Hobbes does the Camino!

[HobbesOnTour]

This is a continuation of my Velodyssey Travelogue Here:

I can recall the first day or two in crystal clarity - they were wonderful days! However, the rest (again) merges together in my mind except for some specific instances. That's not to say that the "rest" of the Camino was boring or uninteresting - it was anything but - just that at this remove the details are vague. Every day was interesting, stimulating and the whole experience thoroughly worthwhile.

As in the previous travelogue, this one will concentrate more on themes and incidents rather than a daily report.

I hope you enjoy and are inspired!

The First Day of the Camino Proper

Next morning was a predawn awakening and a simple breakfast of bread, jam and delicious coffee. I packed up the bike, said goodbye to my fellow Pelegrinos who were heading off in dribs and drabs and promptly sat down on a big rock to do a bit of people watching. From all over this little town people of all shapes, sizes and nationalities were shuffling along, most with packs on their backs, walking poles in their hands. It’s kind of a Camino uniform. There were groups happily chatting amongst themselves, stern, solo walkers striding purposefully, those with the eyes of a child filled with wonder, but more with faces creased by worry and anxiety.

I didn’t really have much of a choice of a route. There was the road which was the only sensible solution, or there was the Walker’s route that started on road, but moved on to paths, grass and then an unpaved mountain pass.

The sun was starting to peek out now, a bright orange dome, fuzzy and indistinct in the morning fog. With the increasing daylight, I stubbed out my ciggie, climbed on board the bike and headed off - in the same direction as the walkers!

Early morning view influencing my decision​

For an impromptu, crazy decision, it was one of my better ones. The atmosphere along the road was fabulous. I had been on the road now for about 4 weeks, whereas just about everyone else was starting today, full of wonder and enthusiasm. It was a pleasure to tap into that.

The ascent was steep. Really steep. I have some great photos from that part, simply because taking a picture meant I could stop without losing any status!

It was hard to believe that there wasn't a "greater power" behind this scene!​

And the scenery was just stunning.

I pedaled, pushed, dragged and even carried the bike at times. I don’t advise anyone to do this with a loaded bike. I was lucky with the weather. A wet day would have been a disaster.

From this......​

I’d pedal on, stop for a rest and chat with the people I’d passed. Later, I’d catch them again, more chatting.

To this.....​

It was a great day. It really was. At the top, there was no way I could contemplate following the path down. It was narrow, stoney, incredibly steep, full of people and simply put, a highway to Hell. Since this was an unplanned diversion, I had very little info, other than there was a roadway somewhere in the vicinity. An English couple had a different guidebook to mine so by comparing the 2 maps, I could figure out roughly where to meet the road. I headed off cross country and soon enough there was a reasonable surface rolling down the mountain. I hopped on and off I went, the only impediment, a busload of peligrinos who had been dropped off by a bus to ascend to the top.

To this......​

It was a glorious descent, sweeping through glorious scenery, hitting speeds I’d never hit before. I stopped a few times on the way down just to soak up the view. I rolled into Roncesvalles where everybody would be spending the night and found the albergue. It was huge! Newly refurbished in an old monastery. I was in a modern cubicle with a couple and another solo man.

To....Uh oh! I ain't going down there!​

I was down, checked in, laundry done, showered, bike tended to and ready for dinner before most of the people I had encountered during the day even showed up! If pace was equal on the ascent, the bike was clearly much, much faster on the descent.

Dinner was a communal affair in a local hotel and bed was very, very welcome.

 

[HobbesOnTour]

The Camino Ctd…...

The next morning came way too soon! Long before the sun was anywhere near threatening to rise, the bed hunt was beginning.

The previous morning....​

The bed hunt is that phenomenon when people set off early, very early, in order to get to the next albergue and get their preferred bed, or at least a bed. People who haven’t been infected with this virus will soon pick it up along the way. It’s one of the great advantages of the bike. If there’s no room at the inn, I can easily pedal on to the next. A little harder for pedestrians. Unfortunately my advantage only works late in the day - not in the predawn hours.

So, there’s the sound of people waking up, waking others up, packing their bags. Of course everything has to go in plastic bags. Sometimes, the plastic bag goes in another plastic bag. Whispered conversations have different levels according to nationality. I don’t know any Italian, but I reckon Italian has no translation for whisper - or at least in my time on the Camino I witnessed no evidence that they understood the word.

I stayed in my bed as everybody else got organised. Then I hopped up, packed everything up and headed outside. After a month on the road, my packing was a streamlined and efficient operation.

More chaos as people tried to find their boots and hiking poles in the storage room. Remember, for most people, this was their second day using their gear in the wild, so they really weren’t all that familiar with it, and easily confused by their neighbour’s gear!

The way out of Roncesvalles. Since there were so many people I took the road which ran beside the path for most of the way.​

I had seen that the solo chap in my cubicle, gone by 5:30 am had left his watch behind. I let the guy in reception know, handed it over and took the phone number etc of the Albergue in case I saw the guy along the way.

Roncesvalles

It's big!!!

​

I remember sitting down and watching the bedraggled exodus shuffling past me in various states of health. Some were suffering from blisters or other walking induced ailments after the hard day yesterday - and make no mistake, it’s a tough day’s walking. Others had overindulged in the Vino Tinto in celebration of their first day’s success. I think they may have forgotten that they had, on average, another 30 odd days to go!

I spoke to most of the people from the day before. The disadvantage of travelling by bike is that I’ll be moving much faster than the walkers, so won’t be making the same connections.

Eventually, I hopped on the bike and pedalled off along the road as the path was filled with pedestrians.

After about an hour on the road (excluding the 2 coffee stops) I came up behind a solo walker. Slowing down to see if it was the chap who left his watch behind, I passed slowly on his left, looking back. I had found him! Delighted, I made a slow, graceless turn and pulled up beside him, greeting him with a cheery “Hi!”, but he just kept walking. Now stopped, I had to push myself off again to catch him again and when I did, I again tried to talk to him. He wasn't paying any attention. So I cycled past him one last time and facing him, started pointing to my wrist where a watch would be. Conscious that English may not be his language, I slowly spoke “Do you have your watch?”

This time he responded, moving his wrist to look at it - empty. I could see the confusion on his face so I pointed back down the road to tell him it was in the Albergue, safe.

He walked past me again.

Now, I was really getting frustrated.

One more time, I pushed off and when I was beside him, I said “Stop!” as commandingly as I could.

I established that he could speak some English, I told him his watch was safe at the Albergue and I held out the piece of paper with the phone number etc. He thought it was too far to walk back to get it (understandable, I thought), but I suggested it may be possible for them to send it on for him. I was still holding out the contact details.

He just shrugged his shoulder and walked on, leaving me behind.

Mr. One Track Mind, I called him.

Back in the Albergue in Roncesvalles there was an amusing incident in the laundry room. They had a huge room with many sinks as well as some washing and drying machines. Most people were queueing to handwash their clothes and there were a whole lot of people! A few volunteers were operating centrifugal driers - pop your wet clothes in, flick a switch and seconds later most of the water was out of your clothes. Great machines! While waiting my turn in a long, long line I became aware of a disturbance at the back that seemed to be flowing towards me. Sure enough a man came striding from the rear of the queue snapping at people who tried explaining that this was a queue. He arrived into the laundry room toting a bag and demanded the "laundry service". A few people tried to explain that it was self service, that the washing machines were occupied and that he could queue for the chance to wash by hand. Well, that went down about as well with him as his queue jumping did with everyone else! There was ranting and raving, vocal complaints about the standard of service (the Albergue is run by a religious order on a not for profit basis and staffed by volunteers) and unsavoury comparisons to his home city. I watched in awe of a man's self control as an elderly Dutch volunteer calmly explained how the system worked, smiled at him telling him that he'd have all the help he needed when it was his turn, that the "staff" were volunteers and that they'd never left anyone with dirty clothes. It wasn't enough for our friend though, who stormed off in a huff. I wonder how he coped on the rest of the Camino.

One of my favourite photos, taken while enjoying a café con leche in a small village. It was one of those moments where you know there is nowhere else you would rather be.​

My recollection is that Pamplona was the destination for my second night. It was busy when I arrived, very busy, the streets full of people shopping, eating and drinking.

Later, I was a bad pilgrim and ventured out again for food, beers and the pleasure of sitting down, relaxing and enjoying the Champion's League Final for the first time in years. Slipping back into the Albergue that late was met with some disapproval despite the fact that I had deliberately chosen the largest one I could find. That was a common enough theme in the bigger towns and cities along the way - there was a pressure to conform to the "very early to bed, very early to rise" ethos.

Nevertheless, I was up in the dark the next morning and had a wonderful time exploring the city on my bike as it slowly kicked itself into gear. I had several coffees and pastries in different parts of the city and suffered with good grace the nasty looks flung my way by the walkers who disapproved of (or were jealous) of my hangover, my sloth, and the fact that I could relax, explore, breakfast as many times as I'd like and I'd still be further down the road than them at the end of the day

This may be Pamplona, it may not be! ​

 

[HobbesOnTour]

The Camino Ctd…...

The Road to Burgos

St. Paul had a conversion on the road to Damascus. I had my own quasi-religious conversion on the way to Burgos. Here’s the story…...

Now, I’m a bit weird. I like cycling in the rain. Not in really cold rain. And certainly not in really, really cold rain. But "normal" rain? I quite enjoy it. It's refreshing, invigorating and cleansing. It took me a while to realise that. I used to avoid the rain. A dark sky and I’d skip the bike. But after a rain shower? When the air was crisp and clean and clear, that was the perfect time to pop out for a cycle. It was on one of these rides when the air was zinging after a summer downpour, when the plants and trees and flowers were glowing after their shower that I (literally) dipped my toes into my rain fetish.

I’ve never been one for cycling shoes, or toe clips. I like my feet to be free, to hop on and hop off the bike at will. For years, no decades, actually, my feet both embarrassed and pained me. My feet were, it seemed, nuclear powered, emitting heat and a radioactive stinky fallout that no doctor, treatment nor hygiene regime could control. Every day my bedroom floor was covered in burning coals when I got up - or at least that was the way it felt to me. During the night the skin on my soles dried, hardened and cracked open. The floor, when I stepped on it, pressed these open cracks together and the resulting pain burned like a flame. As the day wore on, sweat softened the skin, walking became palatable while at night the cycle started all over again. I was on my feet 18 hours a day. I’d change my shoes several times a day, my socks even more frequently, but there seemed to be no solution.

But these days, my feet were normal, and I had just learned the joy to be had by wearing sandals - a pleasure long denied to my long suffering feet. So, on this particular day, I took to my bike wearing my sandals intending to enjoy an hour in the fresh air after a particularly invigorating summer storm. I didn’t know it at the time, but my hour trip actually involved a little time travel!

Fun in the dry - an adventure in the wet! ​

On the cycle path out along the Wilhelmina Canal there were quite a few puddles, all astutely avoided as I weaved along. But as is the case in Holland, no cycle path is ever empty for too long. As I pootled along a road section I could see ahead of me where the short stretch of local road reverted to a cycle track and knew there was a big, long puddle here. The only problem was that coming towards me was a group of rogue cyclists bearing a reputation worse than any Motorcycle gang!

These Angels (& Demons!) of Hell, these Banditos, own the road and may the Gods (one God is not enough!) help anyone unfortunate to cross their path.
No matter where you are, they share common characteristics - For a start they are older, there seems to be more women than men, they all have bikes that are technically far superior to what they actually need, they all have a gps unit for navigation, most nowadays are riding electric assisted bikes, they stop wherever and whenever they please. The more virulent ones have guides in Hi-Viz vests riding front and rear. You don’t mess with these retirees!

They swarmed over the path leaving me no option but to hit the water.
With clenched teeth, beating heart and sweaty palms through the puddle and the shock of the water spray on my feet was… was…… was….. Not what I was expecting!

The sky is literally closing in! ​

It wasn’t unpleasant. It was disorientating. I felt myself tumbling, not from the bike, but from the current time, back to a time when it was fun to get wet, when getting wet and dirty was just a part of the fun, before adulthood dominated and life was governed by a need to be clean, presentable and sensible. There’s nothing sensible about ploughing through a muddy puddle. But there was an almost religious aspect to it.
The sprinkling of water on my toes, but more especially between my toes was like a natural world baptism, an awakening to the feel of nature on my flesh. It sure felt good to be awake!

An interesting day ahead! ​

So back on the road to Burgos, I had learned to seek out puddles on the road. But thus far, a full body immersion of a natural world baptism had been avoided. Until today.

The day had started very, very early. Predawn, in fact. The day was cloudy and the route was mainly a road for the first little while, but soon I was travelling on narrow country lanes with high hedges. The further I went, the greater the number of trees and the less of a solid surface underneath the wheels. Soon I was rolling through epic forests on sandy soil. And then the rain came. And I received my full immersion baptism in the Natural World.

There is no place to shelter. The rain isn’t falling - it’s being driven by some force far above. Without tree cover it descends at high velocity. Under tree cover, it’s speed is dampened, it meanders down through the leaves and branches, individual drops massing together until their combined mass impels them downwards, a lazy bombing of water from above.

Still dry...... But for how long?​

It’s uncomfortable when that first big drop penetrates your rain gear to wiggle down between your collar and neck and then takes a mosey down your back. Sensuous, but not in a conventional sense. And then there are more and more, the little rushing streams on the path surface replicated down my back. And then the discomfort is over. I'm wet and there’s not much I can do about it. (Thanks Sports Direct for a cheapy rain jacket!)

This is the beauty of bike travel - you are as one with nature. That hedge at the side of the road is soaked. So are you. In a car you just don’t get that. The rain is a distraction, to be avoided, to be wiped away. On a bike you are the rain!

There’s nothing to do except enjoy! And enjoy I did! The sand, which until then had been a golden colour, turned a dark red in the wet. Dark mini rivers gushed down the country lanes, filling holes, curving around obstacles. A school geography lesson on the formation of rivers, erosion and the creation of bow lakes right before my eyes. The rivers became lakes and soon the lakes became seas. The water was everywhere. And rising. Walkers stepped off the path and walked along the raised edges at the sides, but I ploughed on through the mud, the water and the sand, muddy water splashing all over me, between my toes, only to be rinsed off in the rain.

The highpoint was at some kind of a working point in a forest where the path widened out to maybe 15 meters. Heavy trucks or tractors obviously frequented here because the ground had been dug up by big, big tyres. The whole area, from the ditch on one side to the other was covered in dark brown water of unknown depth. I looked around for a sensible way through. The only alternative was to take my bags off the bike and walk the 300-400 meter length of this impromptu lake along the ditch at the side.

As I stood contemplating this option, my sandalled feet in about two inches of Spanish rainwater, I remembered their first soaking and the lesson learned. I checked my handlebar bag that my electronics were wrapped in plastic and pedalled into the lake.

I had no idea what was under me or how deep the water was. My panniers were waterproof - well, at least I was about to find out just how true this was! - The worst that could happen was that I’d get muddy and wet as opposed to just wet!

I watched my front wheel carefully as I rode in, watched the brownish reddish water rise against my bright yellow front panniers. Half way up, the water levelled off which meant that on every downstroke of my pedals my feet were diving into the water. Now all I had to do was keep going towards the other side! Even though I could see clearly, I had no idea just where I was cycling. It was like cycling blind - I had to judge the conditions for the front wheel by feel. Pieces of tree or rocks caused jolts in the steering. Turn too fast and I could feel the loose surface sliding away underneath the wheel. Turn too slow and my momentum dropped leading to a fine balancing act on a loaded bicycle! And so it went for about 350 meters until the water against my panniers started to fall back down. I have to say there was a certain regret when I rode out of that lake on the other side. For a few minutes I had been an explorer, wandering through the unknown. I was sad to be leaving that behind. The thrill of the danger of falling was gone and the excitement was gone too.

(Now, with a bit more experience under my belt, I realise that it wasn’t the cleverest idea immersing my front hub in the water. Now that I have a Son Dynohub, such fun is forbidden me).

There were no more lakes that day, but lots of fun cycling. Water and sand makes for a fun surface to ride on. I was nearly disappointed when the route joined a road again, but up ahead was a hostel that served food and coffee so that eased my disappointment.

I cycled up the short hill to this little outpost of relief, and wandered towards the warm, steamy room. Outside, I stripped off my dripping outer layer, to reveal my dripping inner layers and floated inside on the smell of fresh coffee. The smile that greeted me from the young girl behind the counter matched my own mood. Anybody that works in the service industry and doesn’t have empathy with their customers is in the wrong job. In a mishmash of languages and gestures I was bade most welcome, my cafe con leche was prepared and I was offered my choice of delicious Spanish fare.

Now that I was sitting my wet clothes left me cold, but the warm coffee helped warm me up. My tortilla de patata satisfied my hunger. My second coffee and some cake made me feel like the most pampered, spoilt person in the world. I'm sure I looked like a bedraggled puppy, but inside I felt like an explorer who had defied the elements and survived! I felt reborn!

As I shuffled outside to smoke my cigarette, looking for a shelter from the rain I felt like a champion of travel. Just then, there wasn’t a single thing I couldn’t do.

An older, but leanly fit German in professional standard cycling gear toting a mountain bike that would cost me three months salary approached me and was warmly engaged in conversation. A fellow cyclist would understand how I was feeling and we could share stories of the road!

His opening conversational gambit was a little odd, even for the formal Germans.

“Are you getting a taxi too?” He asked a slightly bewildered me.

“Eh… a taxi? No….. I’m on a bike” I replied cheerfully, “the same as you”, I added with a comradely smile.

“No. I can’t ride in this rain” was the short reply.

“Oh! But you have the bike for it”, I said, looking enviously at his top of the range tackle-all-environments bike. And pointing to his top of the range rain gear that he was sporting I laughingly pointed out that he was far better equipped than me.

“Nein. It is too wet” was his clipped reply.

“Oh, I don’t know”, was my still optimistic reply. “I’ve had a lot of fun today. Take your time and it should be fine”.

I should have known not to use the fun word with a German. It doesn’t translate well at all! (Apologies to all my German friends!)

I think his answer could best be described as a dismissive grunt. Then he pointed to a similarly clad guy with a similarly specced bike and announced that they had ordered a taxi to take them to Burgos. The next day they would get a train to Santiago and go home.

I was shocked. “When did you start”, I asked, thinking that maybe they had cycled from Germany and time was running out.

“Today”, he answered.

“Whoah!”, I exclaimed! “You can’t be serious! You can’t stop on your first day! It’s only a bit of rain!”.

And thus I made my second mistake, suggesting a German was not serious! (More apologies to my, now fewer, German friends!)

“Ja! It is too wet for cycling”.

And my final gambit: “But you can always take the roads instead of the paths. No sand. Good drainage. The surface will be a lot safer”.

Then he looked me straight in the eyes and said “We travelled by road”.

I had nothing more.

Just then, a minivan pulled up and the driver approached us looking for his customers. I watched the two guys load their bikes into the back of a van, politely declined when they offered me a ride, and watched bemused as the van pulled away.

I’ve thought about it afterwards, and I reckon that all the gore tex they were wearing meant that the water never splashed between their toes.

Later that day, I arrived in Burgos, still in the rain.
Trying to find a space to dry my clothes in the big hostel was a challenge! I have a recollection of boots and shoes everywhere. I was incredibly surprised to be given the option of bringing my muddy machine, dripping red mud and sand everywhere through the pristine lobby.

Cleaning the bike was a cinch - I took it into the street, stood it over a drain and with a rag and the still falling rain cleaned the last of the red mud off.

After my chores were done I wandered across the road to a cafe to have a beer and some food. There I met another German*, a girl this time, just arrived, reading a guide book in German. We struck up a conversation and she expressed amazement at the rain. I pointed to the book and said that surely there was some weather information in there.

“Oh, I just picked this up now, I haven’t actually read anything. I did not bring any rain gear. Do you think I should get some?” was her reply.

I looked outside at the pouring rain, the rivers rushing down both sides of the hilly street and smiled. “Yes, a rain jacket would be a very good idea”, I said, “but let your toes get wet every now and then”.

I don’t think she got me.

* The year I did the Camino I encountered quite a lot of Germans. Most had been inspired by a book written by a German comedian the previous year. This happens a lot when the Camino rises in prominence in one country.

Don't go to Northern Spain and not expect some rain!

​

 

[HobbesOnTour]

The Crash

According to my speedo ( the bike computer, not swimming accoutrements) I had hit speeds of 75 kph on one of my descents. On a loaded touring bike that’s fast! I remember thinking how ironic it would be if my child-like obsession with looking at my speed would be responsible for me not paying enough attention to the road and crashing.

But the real irony, and luck, was that when the crash came it was at about 10 kph, on the flat, in the middle of nowhere.

I’m still not sure what happened, but at a low speed, on a dusty, rocky lane my front wheel hit an immovable rock so that the wheel deflected one way and I deflected the other. I hit the ground before I even knew what was happening.

Some very, very young vino tinto (you would not believe how many "pilgrims" would take grapes from vineyards - and then discover they are inedible!)​

I’m still amused to think that the first thing I did was to look forward, then back, to see if anyone had witnessed my embarrassment. But it seemed the only other people on the road were too far away to see any detail - at least I couldn’t see any detail of them.

So I lay there for a few minutes as the different aches and pains started to kick in. I think it was when I noticed the blood flowing in the sand that I thought I’d better get up and inspect myself.

I picked up the bike and it seemed to be ok. The handlebar bag (a freebie a few years old) had opened and emptied itself.

The base of the palm of my hand was stinging and had lost a lot of skin, replaced by sand and grit from the road, sticking to the blood. My arm had lost a lot of skin too as had my knee and thigh areas, all on the right hand side. My right shoulder was unnaturally sore while my arm was immovable. The right side of my chest had some scratches and very, very tender to the touch.

With a calm detachment, I started to clean myself up. I was so glad that my first aid kit was to hand, at the top of one of my panniers. I washed the dirt off my wounds and applied an antiseptic liquid to the open wounds. I may have made some squealing noises because I could see the couple of walkers, far, far down the road, stop and turn around. I waved hoping to semaphore that I was OK. (In reality, I am the world's whingiest patient).

I had no bandages or plasters big enough to cover the big wounds, but I padded my palm with tissue paper.

All this time my shoulder and arm were very painful, so when the wounds were tended to, I attempted to swing my arm to introduce some mobility. It took a few attempts but finally there was a weird jolting sensation in my shoulder and a ferocious pain that after it slowly subsided meant I could move my arm again.

Thankfully, I had no qualms about getting back on the bike, but I can tell you it hurt. A lot! Moving my legs seemed to stretch and relax the scratches on my leg and my hands on the handlebar were a fiery agony.

On I rolled and decided to get myself a hotel for a bit of privacy and luxury. As it turned out, I couldn’t afford any luxury, so I went for a bit of privacy.

In the background of this pic is a small village - a common sight along the way. I loved spying one in the distance and wandering towards it, the spire of the church pointing the way. I could spend an hour or two exploring these little places.​

I had lost my cycling gloves in France and not bothered to replace them. Replace them now I did, albeit a little late. I didn’t notice then, but the crash had ripped the wires of my bike computer out so that it was busted. When I noticed this, a couple of days later, I got a new one. (Yes, it took me a couple of days to notice!)

I continued on, slowly and when I got to Santiago the continuing pain in my chest and shoulder drove me to the Hospital. A very efficient service diagnosed me with bruised ribs and apparently I had dislocated my shoulder, although it was back in place now. I was to take it easy and wear a sling to support the healing of my shoulder. When I explained that I was on a bike, and would be living in a tent they gave me a strange look, a prescription for very strong painkillers and forgot about the sling!

 

[HobbesOnTour]

Highs and Lows

I didn’t do a lot of forward planning for this trip. Even if I had, I really wouldn’t have done any elevation planning. Until very recently I took the attitude that if there’s a hill that I need to go over, I’ll go over it. I don’t need to know how high it is.

It reinforces the idea I have that I’m exploring. Too much foreknowledge and I can’t be exploring, now, can I? I’m just counting down the meters until I hit the top.

That was all well and good until I ended up tackling the two highest climbs on the same day!

Down low it was a nice day ​

There are certain “epic” places along the Camino route, the kinds of places that most people have heard of. The Cruz de Fero is one of these places, a steel cross, seemingly mounted in a pile of rubble. The tradition is for people to carry a pebble from their start point, perhaps signifying a burden or a problem and to leave it there, symbolically lightening their load.

That may be the tradition, but the reality is, unfortunately a bit more tacky than that with all kinds of things being left there from teddy bears to underwear, to handwritten notes and typed books left wedged under rocks to blow away.
(It's not widely known but a group of local volunteers regularly go up and remove the worst of the rubbish. It is amazing, and a little sad to me, how so many "Pilgrims" totally disrespect the local environment and people in the name of tradition. Do not get me started on the sh1thousery at Finisterre!!)

I had been looking forward to visiting this place and relieving myself of some burdens. I had brought a stone from home and following what I had read, I took it out regularly on my trip, held it and thought about what it represented. I was ready to lighten my load.

The approach is not easy on a bike and I struggled up, mainly dragging the bike with me. The weather didn’t help, damp, cold, foggy. Nor did my injuries! But up the big hill I struggled, and struggled some more until I was at last at the Cruz de Ferro.

A different day...but you get the idea!​

To say it was an anti-climax would be like saying that my struggle to the top was a summer stroll. It wasn’t the fault of the Cruz itself, but more of the people who happened to be at it at that particular time. One in particular, who was loud and seemed to view the location as her own fiefdom.

I took my time trying to find a place to lean the bike up against, a surprisingly difficult chore.

I feel uneasy describing the behaviour of the Queen of the Cruz (as I sarcastically referred to her), but she was loud, demanding, nosey and scrambling all over the Cruz. I wasn’t the only one taken aback by her performance.

I looked around me and saw a few others waiting for the Queen of the Hill to shut up and calm down. Even her friends seemed a bit embarrassed.

The Queen of the Cruz helped me to understand this attitude​

The weather was not great, a misty rain was falling, it was cold up there and the heat I had built up on the climb was quickly dissipating. The urge I had was to hop on the bike and head down the other side and forget about this place, but that did not seem right. This place had been looming large on my journey for a long time I did not want to leave this place with such a negative cloud around me.

The idea of having a specific place to drop our burdens is a nice one to have. It suggests a destination, a place to aim for. Just over that hill, around that bend things will be better. Just carry the burden there, then drop it. It's a comforting thought.

But life's not like that as I discovered when I realised I no longer had my stone! I'd lost it earlier in my crash and hadn't even noticed, lost amongst a pile of stones on a dusty lane. My immediate reaction was a huge sense of loss caused by not having the stone. Had the Queen not been prancing around I'd have flung my leg over the bike and continued on draped in a black cloud.

However, her presence and my determination not to let her steal the moment forced me to stop and have my head overrule my heart.

Once I realised that the stone was only a symbol and probed for what it represented I figured out that my troubles had gone too!

My logical side tells me that the process of taking the stone out regularly and confronting what it represented as opposed to shying away from it allowed me to gain some peace, but the romantic side of me loves the idea that by being focused on a time and place to discard a burden I missed the fact that the burden just fell away!

Thanks Queen of the Cruz!

When I left she was still shouting and screaming, recognising new arrivals, wanting to know why they were there. I was ready to go. So I did.

I was happy enough heading down the hill, although it was cold. I didn't want to meet the Queen again so I pushed on, headed onwards and as it turned out, upwards, heading towards O'Ceberio. This is where the lack of planning kicks in. The Cruz is at 1490 Mtrs and O'Ceberio is at 1300Mtrs. And there’s a drop to almost sea level between them. (I had to look up those numbers!)

The walker’s path goes off the road into dense brush that would have had me manhandling the bike so I stuck with the road. To say it was steep would be an understatement. It was steepness on top of steepness.

Some devilish entrepreneur had painted a sign on the road that there was a bar/hostel in 1000 meters! One thousand meters!! Sure, that's just a hop, a skip and a jump!

By now the shadows were getting longer and colder, late by Pilgrim standards, so I was elated! 1 Km!! Food! Drink! Truthfully, I didn’t care about sleeping! I wanted a cold beer and some food! Around every bend I hoped to see light emerging from the shadows. Around every turn I was disappointed. The energy kick from the sign was fading like the light. It was getting colder too.

I was constantly scanning the road ahead and above for the warm welcoming glow of an Albergue, a bar, even a barn would be welcome. Then, in the distance I could see more white paint on the road! That must be a big Bienvenido written on the road! A final kick to get there! Yaaaaaay!

It was the same text - almost. 1000 meters was now 500 meters. I nearly cried. I did! I have never (and hope never to) cycled such a hard 500 meters in my life!

It has also reinforced for me that knowing how far I have to go is not always a good idea!

By the time I reached the Albergue I could barely speak. My legs were like jelly. As the host booked me in, a long and unnecessarily complicated process, I had a beer. Long and cool and surprisingly refreshing. I asked about food. I was late. In fairness, fearing that he might have a gibbering mess on his hands he told me I could go to my dorm, get organised and when I came back he’d have a sandwich for me. I nearly wished he’d adopt me.

I went to my dorm, met my roommates, had a quick shower, washed my clothes and headed back to the bar. Sandwich was on the way, so I sat outside nursing a beer. I watched two big shepherd type dogs, seemingly without human assistance, drive a herd of cattle and some calves home for the night. It was a genuinely fascinating experience. I’ve seen farm dogs in action, but not like this! These dogs were huge. And efficient. And seemingly working alone, without human interference. I imagine that this process had not changed much in decades, if not centuries. What a great world I was travelling through!

Cows with cowbells! I love 'em! ​

The descent the next day was fabulous!

 

[HobbesOnTour]

The People:

The Camino is a lot of things for a lot of people. There is no doubt that there are some serious Pilgrims along the route, devout believers. And there are others who treat it as a cheap holiday, bussing from place to place, taking advantage of cheap accommodation, cheap food and drink and cheap experiences. There are those that think they’re devout, those that know they are sinners with good reason, and those that think they are sinners with no reason at all.

You meet all kinds. They are all around. Some are carrying tremendous burdens, physical and psychological. Some have saved for years and years to have the chance to do this trip. Others just flit in and out as they feel like it. Some are bending their bodies to their will, not always with success.

All of humanity is on display. Sometimes, it’s not always pleasant.

Alto del Perdón, a famous landmark along the Camino. My trip up (780 meters) was assisted by a local amateur photographer who pointed out a longer, though less steep, approach to me. Later, we chatted at the top. I was horrified by the quantity and quality of the graffiti and he expressed his sadness at the decline of the site with each passing year.​

In the last decade the numbers attempting the Camino have exploded, as have the services available to Pilgrims.

There are now choices of Albergues, from the traditional, basic and cheap Municipal or Religious to private ones of higher standards to hotels. There are services to carry your bags from place to place. Cleverly placed signs on climbs promise collection within minutes! While watching the people at the Cathedral in Santiago, I was given a card offering a service to satisfy my spiritual and emotional needs if I felt unfulfilled at the end of my Camino!

And of course there are the bus tours, bringing you from location to location, letting you walk a km or two and then on to a hotel.

I personally witnessed two of these. One was a bus that dropped its passengers close to significant places so they could walk a kilometer or two. Invariably these people spread out and took over the whole path or road. One memorable day racing a thundercloud along a canal I lost my patience a bit when my route was blocked every ten meters by a couple of these walkers swinging their walking poles.

The second was a Dutch bus with a large trailer for bikes. They'd drive to the top of a hill, stop, unload the bikes and ride downhill. The bus would pick them up at the bottom!
(The really, really amusing part of this tale is that some of the bikes were E-bikes! )

Every now and then there's be a message like this on the road, on a wall, anywhere really. There were times that such a message was very uplifting! ​

Personally, I believe there is a special, separate section of Hell reserved for cyclists who barrel through the Camino.

It is possible to follow (all) of the Camino route(s) on the road without ever going near the Pilgrim path. In fact, the road is often the most traditional route as the road was built over the original Pilgrim route.

A lot of the path is wide enough to allow both cyclists and pedestrians without too many issues - once you bear in mind that it’s a Pilgrimage (even if you don’t see it that way) and that people, will, almost by default, be in their own worlds.

However, some parts are so rough as to be virtually impassable by a loaded bike, others are so narrow that anything other than walking pace will be very uncomfortable.

I followed the Walker’s route as much as possible, taking to the road when it was close by, or when the walking option was just impassable. I stopped lots of times and enjoyed many interesting conversations. I wasn’t the only cyclist on that route, but I’m fairly sure I was the slowest. Groups of Mountainbikers were the worst, barrelling through, sending pilgrims scattering like headless chickens. Poor form, in my book. There was nothing more frustrating than hearing a loud "left" in English, or French or Italian or German or Dutch or some other language and a couple of bikes racing past before I'd even processed what it meant.

You might be a member of a club and all your clubmates might understand what you mean, but on a public way, especially a pilgrimage route, the chances are a lot of people won't have a clue what you mean.

I'd regularly sit in the morning savouring a café con leche and letting the long stream of pilgrims spread out. Mornings were also a great time to explore the cities before most of the population were awake. Sometimes I'd take the road, double back, then start off on the Walker's route.

Of course, the other people to be encountered are the locals. And the vast, vast majority are friendly, helpful and welcoming. There's a massive infrastructure in place because so many people make the pilgrimage every year and it is a livelihood for many people.

On my wandering around, I'd often be stopped by locals concerned I was lost and heading in the wrong direction!

I recall vividly one day going off route and climbing a long hill surrounded with the most beautiful smelling plants. I was away from the Pilgrims and just enjoying the moment. I didn't mind the climb because I knew I'd turn around and fly down.

A car passed me slowly, the driver looking intently at me. A little later he had pulled in and advised me I was going the wrong way. In my pidgin Spanish I thanked him but explained that I knew I was off route, but that it was ok. There were smiles and backslaps and off he went. I admired the view for a while, then continued upwards. A couple of bends later, there he was again, this time more determined to tell me I was going wrong! I clearly couldn't explain properly what I was doing and his earnestness to help a random stranger was so genuine that I couldn't but comply with his direction to turn around.

Their patience, with sometimes very ignorant behaviour of some visitors, was exemplary.

Free wine! Yes! A vineyard on route has red wine (& water) on tap for thirsty pilgrims!​

The last stage, after Sarria, was so busy with walkers I'd stock up on food, find a shaded place in the woods and lay down to read my Kindle or just enjoy eavesdropping on the passing conversations. (Sarria is just over 100km from Santiago and since 100km is the minimum distance for an official certificate, lots of people start at Sarria.)

Vino tinto! Most "Pilgrim" deals included wine and were based on two people sharing. As a solo traveller nearly every place gave me a couple's allocation. ​

To me, the people were the main point of interest of my Camino. I love watching people and there was no shortage of entertainment. That's not to say that other factors weren't important. The landscapes can be wonderful, or boring. The architecture is amazing! The food is to die for (although a little searching can improve things significantly). The vino tinto is delicious, nutritious and cheap! The café con leche is worth a trip to Spain alone!

There were times as a cyclist I felt an outsider and there were times I was made to feel an outsider. There were a couple of times when I found the Albergues to be a bit oppressive, but mainly very interesting, if not always comfortable.

I recall a Texan lady (on the day of my two climbs) declaring loudly to her companions (not to me) that cycling was cheating. I passed no comment when I subsequently learned that her backpack travelled by bus every day and she took a cab most days after walking a couple of Kms. I rarely mentioned my start point, nor the fact that I would be travelling home under my own steam. As is usual, most people were good and kind, it's just the outliers that stay in our minds.

Some of the architecture was outstanding!! If you like bridges I heartily recommend! ​

I recall another wet, windy day entering a tiny and packed café to find a group of pilgrims eating their own food and drinking their own hot beverages (made from freely supplied hot water) at one of the few tables. Going by the gear they carried and the phones on the table they weren't short of a bob or two and it would have been easy to focus on their selfishness. Instead, however, I was blown away by the generosity and calmness of the staff. Some people are just amazing!

Sometimes towns were entered through the old city walls. For anyone with a smidgen of imagination an adventure in it's own right! ​

 

[jay clock]

EXCELLENT.. Thanks

 

[anothersam]

This is all just fantastic. Thanks from me, too.

My logical side tells me that the process of taking the stone out regularly and confronting what it represented as opposed to shying away from it allowed me to gain some peace, but the romantic side of me loves the idea that by being focused on a time and place to discard a burden I missed the fact that the burden just fell away!

 

[HobbesOnTour]

EXCELLENT.. Thanks

This is all just fantastic. Thanks from me, too.

Thanks for the kind words 😊
Much appreciated.

 

[HobbesOnTour]

It's funny how things turn out.....
When I started this travelogue I had to supplement posts with photos from different trips and now as I come to the end I've lots of photos but not enough words! 😀

I hope you'll indulge me as I stick up some photos and attempt to give some context. 😊

I mentioned before about lots of bridges.... Well this one has a story about it, built by a spurned knight as a way to prove his love.
They hold annual jousting (and other knightly endeavour) contests in the field to the left....

Sometimes the views are just spectacular. I particularly enjoyed seeing productive areas carved out from inhospitable landscapes like the vineyard below

I know a view like this can be daunting to some, but when you're in it as opposed to looking at it, something just kicks in!

My photography skills are appalling but this is actually a picture on the ground made from flower petals!
I came across several of these and have no idea how or how long it took to put them together! A gust of wind and they were gone!
They were all religious in tone and I presumed that they were related to communion or confirmation ceremonies

The Mighty Rocco!
All the things a touring bike shouldn't be yet he not only survived, he thrived!

I took an unusually early day and driven out of the Albergue by some backpackers I found this little rio. The man (and his son out of shot) are actually fishing! They were searching for and plucking out freshwater prawns (I think!)

There's something so adventurous about these roads! By dawdling in the mornings I often had big sections all to myself!

I loved approaching these villages! Seen from miles away they promised food and coffee although usually after a big hill! Oftentimes the older citizens would be sitting outside, observing wryly or offering encouragement. I really, really wished I could have had proper conversations with them.

I took this while waiting for my clothes to dry. Some Italian MTBers had taken over the dorm and peace was to be found waiting for laundry to dry

There's a little weir this side of the bridge and the sound of the water flowing over it was a balm to the soul. I laid down in the shade for an hour or so just letting the water music calm me. Unlike the walkers, I had no real time pressure.

Normal service will be resumed..... shortly

 

[CharlesF]

You might say that you are not a good photographer, but nearly all are evocative to me. Especially the roads stretching away, seems to say “Follow me for adventure”.

 

[HobbesOnTour]

Especially the roads stretching away, seems to say “Follow me for adventure”.

I love my road shots for exactly that reason - here lives adventure! 😄

I only started doing it consciously on the Velodyssey - it had never really crossed my mind before that.

 

[Pat "5mph"]

Really enjoyed this tale @HobbesOnTour!
Thanks so much for writing it up.
Stay safe and well xxx

 

[IaninSheffield]

What a very different but equally fascinating and informative post. Your journey’s ‘story’ usually weaves a chronological path, whether recounting a day travelling from A to B, or a longer stage unfolding over the course of a week. In this post ‘time’ takes a back seat and instead allows matter and space to shine. It’s a tale driven by things, effects and affect. Maybe it tells us a little more about you? A village is more than a cluster of dwellings and becomes a source of comfort and relief. A stream burbling over a weir offers peace and relaxation. A few bits of metal and rubber, or thread and textiles, become significant characters and companions … friends even.

For me it was much more than ‘sticking up some photos.’
Brill!

 

[HobbesOnTour]

Thanks, @IaninSheffield ! Very, very kind words - my poor head is in danger of exploding!

The fact of the matter is that I'm finding it very difficult to put together the last posts on this thread and that one was an easy way to procrastinate 😊

I'm sure I'm not alone in having some photos that have particular significance, where the feelings inspired by them are reignited to be enjoyed again and again.

I have a weakness for all things water related. That's not the first weir to stop me in my tracks! There's a fabulous one in Landsberg am Lech (Germany) that caused me to stop for an extra day in a town with an interesting history (Mein Kampf was written in the prison there) and to be totally charmed by it.

I've mentioned it already here somewhere that it would be a great way to pass the time at the moment, inspire folks and relive our former adventures by posting a photo and the story behind it. A community travelogue, if you will.

At the moment, this is one pic that picks me up when I'm feeling down.

My thanks to @cwskas for mapping my route.
Feckin' Mexico!
Estoy en México con mi bicicleta!
CV has probably taken my trip away from me, but I'll always have this!