WHEN WALKING

Home to Santiago – Day 49

Deba to Ziortza: 28km

Today I decided, in the nicest possible way, to get away from people for a bit.

My escape was slightly hindered by the discovery that one of my sticks had been taken this morning. By accident, I’m sure. No one would choose to steal my battered Lidl stick, given a choice.

So I set off, one-sticked, with a lot of empathy from the Spanish girls who were there when I discovered the loss, and advice from the hospitalera that I should stop and get the bus. But the Uruguayan lady poo-poos this idea on my behalf.

I find the stick halfway up the first hill. It has been taken by Montse II, wife of Enrique, in error. While she goes all the way back to get hers, I have a lovely chat with Enrique, who had been quite grumpy, watching the football when I first met him in Getaria. But now, on discovering I’ve walked the Camino Olvidado and others, he’s very keen to talk trail. Eventually he falls behind with Alberto, and I keep moving ahead.

A little bit further on I meet lovely Dutch Paul, waiting for his wife to reappear from the bushes. Paul also wants to talk about the Olvidado. “It was a beautiful solitary walk”, I say somewhat wistfully. But I can’t begrudge a conversation with Paul.

Nortje, his wife reemerges and we talk about housing issues and community land projects in Ireland. Interesting topics and I enjoy my time with them, but when another Dutch woman turns up and starts conversation with them, again I power on ahead.

I pass the Uruguayan lady with her two newly-found Spanish walking companions, all three of them going at quite a speed. But at the last taberna before the mountain, we all bundle up together again.

I see a few familiar faces, including Valentine, the most unlikely Texan, with her goodness graciouses, I’ve ever met. So I sit down with her and mention I’m going to a monastery. “You can do that?” she says. “Maybe I’ll join you.” I doubt she will. Everyone’s going to the convent in Markina today. This is my big plan.

And I keep passing and passing.

I pass Mr Lee at one point. He says, “Hello, keep going, keep going.” I think this is one of his only phrases. I pass a man and his dog, a proper person of the road, up on the top of the hill, and then make my fast descent into town.

On the entry to town I have my penultimate social moment with the Canadian-Chinese lady who was Mickey’s bunk partner on the first night. We are both standing, awed and confused, in a church housing a statue and some giant rocks

“What is it?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I will ask ChatGPT.”

“Ah, ChatGPT is a good friend?” I ask.

“The best friend” she replies.

And there is Mr Lee, one last time, telling her to get the stamp.

I walk through Markina, a pretty town, tolerable, but not pretty enough to tempt me. A few familiar faces are dotted around the square.

In the porch of the convent. I see everyone sitting with their bags, waiting for the doors to open. Montse remonstrating with a policeman, and then, to my delight, the lovely Nevis, sticking her rubbish in the bins. They are all there.

And as I go to the Eroski to buy some unnecessary additions to my packed lunch, I see the last of the mountain troop, the man with his dog, shell out, asking for money. I give him what I can. He’s walking the Camino. I’ve seen him, and that’s the best looked-after dog I’ve ever seen.

It’s a long solitary walk up to the monastery, and beautiful. And as I walk through the grounds, the man from the shop runs out shouting, “Lady, lady!”

And David, the ‘man who does’, sells me a bottle of the monastery’s own-brewed beer and takes me to the albergue.

It’s quite a place. Beds everywhere: bunk beds with no ladders to the top ones, single beds ranged across a large garage-like room, an outdoor but workable bathroom, the kitchen on the level of the monastery upstairs. But the place works, it has a friendly feel, and not a single person I know is staying here.

There are a huge number of English pilgrims and at first I’m slightly taken aback. If they’re not English, they seem to be American, although I’m told there is a room with triple bunks next door to ours, which has Germans in it. I find out later this is just a room of non-native English speakers.

I start to enjoy the place. I get to know Deanna and Bob from Riverside, and when Bob and I are conscripted into setting up the dining room by David, we conspire to write our names on the napkins to save ourselves the best places.

Everything happens communally here, which I like. There is Vespers, where the two monks and the three laymen sing together, not always in time, not always in tune, but at points very beautifully. Besides, the chapel itself is a wonderful place to be.

Then the communal meal, sitting at the four huge tables we’ve set up. I love the fact there are no choices to be made. We all go to dinner and have the same thing at the same place. Even my place is pre-decided.

As everyone is new, I can just use the usual conversation starters. I don’t even have to choose which beer to drink, as the other people at the table have bought the full range and ket me try.

To my surprise, I like the English, and I like the Americans. And just for one night, it’s quite nice to be fully aware of what’s going on and completely detached.

We go to Compline, where the singing is a little more rehearsed. They gradually switch off the lights, finishing in candlelight. The end of the day is marked.