Solitaire Till Dawn and Captain Kangaroo

I awoke from the sleep of the dead. I was alone. Somewhere in my dreams I had heard the Hostelera say they were locking me in, but I didn't know for how much longer. I made use of the silence and the clean wooden floor and did slow, methodical sun salutations, stretching my poor aching back. It helped.

At one p.m. the doors were open to the rest of the incoming pilgrims. I had slept through the days cleaning process where normally the albergue was closed. I was so grateful for the rest. Outside I heard a cry of 'Yea!!" and a flood of people shuffled in. I tried not to look like I had been there all morning.

Aside from the little family I had met earlier in the morning (which already felt like years ago), it was my first encounter with real pilgrims. These were the faithful walkers, some of whom had been hiking for hundreds of kilometers already. These were the people who had already gone at least twenty kilometers that day, desperately in need of a shower and to take their boots off.


I felt a little guilty knowing that I was only going a total of 40 kilometers - the distance that the strong walkers went on a good day. I was not going all the way to Santiago, which I discovered quickly was the number one question on meeting someone, just after "Where did you start?"

Most people had religious reasoning behind their journey and I tried not to feel like a bad Christian for not going to mass that evening. I take that feeling of guilt as the leftovers of my Catholic upbringing which I no longer can relate to. Though, over the years I have come to a place of acceptance about my spirituality and faith. I know that each person has their own beliefs about God, the greater power and where we fit in it all. I do not try to change anyone's mind about their deeply personal spiritual paths because each of us finds our relationship with said God in our own way. Who am I to tell you it is wrong? Belief at all is important enough.

And so when the Hostelera came to me with a tiny brass heart asking me to take it with me on my journey, I accepted it with an immediate prayer for her. Though I personally knew it wouldn't be going to Santiago, I suspected this long time pilgrim would find her heart was already there.

That evening I dined with a Canadian, and a fistful of Germans, drinking wine in the fading light of a chilly night in Burgos. I discovered the second thing about being a Pilgrim - open hearts and minds. Though many of them were traveling alone like myself, no one was really by themselves unless they wanted to be. Should I need companionship, it would clearly be there. I decided that, for my two days on the trail, I too could be a "real" pilgrim. It's about the journey, I kept hearing.


The next morning I woke late, much to the surprise of the other pilgrims. To walk a good distance before one's next destination one must get up before the sun is high and hot. This part of Spain in the summer time can be unforgiving, proven by the crisped and peeling shoulders and noses of those who'd already been walking for weeks. Myself, I was not concerned about the distance. It was my first day of walking and I had more concern about my back than making it to an albergue.

I asked for the hiker's expertise and readjusted the heavy pack to rest the weight where it needed to be. I portioned out nearly all of my food to other hikers, realizing that I wouldn't need it - I wasn't in the middle of nowhere after all - and immediately felt the difference six pounds of unnecessary weight made. I set off.

For the first six kilometers I stopped nearly every thirty minutes to adjust something. The straps on the bag, which kept slipping; the bandages on my feet, which provided little relief against the wear of the boots; taking my sweater on and off. By Tardajos my body was comfortable enough that I felt like I could really keep going and so I after a light lunch and coffee in Rabé, I did. The most pleasant surprise was in finding that with the pack secured correctly my back actually felt better, if not nearly normal.

Though I was at the same pace as a few other hikers along the way - a few of whom I had seen at the albergue the night before - I walked alone that first day. I was happy to do so. I wanted to take pictures and stop whenever I felt like it. I didn't want to keep up with someone else, regardless of how remarkably strong I had found myself (after all!). I was utterly charmed by the landscape. Though it was summer and the fields were crisp, there was a golden beauty to the rolling hills of wheat. Those that hadn't been harvested already blew lightly in the wind, the radiant sun casting no shadow on them. The sky capped them in endless blue.




Dotting the miles and miles of farmland were the tiny antiquated towns that were supported by them. Each one I passed shocked me with that inexplicable "This place really exists?!" sensation. They seemed to be trapped in time. Little old women chatting with each other in rapid fire Spanish in the shade of a narrow street, dressed in homemade dresses, sporting aprons and sturdy cotton bandanas in their hair. Men all wore hats and button down plaid oxfords, despite the heat. The buildings were washed in pale blues and greens and yellows, covering the years of degradation by weather and disregard. No need to build new where these still functioned just fine. Laundry was strung out across alleys and off balconies.


Between Rabé and Hornillo there was nothing - just the empty fields to keep me company. I watched as the sparrows drifted joyously on the crosswinds, chirping and following me along the trail. They took turns landing on single blades of blowing wheat, watching me as I whistled and sung to them. I was mildly bored, I'll admit, and so had begun belting out the repertoire of songs I knew in full at the top of my lungs.

In Hornillo I drank a beer. I sat with a group of Germans (there were a lot of German's on this trail) explaining that I had planned to camp that night and would probably keep going.

"Try getting up now and then tell me if you will keep going," remarked one.

I stood, feeling the weight of my body on my bare feet. I had mistakenly taken off my boots and realized that there was no way in hell I wanted to put them back on.

"That's what I thought!" he said, laughing. I ordered another beer.


I group of little boys, accompanied by one young man, wandered into town looking exhausted. I had passed them once or twice on the trail and decided they were French (the turned out to be Belgian), but marveled at the idea that anyone would take so many children on such a trail alone. As I drank my beer they filed two at a time into the main albergue for showers. I relaxed in the shade of an umbrella and watched the Pilgrims pass.


Later in the evening as it cooled, I did some yoga on the terrace in front of the church. The little boys, intrigued, slowly inched toward me until they were close enough to speak. The young man who was their guardian watched amused as they imitated.

"No, it's like this," I said in French, laughing.

I did a downward facing dog, and nearly died when I was joined by half of the boys, lined up beside me in their best version of the pose.

"Now keep your back very straight," I instructed, "And stretch. Big stretch!"

The entire group degraded into giggles.

"Ow!"

"This is HARD!"

"Like this?"


And then, like that, they dispersed, having completely recuperated from their walk, running up and down the one tiny street of Hornillo until dusk.

The sun set brilliantly over the old grain storages and busted old walls. I went walking - for a second time, actually - into the ruins to take photos of the blades of light stabbing the jagged edges of broken walls and crusted grass. The evening cooled with a chilly wind. Night fell and I followed suit in my bunk.