Along the Merry Way....

The next day was a lovely as the first was a struggle. After 10 hours of hiking (I lost the path for about 1.5 hours), I arrived weary but happy at Larrasoaña. The hike was like going through a fairy tale—rolling hills, Ivy-covered stiles, little villages, trickling streams and tinkling cow-bells. At one point, in the middle of the woods, the path turned into a great stone causeway of granite slabs which must have taken someone hours and hours to make. I had morning coffee with three cheerie Czech's—super equipped (they had their own little stove)—who laughed and laughed at the smallest things. I ate lunch in a sheep field, with an English couple, so the sounds of munching was accompanied by the "bong-bong" of the sheep-bells. Later in the afternoon, I had a snack in the shade of a stone house, and as I was eating, 7 little cats ran up and sat so intently in front of me, that I nearly gave them each a piece of the orange I was eating! I am now in the big city of Pamplona ...

On the Camino, one's feet are the most sacred part of the body. They must be treated with extreme reverence or else they will start to rebel. The best remedy for sore and blistering feet is to coat them daily in a layer of vaseline before putting on socks in the morning. It's the best cure and the best preventative medicine.

El Camino de Santiago de Compostela, the ancient Medieval pilgrimage route, winds south from France, carves its way over the Pyrenees, and then turns west towards the coast of Spain. Approximately 800 km's in length, it ends in Santiago, which is the burial city of St. James the Apostle, Saint James the Moor-Slayer. I started late in March from the southernmost French town, St. Jean-Pied-au-Port. Soon, I had shaken off the last few houses of the village and was winding higher and higher through the foothills of the Pyrenees. You can take the route through the valley (boring, but safe), or you can take the route across the peaks which follows the same path that Napoleon and his army took when they crossed into Spain. The winds turn into regular gales up there when the weather is iffy. I got to the fork in the path and headed up. The hills were gloriously green, the sun was shining, a herd of horses galloped by me, I was alone, independent......Well, when I was about a quarter of the...

After the communion service on Good Friday, the whole village (population 30) emptied into the street. Every stone home was empty, the windows black and deserted. We carried candles in a procession through the night--candles in glass globes on sticks while the men carried (groaned under the weight) great biers on top of which stood statues surrounded by flowers (we decorated earlier). The women wailed out eerie Spanish chants while in the distance, a lightning storm lit up the barren peaks. The Spanish there is almost impossible to understand.