knowns . . .

. . . a few weeks ago my brother-in-law suggested getting a train to Bayonne, bus to St Jean Pied de Port, get on the camino . . . it's known . . . somewhere to go, places to sleep . . . yesterday a message from a friend and a different take on the same topic . . . are you finding the camino too predictable for your open journey . . . well, the camino is well known . . . plenty of books, maps, websites . . . even a film . . .and well marked with posts and the ubiquitous yellow arrows . . . here in Granon a post points to Santiago and helpfully tells me it's only 555 km . . . the countdown markers are too much in the known . . . somebody wrote on one saying so . . .after St Domingo the plates had been ripped off . . .

. . . I have no guide book or overall map . . . pick up the tourist leaflet in each state, update open albergues with the tourist inf folks . . . each day new options . . . stay here, push on, take a rest day . . . my Helpx host has a teacher for a month or two, so I can slow things down a bit . . . on the other hand, Ernesto tells me snow is forecast Friday night, better get over the high point and forest before then . . . more options, if I can get over, fine . . . if not I can wait or take a bus . . . anyway I am setting off early this morning . . .

exploring this question of the knowns: known unknowns - someone knows it, you don't, but you can find out if you want; known knowns - everyone knows it; known unknowns - theories yet to be proven, experienced; unknown unknowns - the things you don't even know you don't know . . . which is where it gets really interesting . . . movement towards the unknown unknown transforms it to a known unknown, then a known . . . and on we go . . . possibly . . .

. . . as for the camino, Alex had a Michelin guide, which looked comprehensive . . . John a book by John Brierley, combining maps, handy tips, places to see and philosophy . . . one to read later perhaps . . . anyway, the key information is: the map is not the territory and thinking it is can be dangerous . . .

lonely . . .

. . . another friend offers feedback . . . I am grateful . . . an apprentice writer needs encouragement and criticism . . . the post that inspired the message saying I sounded harsh on the young American playing "poor me" had me reflecting on how to write interesting material in a subtle way . . . actually the first friend suggested I sounded like a Daily Mail reader. British readers will know that's shorthand for xenophobic, narrow-minded, petit bourgeois . . . except possibly for actual Daily Mail readers who may think it stands for sensible, moderate and upright citizen . . . I was not offended; after all, that's my choice and I know my friend was teasing . . .
the second friend was not triggered by the "poor me" story, but felt I was judging Craig, the loner. Actually, I warmed to him, being a loner myself.

Tonight I seem to be the only pilgrim in the hippy albergue. Since there is no heating, I am in a bar writing. The host from the church albergue has come in to use the wifi. They have heating and no wifi. Francisco is staying there and I am tempted by the heating but intrigued by the philosophy at La Casa de las Sonrisas . . . the experience may be a little uncomfortable, but it wants to be known.

As for the host at the warm albergue, Jose- Manuel, he is last night's host, Juan-Luis' alter ego . . . in his youth an ETA activist from the Basque country.

Thanks to you dear readers, those who encourage, those who offer constructive criticism, those who just read. A writer is only really a writer with readers.

I am enjoying the role and if it means I am pilgrimming part-time, storying the trip as I go, that's fine for me. Actually, I am more rambler than pilgrim. Loving the challenge of the camino. Loving the people I meet. Loving the continuing connection with heart friends from the previous acts in the drama . . .

Najera to Granon . . .

A brisk hour to Anofra and coffee and wifi . . . the albergue in Najera was wifi free, which is not to be confused with free wifi . . . one gives you peace and absence of frequency agitation, the other communication . . . after some writing and posting, last night's salad of spinach, tomatoes, asparagus and avocado, followed by soup with potatoes, onions, carrots, beans, chick peas . . . some Rioja for the last day in the area . . . was processed and ready to return to the earth . . . a clean servicios . . . another coffee, this time with a splash of brandy . . . the other pilgrims go by, except Mani, who comes in for coffee . . .

. . . fall in with Joe, John and Dylan for a while . . . discuss national stereotypes . . . our attractions and aversions . . . three Americans and a Brit . . . Joe is drawn to the Latin temperament and Irish . . . Northern Europeans not so much . . . what about you, they ask . . . well, my problem was always with Americans, I say . . . and you three are wonderful . . . it's the mind that creates difference, the open heart finds similarity. . .

. . . once judgement is suspended, our attractions and aversions may be about common vibrations . . . soul tribes . . . within any national stereotype, we are going to find people we are drawn to more than others . . . if that's the heart speaking, it's a reminder to connect . . . as for my current favourite national stereotypes, it's Greeks, Spaniards and Portuguese . . .

Joe stops to talk to a local working in the field . . . I get back into my favoured brisk pace, forge ahead . . . walking alone is best, the occasional companion welcome . . .

. . . at Ciruena, a golf development . . . the club offers pilgrims cheap deals . . . imagine a golf club in England encouraging scruffy pilgrims . . . this place is tumblewood town . . . off season and maybe victim of the economic crisis . . .

. . . to Santo Domingo, past a potato packing plant . . . some potatoes in a puddle . . . hmm, I picked some cabbage leaves earlier, from some strays from a previous crop, now free spuds, ready washed . . .

. . . lunch of bocadillo con tortilla at Miguel's . . . with wifi, of course . . . . . . on to Granon and a completely different kind of albergue . . . bed, shower, dinner, breakfast, all by donation . . . it has the feel of a hippy squat (and I have lived in some of them) arty graffiti on the walls, a box of felt tips to encourage you . . . the world's tallest Christmas tree with a bottle of wine on top being constructed, ready for the television cameras tomorrow . . . . . . more after dinner, when I have had a chance to find out . . .

Life school . . .

. . . imagine Life as a school . . . the three treasures: Patience, Simplicity, Compassion, the core curriculum. . . .

. . . each experience a lesson, learnt through problems to be solved . . . the lesson repeated with different experiences until it is learnt . . . sometimes hard lessons take a while . . . years . . . a lifetime . . .

. . . subsequent lessons build on previous ones . . . nothing wasted . . . reflection helps to create a narrative to give some shape to the emergent whole . . . the lessons we love are easy . . . the ones we dislike, we avoid . . . they are the ones where the learning is richest . . . "in the cave we fear to enter, lies the treasure which we seek" as Joseph Campbell so beautifully tells it . . .

. . . although, in a different analogy, the cave where we feel safe may be a place of complacency . . . cosy . . . the classroom of the School of Life is outside the known . . . past the culturally conditioned cages . . . in the wild wide open spaces . . .

. . . and also inside . . . beyond mind, through the heart portal, the door to everything . . .

Logrono to Najera . . .

Porridge for breakfast, with honey from Remy and pastries from John, who also uses his professional skills to make coffee with the machine in the bar. This place is quite easy going. John talks about his vision for some family land in Croatia: a project teaching children agricultural skills.
I love hearing people's dreams.

Remy and I set off on the 31km stage to Najera . . . keeping to the route out of the city is tricky . . . a little colder today and a few showers . . . and so, two hours of philosophy in French . . . Remy is walking five continents, so the camino is more of a warm up than major trek.

At Navarette we meet Dylan and Joe at the church . . . the most ornate I have seen, with gold leaf all over . . . and over the top for me . . .

Remy decides to rest there after his 40 km day yesterday . . . Joe, Dylan and I push on to Ventosa, coffee and a simpler church . . .
We catch up with Francisco, struggling with his feet, then I push ahead to Najera, feeling fit and fancying a 40km day on the plains ahead.

The municipal albergue is run by volunteers, in this case Juan-Luis, who retired after 30 years a policeman and two motor cycle accidents. He walked four different camino routes before becoming a volunteer here. He makes tea for each arrival, using herbs gathered from the hills. Delicious. Will he keep it up when it's 90 pilgrims not the 9 here today? As a policeman, he served in the Basque country during the ETA uprising. Maybe that was his thing then. Seeing him here, he is certainly doing his thing now. Loving the pilgrim life, serving the pilgrims with love.

John arrives and we enjoy a shared meal in English and Spanish.
Dylan finds a guitar, which makes him happy. Music is his thing. Makes us happy too. He's good.

There are three types of albergue: parochial, church run and usually by donation or €5; municipal, usually €5 to €10, though this one is by donation; private, usually €10 and often offering meals too.

Since the camino has become big business for small businesses, there is often resentment from the private sector at what they consider unfair competition from the church and local government. Though in the main season, July and August, with 300,000 people on the road every day, they are all full. Imagine a 90 bed dormitory, on a hot summers night with all the snoring, coughing and farting. Late autumn and winter seems like the best time - cool for walking, plenty of space at the albergues.

As long as it doesn't snow.

3rd eye

Saturday was wet. It started Friday afternoon and kept going. I took a rest day.

In the evening I went for a walk, just to get outside. Still raining, though not too heavy.

I found a church, open, went inside, sat for a while. Wandered back towards the albergue, dark, but well lit in the drizzle. Ahead, a car, about to reverse, caught my attention. Bang! I walked into a lampost. A second of shock more than pain. Reflected that focusing on what's right in front of you is a good idea.

Back at the albergue, looked in the mirror. It was a mess. An inverted T shaped wound, in the middle of my forehead, blood splattered over my face. Cleaned it up, made my supper, reflected about sudden baptism. Later recalled the story from the Tibetan Lama, who had his third eye opened surgically. The skin pulled back, bone drilled out, skin sewn up.

Patxi patched me up, gave me spare plasters for the road.

Now I have a neat scar to remind me to watch where I'm going. I quite like it.

Torres de Rio to Logrono . . .

A later start this morning, since the albergue folks like to sleep in at this time of year. Climbing gently out of Torres, the view opened out and I could see today's destinations - Viana on a hill but spreading out below and Logrono, my first city, having taken the Aragon route and missed Pamplona, sprawling across the plain, the River Ebro bisecting it.

The sky was fascinating. Glowering above, some blue appearing, shafts of light to the south, a rainbow to the north, rain over Logrono, Viana in a sunny spotlight.

In Viana, a coffee, pastry, water, wifi and an hour catching up online. Stepping outside, I see it has rained. Wandering on, a smiley policewoman call me: "Are you looking for the Albergue?"
"No, going on to Logrono", I reply, "but Viana is very beautiful".
"You must see the ruins of the cathedral of San Pedro", she says.
I go.

Most of the churches are locked, which is rather peculiar to me, since the Camino goes from one to the next. I like to go inside when I can, for the energy. Maybe it's because they are constructed at the intersection of ley lines, maybe it's the hundreds of years of prayers, maybe both. The stained glass windows are amazing to see, though Durham's is as good as any.

On to Logrono. The graffiti grows. Some political, some philosophical, some banal.

It is 1.15 when I arrive at the municipal albergue. The notice says it opens at 3.

The parochial albergue looks rather grim, so I wander on and find a private one.
It is open, Juan is friendly, the place has a good feel.

A little later, a surprise. John, an American I met briefly in Puenta la Reina, turns up. I wanted to talk with him, thought he had moved on, and here he was. He runs the bar at the family hotel in Croatia - summer only. Looking for something. We have a warm conversation, some philosophy.

At six, Remy arrives. A French speaking Swiss, he has covered 40km today and is pleased to find Pilgrim Soup waiting for him. My Spanish, slowly improving, switches to French as I find out about his journey.

Another surprise - an offer from a Helpx host from Ourense, handily situated between Santiago and Portugal. Come and teach English for 3 or 4 hours a day, in exchange for accomodation. Share buying and preparing food. Perfect. And the reason for this temporary lapse into traditional punctuation, since I sent the link to the blog.

Such is the life led free and open-hearted.