One from the Archives: Camino Journal (Day3)

LEARNING FROM THE MISTAKES OF OTHERS BEFORE ME.

Yesterday it rained. A lot. The storm came in so hard and fast toward the shore that the very sea itself vanished in the torrent. As we walked under the heavy skies toward the city streets from one of Donostia’s promontories, shrieks behind us and the flashes of people running past made us turn to watch the white wall of storm come hurling in from the sea to erase everything it passed.

Not thirty seconds running for shelter and we went from partly damp to soaked from head to toe. We had come down from our cinematic vista of the city from the Eastern peak above and I found myself once again walking around the base of Urgull to view La Concha. But the deluge kept us hiding for almost ten minutesbefore the sunlight came out, doing so with such abruptness as to make us all feel silly huddling in doorways and corners. That happened twice more before we finally crossed the bay and found the albergue on the other side, through a tunnel where we found another pilgrim hiding like us during the final flood, tall and a bit lanky, looking young and confused behind glasses.

As such, today was full of muddy trails interspersed among farm pastures and hillside paths. What may have looked to be sure footing was given away by deep boot tracks or slick skids. I took it as a lesson in staying focused. A gentle Camino with perfect weather, it was worlds apart from the difficulties faced yesterday. At just before noon we broke 16km and walked into Orio – another ocean inlet fishing community, though much larger and less trapped in time than Pasajes. It contained the first open church of the Camino and inside we found cold grey stone with rounded ceiling carvings and a dark 17^th century altar. There was an old model ship hanging in the center of the nave above the pews.

Then, down on the water, we encountered a town festival of traditional music and food. We sat and rested in the sun, waiting for the festival to start and I started to hear my first conversations in Euskera. Looking around, I realized this was an all-Basque affair. Still, when Abdón asked in his Madrileño Castellano if we could store our packs in a tent behind a booth, the owners were more than happy to accommodate. Ticket sellers were equally friendly and patient when explaining, for what I supposed to be the hundredth time, that we pay for our plates and cups as well as the food and drinks to fill them but return the non-consumables for a full refund. And so we ate an amazing huge and flavorful fish stew of Marmitacos (white fish and potatoes and spices) and washed it down with wine and the best cider I’ve yet had for about 2euros each. All this while townsfolk bustled around and music played and newsgirls from Donostia walked through inter

viewing people. We sat on some shaded stairs with other people who were happy to take our pictures for us and agree with mouths and smiles full how good it all was.

Fully sated, we saddled up and shoved off and soon we were back heading uphill along mud trails. **(JUST BEFORE descending into Orio, we reached a summit and a break in the trees. Out before us stretched hundreds of kilometers of great green field-orchard-vineyard-forest covered mountains dotted with pink and beige settlements and cattle farms. “Cordillera Cantabrica” said my Camino companion. I stood for a while drinking it in with my eyes before I realized that my mind was completely erased, internal dialogue in profound silence.)

We beat through those trails as well and, climbing yet again, we noticed we had started to pass fields of tall rows of healthy green grape vines. Then a hill below us became visible and we admired the linear geometry of the small vineyard t

aking up its surface. Abdón had me take a photo. Up and up we climbed, slowly passing vines on both sides now, until at one high point I turned and exclaimed MIRA! We were standing in the middle of a massive wine estate. Hills on all sides sloped and curved and climbed and spread covered in acres and acres of these tall, verdant rows. We could barely turn our eyes and carry on.

But carry on we did, and in a few minutes Zarautz spread out along the beach below us. Not even 14:00 and we had almost equaled yesterday’s distance, with the fiesta lunch break earlier in Orio. So early, in fact, that the albergue was still closed, so we headed to the beach where Abdón swam and I sat by topless women and took out my pad and my pen.

Now I’m sporting an excellent tank-top sunburn and after an evening of checking out the town, I’m mildly impressed (although it’s got the best beach thus far) and ready to move on tomorrow. They say it’s not going to be easy. Hopefully my throat works this time and I can get some sleep. As it is, I’ve almost completely lost my ability to vocalize. The second night without sheets. First night of sneaking into the ladies room to take a warm shower. I’ll take it as a lesson in endurance.