Camino de Santiago Day Fifteen: Monreal to Puente la Reina: Goodbye, Aragones

We left Monreal chirpy and well rested. It's our final day on the Camino Aragones before we join the pilgrim river at Puente La Reina. Up to now the road has been wonderfully quiet, serene and remote in large parts. It'll be a new, rather more social experience from tomorrow, and we'll just go with the flow.

We'd not had a particularly early start and soon the sun was burning down on us from a cloudless sky. In one village we walked through a digital sign laconically announced that we're walking in 31 degree heat. Our hydration packs worked overtime. Long stretches of the farm roads we we're on were shadeless. It was taxing.

At one point we were glad to see the pillared hulk of the must-see Eunate church appear ahead of us, with the promise of its dark, cool inside to rest in and escape the sun.

Except that it was Monday, and we found the church locked and deserted. (Note to Spanish authorities, Pilgrims want to see churches on Mondays too, you know). So we were left to huddle for a few minutes under a sparse olive tree before continuing our hot trek to Puenta La Reina.

Along a particularly long and scorching stretch close to Puenta La Reina we were surrounded by bare, ploughed fields both sides of the dusty track we were on. 'What we need right now,' I said to Adeline between wiping beads of sweat from my face, 'Is someone to turn a watering hose on us to cool down.' Suddenly, out of the blue, the irrigating system start shooting long arms of water into the air on the field next to us. We didn't need an invitation - we both ran onto the field like kids and within two minutes we were soaked to the skin. I'm not making this up. This is the stuff that happens on the Camino.

I'd be lying if I said entering Puenta La Reina after a long trek of 35 kilometers wasn't somewhat of a shock. Every second building seems to be an albergue, with socks, towels and garments dangling from window sills. Petite pilgrim girls in sarongs, their pristine feet removed from their leather sandals daintily sat on the lawns, nibbling on goat's cheese and bread while reading well-thumbed copies of Brierleys. Almost everone we saw was a pilgrim. Moreover, they all looked fresh-faced and pink-cheeked. Our sun-burnt, sweat-stained and dusty demeanours stood out. We'd been on the road more than twice as long as most, and judging by the stares it must've showed.

I'm glad we'd opted to start in Lourdes and complete the Aragones route before tackling the long, well-trodden path to Santiago de Compostela. It had given us the chance to get a head start and savour the culture and history of the old pilgrim routes while being gently introduced into the mores, ethics and quirks of daily life as modern pilgrims.

Later we settled at a bar on one of Puenta La Reina's lively streets and drank a toast to the Camino Aragones. It had been tough going, but very, very rewarding. We felt ready for the next chapter. It's on we go.

POSTSCRIPT

We carried on yes, right through to Santiago. And even by bus to Kilometer Zero, Finisterre. But I stopped blogging once we got to Puente la Reina. I wanted to just take in the rest of the road without having to think about writing. I made some notes from which a story or two may still flow, but this is it for now. Now, get online and book an air ticket, go walk the Camino. Now.

Camino de Santiago Day Thirteen: Ruesta to Sanguesa: We Are Tempted

Today we submitted to sin.

We stole. Well, that's what my mother would say. But it was just a little steal, and we couldn't resist.

We'd left Ruesta quite early via a pretty forest path that first became a very steep pine plantation road, and then finally led onto open grassland. After two hours or so we started down an old Roman road descending steeply downhill just outside Undues de Lerda, lined on both sides by small orchards. At one such orchard that included a few scrawny almond trees we noticed among the newly formed spring leaves a few clutches of dry almonds from the previous season.

Next moment I was feverishly smashing almond husks with a moss-covered rock until we held about twelve lovely silky brown almonds in the palms of our hands. We skulked away from the scene of the crime, chewing and savouring fresh nuts that tasted as delicious as only illicitly picked almonds can.

There, I've confessed. I know, if every pilgrim pinched a handful of almonds or other produce the poor farmers would be left destitute. But not having tasted the buttery, aromatic taste of freshly picked almonds since I was about seven it was just to much of a temptation to resist. I'm sorry. I promise to go on pilgrimage in penance.

Once in Undues de Lerda we rested our feet under a clutch of trees after the stiff climb and quenched our thirsts with beers from the only bar in town. In the end we spent the best part of an hour watching life in the sleepy village go by - it seems everyone knew everyone else, as they all stopped and chatted when passing each other. We speculated on what they talked about. With only about fifty or so people living in here, news must be fairly limited. Perhaps they discuss the pilgrims passing through, comment on their huge backpacks, all the paraphenalia they were carrying, or their spending habits. Before we took off the bar owner asked us how many pilgrims had stayed in Ruesta the previous night. When we replied four, she looked dejected. Business will be slow today. I felt sorry we weren't staying over in this quaint town, even just for the sake of boosting the economy.

In sharp contrast to the last few picturesque villages we've walked through, Sanguesa, our target for the day is a very unassuming town on the face of it, even though it was a significant pilgrim town back in the day. We looked up the four major churches in town, all of them sadly in rather delapidated state. Many of the town's stately homes lining the main street were, it seemed, beyond repair and will probably be demolished soon. Perhaps there's a mayor or other bigwig that needs to be fired here...

At the church of Santiago we waited for mass to finish before slipping inside, but could only spend about thirty seconds there before the church caretaker started jingling her keys and switching off the lights. I felt deprived.

Feeling a bit dejected (or rather, ejected) we took our Carrefour gaspacchio and natillas and parked on a bench close to the church for dinner. It hadn't been a particularly rich day culturally speaking, but we had lots of fun being scoundrels on the way. After all, what's being on The Way without fun?

Camino de Santiago Day Nine: Sabinanigo to Jaca: We Join The Aragones

Excuse us if we emerged from our hotel in downtown Sabinanigo looking a bit bewildered this morning. Someone decided to turn on the radio speakers in our room, at top volume, at exactly 6am. So we woke up to an overly cheerful singer I didn't recognise trying to convince us to be "happy, happy, happy". At the ungodly hour of six in the morning. How that happened remains a mystery, but it got us out of bed and on the road at just after seven, considerably earlier than our usual time.

We've been walking for nine days and have never once seen other pilgrims. Well, there was the group of Dutch people outside Betharram but it was a fleeting glimpse, they were on another route. We love the quiet solitude of this section of the Camino so far. It's been a journey of magic, beautiful nature, history and good food.

So it's with some trepidation that we tackled today. It's the last day of this off-the-beaten track section; today we reach Jaca where the Camino Aragones joins in from Somport. I'm not sure how busy it'll be but we're bound to see more pilgrims enroute.

It was an easy walk throughout the day. It started with a climb out of the valley to the sleepy village of Alto Sabinanigo. The village seemed quite poor - you can tell the status of a village's inhabitants by the state of its parish church. Here the church was of basic design with few adornments and in dire need of restoration. Its grounds were overgrown and unkept. However, a few kilometres further we spent a few minutes in Ulle, a model, gentrified village if ever there is one. Unfortunately the church was locked but it was just a little too grand for the size of the village it stood in, had clearly been restored more than once, and its massive wooden doors were gleaming with a fresh coat of varnish. Everywhere tidy fences sported neatly trimmed rose hedges. Even the village mongrel looked well-groomed. Clearly there's a land developer or a kind benefactor at work here.

Speaking of village life. All towns we've walked through has a local stud. In Alto Sabinanigo it was a gorgeous if slightly scruffy ginger tom cat who posed for a photo in the nook of an old fig tree. Five steps further three kittens ran across the alley, all of them exactly the same shade of ginger. A little further we saw another, and then another one with white paws. Clearly this is a family affair happening here. And we could see who was in charge.

We walked into Jaca around 3pm, and culture vultures we are, headed straight for the cathedral. It was exhibiting a brilliant collection of ancient, pre-gothic-era wall art saved from various smaller and neglected churches in the Jaca district. The walls of almost all of the small parish churches we've seen have bare walls, but back in the day they were colourfully decorated in the style typical the time with biblical images and depictions of saints. Thankfully archeological research have discovered many of these decorations, probably hidden under layers of newer paint, and saved them for posterity here.

Many people may shake their heads at such displays of odd bits of faded art, but I stood in wonder for at least two hours, imagining the lives of these unknown artists who painstakingly mixed pigments with which to decorate the walls of churches that are now in danger of disappearing altogether. This is after all what the Camino is about for me. Remembrance.