As of our last post we were headed to the north coast of Spain to escape the heat. I’m now writing dressed in long pants, socks, my long sleeve merino and windbreaker and sipping tea to keep warm. The dramatic change in temperature has not only taken us by surprise but also reminded us of how ill prepared we are for cool weather and rain. I think months of hot weather has thinned our blood. What’s wrong with this picture? The locals are still in shorts and T-shirts but the Canadians are all bundled up.
We reached the coast at the city of Bilbao, once a gritty industrial port and now a hub of arts and tourism all due to the construction of the Guggenheim Museum. Considered the last great defining piece of modern architecture of the 20th Century, Frank Gehry’s convoluted design has always kind of irked me. There is not a right angle in the building. In the few places where the supporting structure is visible it looks like a mish-mash of beams, posts and braces all stitched together on the fly, with not two pieces the same dimension. I get the feeling that he simply, and playfully at that, folded, rolled and twisted up some paper, glued it all together to make a rough model then asked his underlings and engineers to figure out how to build it. The 3D modeling of the building was an enormous and cutting edge task in its day. Though not cheap it was apparently built on budget, a testament to Gehry’s leadership and pragmatism. Despite my initial scepticism, there is no denying it works. It is really quite stunning with its’ exterior of titanium, limestone and glass. It both fits and transforms its site remarkably well. Our pictures do not remotely do it justice.
(Left) A creepy spider alongside the museum! (Right) A much beloved plant-covered puppy. It was to be a temporary installation but due to public outcry has become a permanent fixture.
From Bilbao, we’ve worked our way westward along the rough, hilly coastline interspersed with fine sand beaches (the Costa Verde of Asturias)). As opposed to the Mediterranean, we are now alongside a proper ocean with corresponding tides, swells (& surf) and abundant sea life but also chillier water. I’m embarrassed to say I’ve yet to be in for a swim. To our surprise the tourists facilities are starting to shut down and most campgrounds will be closed by Sept. 30. Instead of the typical Spanish campground chatter well past midnight we’ve been enjoying the peace and quiet of near empty facilities for the past few nights. The north coast is world’s apart from the highrise towers and glitzy, touristy nightmare that the Mediterranean coast of Spain has become (started under the Facist Franco dictatorship) and we’re glad we’ve put in the miles to see it.
Speaking of chatter, we both feel we’ve never been in such a social society. Spaniards love to get together, the more the merrier, to eat, drink and socialize. They treat each other with grace and warmth and courtesy is highly valued. Our arrival in the town of Llanes corresponded with an important annual fiesta, something about the ‘procession of the ‘Virgen Blanca’ from the one place to another’ (the details are unimportant). We set up camp and headed into town to get something to eat and catch the show. The town was packed. The crowd, best described as urban, modern and educated, the women all looking good, and everyone, I’m talking thousands, were streaming towards the ‘parade’ route. The numbers, the patient waiting, the festive air all foreshadowed some significant ‘entertainment’ or at least we figured. The procession when it finally came (it seems events are rarely on time in Spain) consisted of a solemn procession of women dressed in traditional mourning, followed by equally solemn groups of young men carrying a series of ornate glass boxes, each marked as containing the “Mysterioso Gorosozo’ – don’t ask, we don’t have a clue – and then more senior men, just as grim faced, carrying an elaborate statue of Mary with Jesus, all in white followed by a few old priests and that was it, the show was over. Through-out the procession, the crowd was equally solemn and quiet, other then the yelps of kids playing in the background and the noise from the disinterested still in the bars. After the virgin made it to wherever she had to go, there were some impressive fireworks that we watched on our way back to the tent. As we settled into bed we both continued to shake our heads in wonder at how anachronistic traditions like these can hold such sway, such significance, to what we see as a modern, relatively secular (?) society. Clearly, we are missing something and to press the point, we were woken up at 4 bloody AM to the very loud strains of a rock band playing Gimme Shelter. As usual, we missed the party!
No matter our intentions, our route is now indelibly linked with that of the Camino de Santiago (The Way of St. James). Everyone we pass assumes we are ‘peregrinos’ (pilgrims). Officially, one has to walk 100 km or bike 200 km to Santiago to receive your ‘Compostela completion certificate’. After approx. 8,000 kms of pedalling we are still not feeling any closer to being pilgrims but we are indeed looking forward to seeing Santiago. I find the word ‘pilgrim’ is a bit loaded for any but devout Catholics who venerate saints/relics but I’m being a little judgemental as Claire often likes to point out. The established ‘caminos’ are all well travelled and well signed; sometimes on rough dirt paths but also on the shoulders of relatively busy roads (the ones we bike). The path is well serviced by cheap restaurants, frequent towns and the ubiquitous ‘albergues’, a type of hostel often associated with the church, offering basic, cheap accommodation so that the average walker carries a relatively light pack. A solo female pilgrim went missing in April of this year, and her body was found just a few days ago with a local man arrested soon after (he later confessed). As Claire has so often pointed out, solo women walkers, of whom we’ve seen quite a few, would want to avoid the lonely paths and stick to the roads, despite their aesthetic drawbacks. The above sad, but rare event will certainly reinforce that tendency.
As we travel from one autonomous region to another we have learned a little of the rather inward-looking regionalism that Spain suffers. The lack of integration of services, information and the seemingly, small-mindedness of the regional governments must make the country difficult to run and can’t be all that good for the respective economies. Galicia, Basque Country and Catalonia all have completely distinct languages (Basque has no related language!) and we hear that Andalusian Spanish will be more or less unintelligible to our ear. This is all well and good but it would seem appropriate to look beyond ones own community and embrace the wider world. We stayed at a newly renovated, ’boutique’ hotel (Claire’s idea) in Otxandio where we arrived in the pouring rain. We thoroughly enjoyed our stay, the owners (an ex-pro footballer & his parents) and staff were great, but all their written material, even their website was in Basque. What are they thinking?
Tomorrow, we’ll ride into Santiago. As we near the city, the numbers of ‘pergrinos’ has grown dramatically. The town we are in is maybe a 2-3 day walk from the Cathedral and there must be hundreds of pilgrims here. I fear it is all going to be a little anti-climactic for us. Vamos ver!
We arrived in Santiago de Compostela reasonably early in the day but thoroughly soaked after 3.5 hours riding in a driving rain. So instead of heading straight to the Cathedral with all the pilgrims we took the prosaic route and went for cafe con leche and churros at a local cafe. Santiago is truly a city of stone and in the damp, grey afternoon, the city and it’s many old, monumental, religious buildings was sombre and frankly somewhat depressing. Of course, the Camino is every bit as much a tourism business as it is a spiritual pilgrimage so the town is full of accommodation and we had booked a cheap, but comfy room through AirB&B in the shared space of a young woman’s apartment (with view of the outlandishly, over-wrought Cathedral from our room). After nine days straight of riding we needed a break so we spent the following, damp, day wandering Santiago and trying to get a sense of the pilgrim experience. Claire is reading I’m Off Then: Losing and Finding Myself on the Camino, a well known German comic’s account of his walk of the ‘Camino Frances’, probably the most well known and popular of the many possible Caminos, and I’ve been reading on-line stuff. Apparently, only 15% of people who register to do the Camino ever obtain their Compostella (completion) certificate and it would seem that for every ‘successful’ Camino experience there are at least as many negative experiences. I’m not sure why I’m dwelling on the subject. My innate curiosity wants to understand a phenomena that makes little sense to me. Why would one want to follow such a well trodden path, through largely unremarkable scenery (IMO), put up with all the annoyances of Camino-life to arrive at an end point that has very little personal significance to the vast majority of the pilgrims? The original pilgrimage was to worship at the the ossuary reputedly containing the bones of the Apostle Saint James. I suspect this has very little relevance to the vast majority of ‘peregrinos’.
The search for spiritual connectedness in our modern, soulless, consumer society must be at the heart of it for many but I also feel that for many pilgrims it is simply a function of ‘it’ being there, with every step of the way laid out that appeals to those who’ve never hiked, or might have little experience of foreign travel or concerns about language barriers, security, etc. Clearly it is, or should be, an entirely personal experience. It is what you make of it and I guess that is the ‘message’ of the Camino. Whatever the case may be we saw a lot of happy pilgrims and felt the associated ‘good vibes’ of the Camino. Nevertheless, I think you would have to pay me to walk it! As the saying goes, ‘To each his own’.
OVER THE HILL AND BEYOND 