So I have screwed myself today. (No, not in the good way either). By stopping in Pamplona last night I shorted 4.8km to Cizur Menor (pronounced ¨theethur menore,¨ but I keep pronouncing it ¨Ceasar Manure¨). So I have 4.8km plus 19.6km to Puenta la Reina. Crap.
My feet have become quite the connoisseur of trail surfaces. Concrete and stone blow chunky. Asphalt is tolerable. Grass is heaven. Fine gravel or dirt are decently feet friendly. Cobble stones (ancient roman roads and medieval streets) suck hairy donkey balls.
Addressing the feet has become a nightly ritual. Washing them, popping blisters (ampollas), bandaging them, moisturizing them, massaging them, then leaving them the F alone so they can recover.
I came upon a section of trail today that was flanked by what must have been almond trees. Their pink-white blossoms clinging tremulously to their spring branches.
Suddenly the wind gifted me with a shower of these angelic petals, and they fluttered down around me like so much ethereal confetti. They carpeted the trail in soft, blushing sweetness and beckoned me, the honored pilgrim, onward and blessed my journey.
Today I took the added detour to Eunate (another 2.5km). In Eunate there is a 12th C Romanesque church (Santa Maria de Eunate), just sitting in the middle of farmland in the middle of nowhere. I was alone in this beautiful place, which many believe has supernatural powers. Its unusual octagonal shape, the external cloister with delicate double columned arches, its simple, unadorned interior united to create a still, sublime spot. The kind of place you find yourself wanting to believe has supernatural powers, at least the healing kind anyway.
I was alone there until almost the end of my visit. I left some prayers in that little chapel, a little deposit of hopes for the future, and went on to Puenta la Reina.
I really like saying Puenta la Reina. The translation of the name is literally ¨Queen´s Bridge,¨ named for the exquisite medieval bridge crossing the Rio Arga as you leave the village. It is pronounced Pwenta la Rrrrraina. You have to trill your R at the beginning of Reina. I made up excuses to say the name all day. I asked other peregrinos: ¨Are you going to Puenta la Rrrreina tonight?¨ And I relished when people asked me where I was headed so I could say, ¨I´ll be stopping in Puenta la Rrrrreina!¨
I arrived late in the afternoon owing to my late start, my catch-up kilometers and my detour to Eunate. But when I got to Puenta La Reina, Padre Rapadores showed me to the dormitory in the Albergue. All the crew were there: Eddie, Gunthar, Elena, Sonjia, even Irish Charlie (who we hadn´t seen for two days). Apparently Irish Charlie had beaten all of us here. He was lounging smugly in a chair on the porch when the bulk of the crew arrived today. Gossip abounds that he took a bus.
After I settled in my bunk and washed my stinking carcass, I stopped in the little 13th century Iglesia del Crucifijio next to the albergue. It was a simple sandstone, double barrel vaulted affair. I was alone in the dark interior. Padre Rapadores poked his head in and switched on a little light for me, then left. I sat for a bit admiring the beautifully carved crucifix. Then I hummed a little tune and listed to my voice echo ethereally against the centuries old stone. Anyone can sing beautifully in a place with such ingenious acoustics. Who gets to do this I ask you? Have an 800 year old church all to themselves for 20 long minutes, and twice in one day?
So Irish Charlie arrived in Puenta La Reina today. I had not seen him since Larrasoana. It turns out he did take a bus out of Pamplona and bypassed the ugly suburbs. To many die hard peregrinos, this is a Cardinal Sin. It is considered cheating to not walk every last bleeding step to Santiago. But Charlie is philosophical: ¨I simply refuse to be oppressed by the tyranny of the Camino!¨ he says. So that night we went to dinner and toasted our arrival in Puenta La Reina, however we had to get there.
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