Day 20

Iruña/Pamplona. I watch the children sitting in a circle in the shade and playing around the fountain. I wonder what they learn here about how to treat animals in a city that it is known for the Running of the Bulls and where even childrens’ toys represent that.

(I get part of the answer just minutes after I write this. Seven children copy the Running of the Bulls, they choose rolls, one is the priest, one the bull, the others are the runners. Curiously one has the role of the camera, pretending to film it. I am the camera too, observing them.)

There is more, of course. Every place has many sides. There is the farmacy offering pilgrims help, free of charge. There are beautiful buildings and green spaces. There is a man bringing water from the fountain to a woman who can’t reach it in her wheelchair., he applies it on her arms and back. There was a long sincere conversation with somebody on the street just after I arrived here yesterday. There is the hostel that feels like home, unfortunately they don’t have a bed for tonight so I will walk and sleep outside, after I come back here later. The fountain gave me an idea: it is the perfect place to put my punctured air mattress in to see where the hole is. Sleeping on a leaking air mattress is no fun, although waking up covered in morning dew (it cools down pleasantly here at night) makes up for it.

Day 19

I try to light a cigarette but can’t find any of the at least 5 lighters I have with me. The man I already noticed drinking a cortado gets up from the bench he is sitting on and walks over to me, handing me his lighter while making enthusiastic arm gestures and pointing at C., standing in the sun so the solar panels can do their work. I am drinking coffee in Jaca, it is a Sunday so the centre is slowly filling up. “What a great device!” He says, his eyes shining. “I have one as well, but it is big - he stretches his arms out to indicate the size - and it has 4 wheels. Sometimes you have to push it but it works great. I did 11 Caminos with it.” He assumes I am walking a pilgrim trail as well, I don’t tell him otherwise. He shows me a patch on his jacket, the Camino symbol, the shell you see on signs everywhere along the routes. When I was staying at the campsite in Huesca they used similar shells as ashtrays, it felt like a sacrilege, it made me smile. “We have the obligation to enjoy ourselves!” he says, still smiling. “Keep the lighter, bon camino!” He comes back a bit later, asks if I am not in a hurry to continue. “Never” I tell him. I have never in my life said so many times “No tengo prisa”, in al sorts of situations where I was waiting for something, be it information or something to eat or drink, or a bus arriving. He opens a little book, inside are 4 leaved lucky clovers, he takes one out and gives it to me. “It is from the day before yesterday,” he says, “good luck!” And he walks off again, letting me be. 

The walk from Sabiñánigo yesterday wasn’t too complicated, a long stretch of road going slowly up in a valley inbetween two mountain ranges. The vegetation here was different from what I had seen before. Fertile land, a river running through the middle of the valley, neverending wheat fields, many wild flowers. There is a footbridge now, connecting the valley with Sabiñánigo but the villages here were hard to reach in the old days.

Jaca is a proper city, situated higher up, with the Pyrenees functioning as a backdrop. I am aiming for the centre of town, which looks like quite a climb from the lower outskirts but my route leads me to a huge constellation with two open-air elevators and a bridge connecting them. I happily use it but I would also have happily dragged C. up a steep tarmac road after all the gravel trails. The city is busy, I forgot it was a Saturday and it is the hour where people go out again after the siesta to stroll around and have a drink. I walk out again, now along a road going down, passing a peaceful historical site, el fuente los baños y lavadros de Jaca, then steeply up again. I considered sleeping in the valley but I enjoyed the walking too much and there was a nicely located cheap campsite in nature, 2 kilometres out of the city. The closer I get, the quieter it becomes, the landscape opens up, wheat fields again and another mountain where the moon is already visible in the still blue sky. The campsite looks perfect but when I get to the entrañe I see the sign, saying it is closed. The man who stands next to it, as if waiting for me, tells me it has been closed since the pandemic, it was difficult to employ the staff needed to run it so now it is only open for people who rent a semi-permanent spot. Through the trees I see the swimming pool and people enjoying the cool water. “I don’t need anything, I only have a tiny tent,” I tell him but he shakes his head. “Why didn’t you call?” he says. “And all the other campsites around here are full.” “I don’t plan” I tell him. “I just walk.” He offers me something to drink and when I ask for some water he gives me a cold 1,5 litre bottle, more valuable in a way than a place to pitch my tent and have a shower. I linger for a bit, some people leave, some arrive, but nobody offers to take me in, only a little boy who looks at me curiously, then opens the gate and tells me to come in. I wave at him when I walk off, there is plenty of space all around to make a bed for the night. I walk 5 minutes and behind the enormous skeleton of a building under construction, a reverse ruin, never to be completed, there’s a cozy spot with a view of Jaca and the Pyrenees on one side and the moon over the mountain on the other side. 

Day 17

I’m reading Don Quijote in the Pirenarium in Sabiñánigo, Sabi as the bus driver called it affectionately. There was no problem carrying C. into the fortunately not so micro “microbus” yesterday and for most of the long drive through the beautiful countryside it was just me and the bus driver. There was no charge since the short train ride was replaced by a long bus ride, the tracks cut through the mountains but the road doesn’t. Maybe it was an inconvenience to others but I didn’t mind. Sabiñanigo was the last stop, there was another bus leaving to Jaca, where I had planned to travel by train and continue walking, but a heavy storm was forecast so I found a cheap bed in a former military complex, once barracks from the Batallon de Gravelinas, now housing a hostel and several cultural associations. It is an intruiging setting, in the big courtyard two ancient olive trees have been placed in huge planters and when I looked out of my window last night, I realised what the Pirenarium is: a large maquette - 200 metres wide, you can walk through it - of the Aragonese Pyrenees, with 113 scale models of monuments and buildings, placed in a simulation of the landscape. It has been closed since 10 years but the woman running the hostel told me they are restoring it. When I went to the communal bathroom this morning and entered the bathroom I had a perfect view of a mini version of the mountains I just walked through, bizarre.

I’ll stay here another night, to rest, to write and to plan how to proceed. This is not an easy area to walk through, nor is the territory ahead. It is a pity the Pirenarium is closed, otherwise I could have constructed a scale model of myself and simulate my next moves.

Day 15

My feet were up for it, C. was ready. I made herbal tea yesterday and left it in the fridge. I developed some new strategies in the last weeks to deal with the poor water quality. Here in the mountains the water from the tap is pretty ok but in a lot of places it smells and tastes horrible and on hot days the fountains give lukewarm water. I only buy water in bottles if there is really no other option, I have a water bottle with a filter that makes it possible to drink polluted water even,  although I haven’t been in a situation here where I had to do that. If I have the opportunity to boil water I make tea and carry it with me, I buy a lemon from time to time to flavour the water and I am not perfect so simetimes I buy a cold drink on a terrace with lots of ice and after I finish my drink, the ice cubes go in the water bottle.
 
I had decided to leave the Camino and walk a different trail because it was less steep, still there was an elevation of 250 metres in the first 5 kilometre and again it was a gravel road. It wasn’t as hot as it was before but still somewhere around 30 degrees. There has not been a day when the thought to give up didn’t cross my mind, but also there hasn’t been a day when there was no moment of extreme beauty and wonder, sometimes in encounters with people, sometimes in passing through an extraordinary landscape, sometimes in just waking up after a difficult night in the forest and getting back on the road again.

I saw the site long before I arrived there, three buildings on a plateau, one of them a huge tower. Getting closer I saw that only one wall of the tower was still standing. The first building was the Ermita de San Miguel, an open structure closed off with a fence to prevent people from damaging the inside. The tower was the only part left of the Castillo de Marcuello, and the Iglesia de Nuestra  Señora de Marcuella was in pretty good shape. The altitude was just over 1000 metres and there were steep rocks going down on all sides. The views were amazing and over my head vultures were circling around, using their broad long wings to glide through the air. I must have stayed for an hour, I even considered spending the night there since I found a little cave under an overhanging rock that would make the perfect shelter but it was still early in the day and the wind was violent at times, and would probably be even stronger at night. The walk got easier afterwards, less steep, rather tricky when the path narrowed and went down, a decline of 600 metres I saw afterwards. The landscape got only more impressive, almost vertical mountain walls and the strangely shaped Mallos de Riglos, a set of conclomerate rock formations. I now understood why in the little village of Bolea, in the building where I stayed in the Pilgrim Hostel, there was a climbing wall. This was climbers paradise.
Riglos was a sleepy little town, nestled at the foot of the Mallos. There was a big hostel but I didn’t feel like sleeping inside so I continued, down again, passing the train station where I wanted to take a train to Jaca, but upon approaching it I already saw that no train had passed there for a long time, the tracks were overgrown and the building looked abandoned. A notice said that there was a replacement bus, leaving fro the village, a “microbus” without space for bikes and pets. Would C. be allowed in? I would try tomorrow, first sleep. This was too good a place not to spend a night out in the open.
I found the perfect spot, a field a bit higher up, away from the road, a spot protected by some trees. The last time I thought I found the perfect spot I was disturbed all night by wild boar though, so again I turned C. into a little defense wall and complemented it with some big branches. Temperatures dropped to pleasantly cool, the sky was filled with stars, the Mallos were keeping an eye on me and I slept like a baby.

Day 14

I wandered through Bolea before leaving. The church in the centre of town was dedicated to Our Lady of Loneliness and Anguish, It was locked but I had no need for her anyway. The big one, towering out over the village, was open but had an entrance fee because It had treasures inside. I didn’t enter there either, I preferred to spend my money on some coffee in the bar that had a treasure of its own: a beer tap crafted out of clay, shaped like a hand holding a branch and in front of it, on the bar, a glass of water with a basil plant (for San Lorenzo, see former post). In Calle Paradis, Paradise street, I found a man lingering on the street corner, looking up at the sky, then down, and up again. “Maybe I should follow this street,” I told him and when he looked at me puzzled, “to see if Paradise is down the road.” He laughed and said, pointing at the windows over the street name:”I was born there so if it is, I am very close to it, maybe that is why I returned.” He was retired and had lived most of his life in Lleida because of work but since a couple of years he was back here. He spoke about his daughter who lived in California for many years and was now in Barcelona. A lot of people I meet talk about their children, the most important achievement in their lives.
The trail to Loarre wasn’t very steep but again a gravel road, making C.’s wheels feel like squares instead of circles. They are solid tires, so at least I never have to be afraid of punctures. I saw a white horse, then a castle and looking for a knight, I decided I was my own knight in sweaty soft armour. The castle of Loarre was too far away to visit but even from a distance it looked impressive. It is the best kept Romanesque fortress in Europe, built largely during the 11th century when its position on the frontier between Christian and Muslim lands gave it strategic importance. In the far distance, facing the castle, was an army of modern windmills. It wasn’t the first time on this walk that Don Quijote crossed my mind.
In Loarre I was welcomed by a brass band, the Fiesta Major had just started and everybody was gathered on the village square, somebody gave me a beer and somebody else told me I had to hang around for the migas, a dish traditionally made with stale bread and other ingrediënts. I didn’t, there were still some kilometres ahead and another hill to climb to get to the village of Sarsamarcuella. And some 70-million-year-old dinosaur eggs to look at just before closing time in the Paleontologic Lab of Loarre.
I thought of Paradise street and purgatory when I dragged C. up the last stretch of road leading into Sarcamarcuella just before sunset. The village was a dream and I got the keys for another empty Albergue Pelegrino from a young man who didn’t insist on a Credential. The first half of the night I couldn’t sleep because my feet felt as if somebody was sticking needles into them. Next morning they were better and in hindsight I am glad I didn’t know what was coming up.

Day 13

 Coffee before departure at the campsite in Huesca, the woman who runs the bar and does the cleaning looks elegant as always. She dozed off, I wait until she opens her eyes, it is already hot in the shade. I arrived the day before election day and when I asked her about it she said she didn’t vote, she used to but she lost faith. “Sánchez destroyed everything Rajoy accomplished,” she says and I realise I better not talk politics with her. Her fingernails are painted ingeniously, white with little green leaves. I have seen the white with green leaves around everywhere, they are connected to the Festival of Saint Lawrence, coming up in August. “What are the green leaves?” I ask her. “Well, it is a symbol of San Lorenzo who was burned alive.” I knew that already, he is often depicted carrying the grill he was burned on, but what were those leaves? “Because the whole city smelled like burning flesh, people used basil to get rid of the stench.” I was slightly horrified.

She wished me safe walking and I retrieved my steps from yesterday, when I walked to the Centre of Art and Nature, just outside the city. I had no idea it was there when I arrived in Huesca and I was truely impressed by the building and what was inside it. And the projects that had happened in the past, before the crisis, when it was still possible to invite international artist. From the middle of the nineties (and until the crisis, the man told me), artists had been commissioned to make a site specific work in the Huesca area. Richard Long, Per Kirkeby, David Nash and Ulrich Rückriem among others (all men by the way). All the works were still there and could be visited but most of them were pretty far away. 

I made a stop at the plum trees I discovered yesterday and stuffed my pockets with dusty fruits. The dumpster a bit further down where I recued some pears and peaches the day before didn’t have any new old fruit. 

I had been torn between two walking options, both of them far from ideal: going in the direction of the mountains where I would not be able to avoid climbing and descending or making a detour and follow a walking trail from Zaragoza where the walking would be easier but highways would never be far. I wasn’t sure if I would manage to cross the mountains, mainly because of C. (the walking trolley) but still it seemed the best option. Who knows what would happen, if I would get stuck, maybe somebody could give me a lift and in the worst case I could always return.

I was walking the Camino de Santiago por Huesca and the signage was excellent. On a crossroad, left being the Santiago route and right a dirtroad leading to some houses, a big banner read “Los vecinos solo pedimos un camino transitable”, “The neighbours only ask for a passable road”. A comment maybe on money being spent on the famous walking trail while the local infrastructure had to make do with neglect. 

A turtle was sunbathing in a lake and I wrote the name of a friend and faithful supporter of my projects on the little shore where I took a break. I promised everybody who gave me something for the road that I would write their name or a message of their choice somewhere in the soil. 

The walking wasn’t too complicated but for the little stones covering the surface of many of the trails, making it easier for the farmers in the area using them, but anoying with a little cart and in the long run also exhausting for the feet. It was a beautiful route though, stunning mountains and wide open fields. There was plenty to nibble on, wild spinach (lamb’s quarter), spicy white flowers, even sunflower seeds. I don’t rely on nature for my food intake fully, it is impossible when you are on the move, but a lot of my greens and fruit I find along the way. 

In a village where a huge nest balanced on top of the church (and where I learned the words for nest and stork in spanish, el nido and la cigüeña, I made a stop at a bar and read in the local newspaper that the Province of Huesca was nominated in three categories of “the Oscars for Tourism”.

I found the sunbleached spine of an animal and almost took it but the less to carry, the better. At the dreamy site of an abandoned hermitage I considered staying and sleeping inside what looked like the remains of a convent building, the big wooden door opened just enough to let me squeeze through, into a little paradise where trees and plants had taken over and formed and inner garden. C. wouldn’t fit through though and when I passed the next building, wondering about the strange smell, it deedn’t seem a good idea anyway: a sign said that the space was under fumigation with very toxic gases, gastoxin-c. I kept my breath and walked on.

I saw the village of Bolea from a distance. It was situated on a big hill or small mountain. There was an Albergue de Peregrinos there and I was hoping they would let me stay there, without being an official pilgrim (I don’t have a Pilgrim Passport, the Credential you need to stay in these places for little money and where you get a stamp to prove you followed the/a -there are many from all parts of Spain- Camino trail. If they follow the rules I am not allowed to stay there and I was still determined to travel without the Credential because I don’t want to pretend I am walking to Santiago the Compostella and braced myself to get into interesting discourses about what it means to be a pilgrim (I dealt with it on another walk partially following the Camino Frances). After 25 kilometres on gravel roads through the heat and a final exhausting climb to get to Balea I really hoped they would let me stay but I was ready to walk on and sleep outside. There were no questions asked though, I didn’t even see Javier, whose number I got from the barman in the centre of town. He sent me video on whatsapp, showing how to open the key locker next to the door and when I went there I found a whole building just for myself, kitchen, bathroom and 10 beds to choose from. There was a terrace where swallows had build their nests, I almost stepped on a little dead baby bird. I had arrived too late to find a shop open but there was rice in the kitchen and a jar of chickpeas and I still had an emergency can with tuna somewhere in my bag. It had been a few days since I had a hot meal. 

It was a noisy place, the door opened to a playground/concrete football field and kids were hanging around playing loud music and kicking balls around until long after midnight but it was not my place to complain or ask them to take into consideration that a tired walker was trying to sleep. I was hosted generously by an invisible caretaker and a system I have certain doubts about but which is at the same time an amazing way to walk around Spain, based on care and trust. 

Day 10

Sant Llorenç de Montgai. The nightlife at the campsite was exciting. The owner gifted me a cold can of coca cola to take to my tent and introduced me to the night guard. I had no idea there was a night guard, patrolling the  premises after midnight but I wasn’t surprised. “What are you guarding me for?” I asked. “Mainly kids looking for trouble and making noise at night,” he answered. His shift was just about to begin. I walked to the sanitary building where to my surprise dozens of bats were flying around the little square in-between 2 buildings. I tried to control my reflexes because they were all around me. They have a perfect radar system though, so I knew they wouldn’t hit me. A loud sound, kind of in-between chirping and singing came from the gutters around one of the buildings and it was there they entered and flew out off again. Inside there must have been hundreds of them, I saw some peeping out. Did they have nests in there, were they catching insects to feed them? I looked at the spectacle for a long time, sometimes people entered the building but nobody seemed surprised or scared or enchanted, like I was. I guess this was a regular event. I drank the coca cola next to my tent in the dark. A cat was hunting and then another animal arrived, too big to be a cat. When it got closer it turned out to be a fox, passing me at a few metres, wandering around for a bit, then walking in the middle of the main road towards the entrance were the garbage containers were. In my tent, a rather big centipede had installed itself and didn’t want to be caught. I on the other hand didn’t want to go to sleep until I was alone inside. They are venomous and can inflict quite painful bites. Despite the name, no centipede has exactly 100 feet, their pairs of legs are an odd number ranging from 15 to 191 pairs. I caught it in the end, it had the size of my middle finger, I didn’t count the legs.

This morning I went for a walk through the mountains, in the footsteps of the Neanderthals who lived here. I tried to find a bakery or a shop in the village but failed and had a coffee in the restaurant. The waitress told me that her father was the village baker but he retired and since more and more people went to Balaguer to do their shopping, only 10 minutes by car, nobody was really interested to take over the business. The same thing had happened to the grocery store. My plan was to go back to the campsite, pack quickly and leave before temperatures rose but when I arrived at my 100m2 field, the unimaginable had happened: my tent was flooded. Not for a moment had I thought about checking where the lowest points in the field were, rain was out of the question, but I hadn’t taken enthusiastic tree watering into account. In one of the other fields somebody had put a hose and left the water running. I evacuated everything to the next and higher field and was angry for a moment until I saw who the culprit was: the night guard, now on watering duty. He must have slept very little. He apologised at least 3 times and felt very guilty but I assured him it would be fine, and that the trees were happy. I told him about the fox and he started smiling. “She kind of grew up here,” he said. “Sometimes she eats out of my hand. She’s still wild though.”

I asked one of the other men, who had just finished cleaning all the areas with a leave blower, for some help fixing C. (nothing serious) but he didn’t have what I needed (small metal rings). The staff was huge, everything was spotless at all times, sanitary buildings, fields, paths. Did I already mention the air castle, merry-go-around, speaker announcements of activities taking place?

Time to go.

Day 9

 Sant Llorenç de Montgai. I am overwhelmed by the landscape. After walking the shadeless plains inbetween Lleida and Balaguer on some of the hottest days in history and spending a night at the soulless campsite where everything is about entertainment and you forget the amazing landscape you are in - unless you go to the swimming pool where you have a view of the mountains but I don’t want to swim there because you have to wear a bracelet with the dates of your stay to get in plus there is loud music and activities, and even if it would be just a pool with easy access, why swim there if there is a huge lake with the most amazing colour and big fish swimming in it just on the other side of the road? - , after many mosquito bites, wild boar encounters, blisters of impressive size, dusty roads, busy cities, industrial areas, but also many beautiful and sincere meetings and conversations with random people on the road (the locals at the bar in the middle of nowhere who made me feel part of their little family, Carlos at the busstation in Igualada who just arrived from his place in the mountains to buy food for his 15 stray dogs and couldn’t hang around too long because he was afraid of forest fires since he was surrounded by pine trees - not so much for his place but for his adopted dogs -, the woman in the supermarket in Corbins who gifted me peaches, Lolita - oh, Lolita! - who I want to be when I’m 87 -, friends and strangers online who send me kind words and inspiring thoughts and donations), after everything that happened in only 8 days, today the mountains and the river touch something in me that got worn out a bit in the last months, possibly years. In a way the wagtails at the campsite already did, hopping around on the grass and flying over the water to catch insects. There are traces of Neanderthals in this area and I made a joke to a friend earlier today that the neanderthals in this area today are the people on the campsite but it is a bad joke really: how can I compare those humans living in the most extreme circumstances with the people who sit on their assigned areas (100m2, what do I do with that with a tiny tent?) surrounded by microwaves, fridges, airconditioners and sound systems, talking loudly all day? I had to sign a contract to sleep there, they gave me coins for the dishwasher, fortunately I have my solar panels so I don’t have to pay extra for electricity and there is no lack of sun. My little field has plantain on it, I used it for the mosquito bites and the blisters. 

There are kind and caring people on the campsite as well of course and I am grateful for a night of good sleep in my tent. And in a way I understand why people go there by choice, to be entertained. It isn’t a place for me though. Those mountains are, but they are too steep for C. And also: this isn’t a recreational walk. The opposites, the extremes, are what makes it worthwile and gives it its purpose. 

The Tao gave me number 14 today. Conocer los origenes es iniciarse en el Tao. I am doing my best, trying hard and not trying at all at the same time.

Day 8

Menárguens, 11 o clock, 28 degrees, going up to 40 today. Not as hot as yesterday and it is cool in the bar where I drink a coffee after 11 kilometres through open landscape with fruit trees as far as the eye reaches. Aire acondicionado. Yesterday I walked through a street in the centre of Lleida where it was quite pleasant because cold air came out of all the doors of the shops. Scary as well though: temperatures rising, more electricity being used to keep our heads cool which leads to higher temperatures and more air conditioning.

I slept in a field with small bushy trees, hidden from the road where the occasional car was driving along until late and around 11 a big machine passed slowly doing some work. The mosquitos were relentless and I got up before sunrise after a restless night, to walk when it was still relatively fresh (which is anything under 30) and to be on my way before the workers would come in harvesting fruit.

In Corbins, Municipi de la República Catalana, a young man approached me and said he was new in town and looking for work. All I could do was direct him to the bar where I had seen some men drinking coffee. It seemed there was a lot of work harvesting and processing the pears and nectarines and peaches and it also seemed that it was mainly done by immigrants: I had seen them earlier being driven into the fields and just before 8 from all streets in the village men with a dark skin colour, some young, some not so, walked in the direction of the big factory. Lolita, whom I met later just outside the village, confirmed that they were in need of hands here and that they depended on the foreigners to do it. Working conditions were not very good she said, which I already suspected. Lolita walked like a young girl, light and smiling. She just came back from her daily walk to the next village, she had started walking at 6 already. She looked lovely in her flowery dress, big sunglasses and sport shoes. In 2 weeks it was her 87th birthday. We talked for a while and went our ways again after a long hug. 

Another 10 kilometres ahead to Balaguer and from there to a campsite where I’ll write some more.

Day 7

 Almost 1 'o clock and it is 39 degrees in La Pobla de Claramunt. I would have walked from here if there was a doable road in the right direction but all the options are pretty crazy endeavours. I am thinking about joining the Repsol woman who sits in front of Hostal Robert in a uniform on a plastic chair 8 hours a day (for 7 years already, not a bad job she says, she enjoys talking to people and she has a place just around the corner where she goes during the siesta) and see if somebody can take me into the right direction or I will go for plan B and take a bus to Lleida from Igualada and walk in the evening from there. I won’t be able to walk the whole route anyway if I want to arrive at the Foundry in Galicia in time (August 20/21).
When people hear I am walking to Galicia they usually think I am on my way to Santiago de Compostella. In all the years I have been walking I was often asked if I ever walked the Camino with a capital C. I was never tempted, mainly because of the capital C. In a book about the GR1, running from the east to the west of Northern Spain, the writer describes the Camino de Santiago as a pilgrim highway and I don’t like highways. I walked part of the Camino Frances once because it made sense walking from the Netherlands to Southern France but I didn’t encounter many pilgrims or people walking otherwise (on that walk I was often asked if I was a pilgrim, I guess it depends on how you describe the word pilgrim or pilgrimage).

I drew a line from my home in Barcelona to the Foundry in Galicia as a guideline, so as to not wander off too much. A 77 kilometre trail from Balaguer to Huesca almost follows that line so I will walk it, it is the Camino de Santiago par Huesca. But first I will walk from Lleida to Balaguer, slowly and carrying a lot of water.
It frightens me, these temperatures. Not in the first place for myself, now, here. I'll manage today and tomorrow and the days after. But oh man, what did we get ourselves into. I'm one of the many privileged people. I sometimes complain about not being able to drink water from the tap in Barcelona but there is tap water and I can shower and buy water filters. These days I encounter many fountains on the road, in villages and cities. Imagine living in Urugay these days. Or even worse: in one of the many places where there is no water at all, not even polluted water.

Day 6

I am not walking today so I can write, which I am doing in the cafe of a hostal in La Poble de Claramunt. It is the perfect place for a break, family run and unchanged since times long gone. Everybody comes in for a coffee, a beer, to read the newspaper, either in Spanish or Catalan. I chat with the owner who tells me it has been in the family for generations, they replaced the chairs at some point (same style but new) and extended the bar (same material, marble in three different colours) but that´s it. It feels indeed as if I`m somewhere in the beginning of the 20th century. Until you open the newspaper of course, or listen to the people talking. Elections are coming up so it is on most peoples´ mind and everybody is bracing up for the coming days when temperatures will rise to unprecedented heights. A man next to me is drinking his first beer of the day, the garbage cleaners come in for a coffee, two men at the bar discuss politics and it gets quite heated when one of them is defending the right wing approach to the current state of affairs. They are guards, their uniforms tell me, and when I go outside I see they are guarding money, a van is waiting there, the engine on because the third guard is inside, staying cool with the airconditioning on. I go inside again, it is 11 o clock and 29 degrees already. The airconditioned money transport continues. 

Walking has not been easy, there have been busy roads, giant blisters, wild boar keeping me awake, but also wonderful people, beautiful views, plenty of plantain (relieves blisters and bug bites) and tasty wild greens, little fountains (the miracle of water! even when it is warm and untasty). 

The Tao (see day 2/3) gives me number 47 today.

Day 4 and 5

All the tables are occupied in Hostal Robert, there must be 25 people drinking coffee, having breakfast, some of them have finished their first beer of the day. It is close to ten and already 28 degrees. Arriving yesterday I didn`t think much of the place at first, situated next to a rather busy road, next to a petrol station, looking quite plain. I would have preferred a campsite but the only one I found so far was a private place: I knew it when I headed there but risked the 40 minute detour, hoping they would let me stay in my small tent in a corner somewhere. It was situated beautifully, in the countryside not far from Sant Llorenç d`Hortons with a beautiful view of the Montserrat mountains but I didn`t even get past the gate, the fence was closed and the door locked, no bell, just security cameras. It was a Saturday and inside people were relaxing, playing music, jumping in the swimming pool. I got the attention of two young men lying in the gras next to the mini golf area but they decided to ignore me. I gave up after ten minutes, not too disappointed, although the reassurance of a safe place for the night would make up for the noisy atmosphere and I was curious to know if a privately run camping is willing to host a tired walker. It didn`t seem so but I would never know for sure.

I continued, back to the main road first, then west again. The road wasn`t too busy but the cars that did pass me drove like maniacs and going around the bends was a bit tricky. It is hard to know beforehand if the roads are really fit for walking, even when the maps say so, but taking the walking trails means making big detours, more intense walking (the walking cart is easy to walk with on level terrain and feels almost weightless but going up and down is tiring) plus they are not always connected so making some progress in the sense of getting closer to my destination often means walking along roads that are used by cars. 

At some point I decided to detach C. from the belt so that if a car would hit the cart I wouldn`t be dragged along. Maybe this was a bit too dangerous after all. Change of plan? I stopped at the next crossroad where there was a choice of continuing on a slightly busier road or going into the forest and reach Piera with a big detour, meaning it would probably be wise to sleep in the forest where there would be no water. Did I have enough on me? While still wondering what the best decision was, I looked in the direction of the voices I had heard for a while and discovered that what I thought to be a private Saturday afternoon gathering was in fact a bar. Rule number 3: when you don`t know what to do, sit down and wait and see what happens. Also: a cold drink would be amazing.

A handful of people occupied the tables in the shade outside. They jumped to the occasion of a new distraction in the arrival of a stranger in a suit, strapped to a little wagon and before I could even order something one of them came up to me and made a silly joke. He had many questions and the others listened attentively while I explained what I was doing and why I was dressed like this. I wasn`t sure if they got it, but they were curious and later, when I got my cold drink and was writing in my notebook I heard them explain to several newcomers who this odd looking person was. I talked a bit with the woman running the place, on duty every single day of the year, 16 hours a day, in the weekends sometimes up to 24 hours. She didn`t sound resentful, a bit tired though. “We`re like a big family” she said, “but it isn`t easy”. When I wanted to use the bathroom she came with me to unlock the women`s toilet. “The other one doesn`t have a seat” she said with a smile, “you will love it”. And I did, because she did. It was soft and cushioned and had a picture of London on the part covering the lid. “Have you ever been to London?” I asked her when I got out. “Every time when I go to the bathroom!” she answered. “That is when I have a break, like a mini-holiday” and she laughed so loud the men outside looked up. 

A young woman proudly tested her English on me (I normally stick to Spanish as much as possible), a man tried to sell me some clothes but before I could answer myself the whole table next to me was already telling him why I didn`t need more clothes or more of anything. One of them shared his difficulties of learning English in London with me (what was it about London here?) while finding it easier in Dublin, “where they speak clearer”. He had also studied Chinese for a year. “Is there a spiritual aspect to your journey?” he asked. A big question. Before I managed to formulate an answer the funny guy asked “Do you eat?”, “comes?” (in Spanish) and it took me a few seconds to realise what he meant: can you make a living as an artist? “Yes” I answered. “That`s all that matters” he said.

It was hard to leave. There were so many things they still wanted to know before I got going. When I explained that I slept outside as much as possible the young woman wasn`t satisfied with me just having 2 knives on me, a Swiss one for handy stuff and a razor sharp hunting knife, just in case (although I never used it and don`t know what I would do if an occasion arrives where I would need it). “You need a gun! There are locos and jabalies! I assured her that I wasn`t afraid of wild boar - luckily I didn`t know what was coming up  - and that the places I choose to spend the night are not places where the dangerous people like to hang out. “It is more dangerous in my home city, Barcelona.” Many beers had already been consumed and the men became slightly emotional in a touching way. The cynical one, who had welcomed me with a joke was now getting sincere and direct. “The world is a mess” he said, “and it is important to care for each other and trust each other. To live differently. Eres buena persona. You are a good person and you are doing a good thing.”

They all waved when I took off, shouting some last words of advice (“Buy gun or no sleep!”) and well wishes. They made my day. They make me walk. They understood when I was wondering if I wasn`t just doing something ridiculous and presumptuous. They moved me when I wasn`t sure how to move and what my motivations are for doing this. You could say they were my audience while I was their audience but of course it was more than that. We listened to each other, we were all just human beings, living life as best as we could in very different ways.

C. was put to the test in the forest and mastered the difficult rocky tracks well. I found the perfect spot, on the edge of a field, away from the road, under some acorn trees and with a massive hole in the earth in my back. When the sun started to go down, the wild boar appeared. First one, running through the field, then a group of maybe seven, some of them huge. I had expected some but not so early and not so many. I moved my mattress as close to the hole as possible, turned C. on his side, transforming him from cart into barricade and scared off the first ones approaching with my headlamp. I wasn`t too worried. Yet. Wild boar aren`t agressive when they don`t feel threatened and they are just as afraid of human beings as the other way around. They are curious creatures though and they have a great sense of smell. I don`t keep food on me when I am sleeping in their territory but I can`t remove the scent of the food I carried with me.

There were fireflies all around my sleeping area and what I first thought was lightning was in fact fireworks, filling the sky with colourful patterns. I had slept for what felt like 10 minutes when they woke me up again, now really close and not responding to my light so I turned to plan B and got in the oak tree, forgetting that when I had made my plan B I told myself not to put all my weight on the first branch just above ground level. Still it worked because it broke off and startled the animals. “No sleep”. Maybe she had been right. They tried again a bit later and I`m sure they meant no harm but I wasn`t completely sure they would think the same of me so I got in the tree anyway and flashed the light from there. The rest of the night they left me in peace and I got some sleep and I even thought about lingering there for a bit after sunrise but then the hunters arrived and I didn`t want to be mistaken for one of my fellow beings and coincidentally shot and have to young woman tell the others “I knew it would happen!” It would give them a great story but I hope the one they got already was sufficient and I`m sure they prefer this one.

Maybe it was time for a night without animals and also to check carefully if none of them had travelled along somewhere on my body. The mosquitos had had their fair share already. So I walked towards the holy mountains, kept right and found Hostal Robert, which upon entering turned out to be a beautiful charming place, ran by the same family for more than 3 generations. Inside it is as if you go back in time and their restaurant has a great reputation, cooking traditional local dishes which unfortunately I didn`t manage to enjoy since I woke up from my 8 o clock nap at midnight. 

Day 3

 

Day 2 & 3

I packed some small books but decided to leave them at home last moment when I took out everything that wasn’t indispensable. Books are indispensable but I figured I would find some on the road and I did on the second day of my walk. The supermarket in el Papol had free books and the Tao Te Ching (Tao Te King in Spanish) with a recommendation by Thomas Merton on the back seemed to be the perfect companion for the coming weeks. I decided to open it randomly every morning and read one of the 81 parts. The first one was number 26:

Heaviness is the root of lightness.

Serenity is the master of restlessness.

Therefore, the Sage, travelling all day,

Does not part with the baggage-wagon;

Though there may be gorgeous sights to see,

He stays at ease in his own home.

Why should a lord of ten thousand chariots

Display his lightness to the world?

To be light is to be separated from one's root;

To be restless is to lose one's self-mastery.

Today number 17, about the best leaders. I just read in the newspaper: Spain’s election is a key battle in the Europe-wide struggle against neofascism: https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2023/jul/14/spain-election-europe-neo-fascism-vox-germany-finland

Day 1

 

The young man who took my photo upon departure asked me if it wasn’t too hot to walk. “Yes”, I answered, “and if we don’t take care, pretty soon it will be too hot to live.”

Into known and unknown territories

When all the elements come together you just say yes. I’ve been eager to go for a long solo walk and be in the world slow, humble and open to whatever comes on my path for a while now. There was the plan to walk to the COP26, the Climate Conference in Glasgow in 2021 but it couldn’t be realised for a number of reasons. I did wear the business suit I wanted to wear on the walk for a year though and embroidered it with questions people asked me. I promised to take the suit on a long walk when the time would be right and that time has come.

I applied for the Rewilding Cultures Mobility Conversation, every Rewilding Cultures partner association chose a project and I was selected by Schmiede to go on a journey through Spain to explore slow ways of being and the notion of territory. I will walk and slowly travel from my home in Barcelona to The Foundry in Galicia where I will share my experiences during the week long program “Territory beyond State and Property”.

A member of the Schmiede Network is called a smith. The Foundry used to be an ironworks. I’ll be looking for and forging connections while walking.

I’ll be leaving around July 12, the route will be improvised, letting the road and the world guide me, encountering people, places, opportunities while surviving with little means (nature will provide shelter and food). I will walk in a business suit embroidered with “burning questions” people asked me in the last year, carrying everything I need. I’ll collect stories on the road and share them here. I’m looking forward!

Do you want to support me/be part of this walk? Read more here (or scroll down)

Rewilding Cultures: https://rewildingcultures.net/
Schmiede: https://schmiedehallein.com/
The Foundry: http://bravosfoundry.com/
Territory beyond State and Property: http://bravosfoundry.com/index.php/2023/06/11/program-territory-beyond-state-and-property-aug-21-26/