Pilgrimpace's Blog

For the first time in ages, I’ve been reflecting on my walk along the Camino de Levante in 2009.  I wrote this:

It is hot under the September sun.  I am drenched in sweat.  The land stretches away flat as far as I can see on every side.  It is La Mancha.  The fields have been harvested.  The colours I can see are brilliant blue sky, red dust in the fields, yellow dust in the stony path.  I can hear the road I know to be a quarter of a mile away, my boots hitting the path.  Ahead I see a bush.  I take off my rucksack, sit into the patch of shade – which is not much cooler than the sun – pull off my boots, drink water, now warm, from my bottles, eat large red plums.

My body has become used to this.  Every morning, I wake before dawn, wash and dress, put everything into its accustomed place in my rucksack.  I say Morning Prayer.  I drink a couple of litres of water.  If there is a café open in the pueblo I drink café con leche and eat cake.  I set off as the sun rises, wanting to walk as far as possible before the heat.  My body aches but it is used to this; I’m averaging 15 miles a day; the furthest has been 27.  My feet have toughened; the blisters are gone.

If I pass through a town or village I stop to drink cafes and refrescos and eat bocadillo.  I carry fruit and chocolate, along with a frighteningly heavy quantity of water.

I have a Spanish guidebook to this solitary pilgrimage route with strip maps.  The local amigos groups have marked the route with yellow arrows or blue shells.  I never get too horribly lost.

My Spanish is basic.  I have enough to ask the way, to find accommodation, to buy food, to follow Mass, but not enough for a conversation of depth. If I meet anyone I stop and talk, thirsty for company in my loneliness.

I arrive in the town or village where I will be staying in the early afternoon.  I find accommodation – either a specialist pilgrim albergue or a hostal.  I rehydrate and shower.  I find a restaurant serving a Menu, a cheap three course meal with a bottle of table wine.  I return to the albergue – in these early weeks I am always alone.  I wash my clothes.  I write my journal.  I sleep.  In the late afternoon I explore the town on aching legs.  I find my route for the morning.  If there is a public library, I use the internet.  I text my wife.  If the  Church is open, I join the Rosary and Mass.  Sometimes the priest takes me under his wing.  I find a bar, watching the news or the football.  I eat and drink more.  I try to sleep in another bed.

My mind and spirit are getting used to this.  At the beginning it was overwhelming.  If I could have run home with no one noticing, I would have.  Now the walking steadies me.  I take it a mile at a time, a day at a time.  There is a huge distance to go to Santiago but my worries are burning away.  I am embracing the solitude and simplicity.  I will carry this forward when I finish.

In a week, I will climb out of the Meseta and reach Toledo.  My friends, Karen and Roy, will join me for a few days.  I will change my mode of travel and use their car.  We will drive to Avila and Segovia staying in hotels.  I will then catch the train on to Zamora to complete the walk, now through the green mountains of Galician autumn.  Other pilgrims are there on the route from Sevilla.  There will be plenty more lessons to learn here.

I put my boots back on and stand up.  After a quick look at the map, I heave my rucksack onto my back and start walking.  A song comes to my lips.