
x
(PS: I’ve changed people’s names to protect their anonymity)
Nic Spaull 