What would you rather be doing?
I last updated this blog in France. Currently we are a week from reaching Santiago. But I have a very good reason for not updating. Spanish towns are worse than French towns for getting film developed.
I firmly believe that pretty pictures are essential to break up text that can only be called travel-whining. No breathless descriptions of cheerful pilgrims met, or daring climbs, or cheerful waiters to be found here. If you want vicarious optimism and wanderlust, look elsewhere.
Hey, the start of Spain started well enough. We caught a train to the border, fresh from a lazy few days at Bayonne, excited about a change of scenery and a new country. Spain was lovely and immediately different. The biggest immediate difference was that all of Spain is uphill.
Crossing the bridge into Spain
Falling in French roadside ditches did not prepare us well, but we persevered. I saw my first proper European beach at San Sebastian. We stayed in a proper pilgrim Albergue. It looked like the place you set up families when their houses get flooded or burnt down in wildfires. A big basketball-type room with bunk beds everywhere. And pilgrims. God, what a hateful bunch they are. Johnny-come-latelies who started that day in Irun, with their bandannas and sensible trousers, doing elaborate stretches on the floor, waving around their walking sticks like four-year-olds having a pissing contest. Like a cheap hostel in Berlin but with much more foot odour, which is saying something.
We did a good solid week, crawling over hills any respectable goat would have driven around. We swam at beaches and laid on sand and tried to even out the horrendous tan lines. We even tried our hand at Spanish. I was eager to learn until I learnt how to say ‘Can I have a coffee/beer” and ‘Can I have another’ and after that my desire to learn stalled.
I even managed to get a surf in. Our hostel for the night was overlooking the beach, and there was a pitiful break of half a foot, but I didn’t know if I’d get an opportunity to go again. So I hired a board and caught ripples. The water was so shallow I could step off the board when I was finished on the wave. Still, getting in a surf on the other side of the world is a nice box to tick.
So many towns on the coast are as pretty as a picture
After our first solid stretch we took a few days off. I was accumulating a bunch of aches and pains that wouldn’t go away. Feet hurt all the time. Joints raised their voices in a chorus of agony at every movement. I had less range of movement than a rusty action figure.
It was incredibly frustrating. Hadn’t I acclimatised myself to this nonsense already? Isn’t there a point where the body gets used to it and I can walk trouble free? And after the three-day break we were off again, this time a 30km day. And it hurt, not from step one, but pretty bloody close to it.
I don’t mean to cry my woes out or anything but I was mighty sick of it by this stage. Showbags were dropped. Toys were out of the pram. So I said to L that night I was done for the time being.
She took it well, but didn’t offer to cart me through the next stage in a wheelbarrow, which I found hurtful. This was somewhere around, hell, I don’t know, which is annoying. A beach town? I don’t like travelling so blasé about the destination, the towns, but I found it hard to care when I was walked like I was recovering from a hip replacement. Travelling to me is agonising over catching public transport. Pissing off locals with inferior language skills. Walking aimlessly through a new town. That’s the joy of travel.
Beautiful views, steep walks
L was good about it. And surprisingly fresh. Had I been that type of man, I could have been ashamed at tapping out before a mere woman, but hopefully that type of man will never have anything in common with me. Every day she groaned her way out of bed to tackle a new 20, 30 kilometres, and was ready for more the next day. When we caught buses and trains along the route to Oviedo, she was bummed that she missed out on the roads and trails. I wasn’t sure if we were looking at the same hills. But I guess she likes hills, and I like complaining about them.
We decided a long stay in Oviedo would do the trick. A rest for my aching joints and enough time to develop film. The first place we went to said they could do it in a few hours. Handy tip – in a foreign country, if you want your film developed quickly, book a place to stay for at least five days. Every other time we stayed for a day or two, the photo labs said at least a week.
Oviedo had a decent second hand store which had exactly one pair of trousers for me. Spanish men like to wear clothes made four sizes too large, or quite possibly for horses. You know how old men wear their clothes from 20 years ago but they’ve shrunk a bunch since then? That look is very popular here.
Had to slide over a lot of mud to take photos of these boats
I sent the OM1 and the D-Lux 4 home as I wasn’t using them. Really happy with how the photos are turning out but many of the days have not been blindingly clear. I would have loved to get some B&W film for the misty days for some brooding shoots, but getting it developed would probably involve some sort of blood sacrifice, knowing Spanish photo labs.
Anyway, we’re about a week out from the finish, and it’s back to walking. It’s only a week. Hopefully the legs pull through and hold it together. Wouldn’t do to walk the last stretch doing my best Quasimodo impression.
stumbling through the camino 