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.