Note: In 2019 I walked the Camino de Santiago with my family, from the Pyrenees to the sea. I tried to keep a blog, but was stymied by poor internet service. Let my try to do it now, from my notes, and by pasting the few entries I did make back then.
Finisterre. Far out. Saw it on a map when I was back in grade school, and always wondered about the name. The end of the earth, or so the Romans thought. Maybe go there sometime.
Decades later, the introduction of the drug finasteride (sold under the brand names Proscar for prostatic hypertrophy and Propecia for male pattern hair loss) brought the place to mind again. But it took the Martin Sheen vehicle “The Way,” about a father connecting with his late son by walking the Camino de Santiago, the Way of Saint James, to resurrect the idea for good. Sheen ended his trek at Finisterre (Muxia actually, but close enough). He scattered the last of his son’s ashes into the sea, and I was captivated. I’ve really got to go there.
Our daughter Hope made it happen. She was graduating from college, about to start her career, and we encouraged her to take an epic trip with us, take advantage of the last long break she would have for a while. We were delighted when she chose the Camino. Our chance to follow her to the ends of the earth before she heads off on her own.
Or so I spun it. Jane and Hope have little patience for my romantic notions. They are happy to spend the time together, maybe walk all the way, maybe not, maybe take a pass on forging on beyond the Camino’s official end at Santiago de Compostela, and spend that last week in Lisbon or Bilbao. Fair enough. Maybe I’ll make that last lap alone, a slave to my OCD proclivities. We’ll just have to wait and see.
Anyway, the Northeastern graduation was last week, quite the spectacle in the Boston Garden. I’d never been to one so big. The graduates filled the entire floor and half of the side stands, but with a clockwork maneuver that would have made the Pentagon proud, all managed to walk and get their degrees in under an hour. Here’s our lovely third born, with her friends Gabby and Fernanda, whooping it up in the Emerald Necklace.
And now here we are, working up a good case of jet lag, crossing the pond, facing a 5 hour layover in Paris, too short for a quick jaunt into the City of Light itself. Just as well probably. Who wants to see a bunch of Yellow Vests and choke on the sodden ashy fumes of Norte Dame?
Then it’s on to Biarritz, closest airport to the traditional start of the Camino, the Basque town of St. Jean Pied du Port. We should limp in around 7PM. Reserved a hotel for that first night, hopefully to recover from the dreaded Lag before humping it over the Pyrenees.
Hope, ever the adoring daughter, scoffs at this blog as my glory book. Point taken, but I don’t feel too glorious right now. In his classic book A Walk in the Woods, Bill Bryson hopes that hiking the Appalachian Trail will get him fit “after years of waddlesome sloth.” Well with my busy practice and daily bike commuting no one could accuse me of sloth, but I’ve definitely been getting a bit waddlesome lately. A lifetime of poor eating habits has caught up to me, no longer mitigated by my active lifestyle. Every year I pork it up more until my annual epic trip (Jane calls them grandiose expeditions) shaves off a few pounds, only to have them yo-yo back up, every year bit higher.
In that Sheen movie, he meets a corpulent Dutch guy named Joost who says he’s hiking the Camino so he can fit into his old suit. At the end, he says well maybe its time to buy a new suit. Hmm.
I’ve always chalked off my obesity to stress eating, confident it will get better when I retire. We’ll see what the this timeless pilgrimage can do for me. Maybe this waddlesome old atheist will have an epiphany.
Or maybe my knees will give out on day two. Thank God for trekking poles. Are atheists supposed to capitalize that?
This is a belated post from late Saturday, May 11th)
Internet access is poor so far, so this is true first time I’ve been able to post since our start of the actual Camino.
The taxi ride from Biarritz to St. Jean Pied du Port was notable for the driver updating us on Middle Ages history, specifically the exploits of Charlemagne and Roland in the Pyrenees. This happened right where we are going to traverse the formidable range, through the easiest pass, topping out at only 4757 feet. The name of our starting point means “at the foot of the gate”, the gateway through the Pyrenees. It’s a very cute little town, with charming narrow streets and artifacts dating back to the 1100s. We walked along the ramparts to the Citadel, and got a preview of our route tomorrow.
We stayed in a lovely little inn, took out last private showers for a while, and slept off most of our jet lag.
It’s a town full of losers, we’re pulling out of here to win
(This is a belated post for Sunday, May 12th. The title is the coda of my favorite song for starting a road trip, Springsteen’s Thunder Road)
7:30, and we are out of here!
The official start is the bridge across the Rio Nive I photographed last night, and we start following the yellow arrows and scallop shells that mark the route to Santiago, the yellow brick road. We are all so psyched.
Right away the road leads steeply up, first on quiet roads, later on gravel and dirt paths.
We had decided to make the 4300 foot Pyrenees climb in two stages, to baby our soft bodies carrying 20-30 pound packs. The halfway point was the Refuge d’Orisson, a stunning perch overlooking the steep green slopes, and giving us out first taste of the pilgrim experience—the communal modest meals, the bunkhouse accommodations, the rigid routine.
The four of us—me, Jane, Hope, and her childhood friend Mari Caminiti—shared a room with 3 women from London and one from Quebec. My new custom earplugs blocked the snoring and other bodily noises. A highlight of the night was dinner, where the Refuge manager had all 40 of us stand up and introduce ourselves, and give the reason we were here. Such a mix of people from all over the world, such compelling stories. One clown said this was the best way to hide from the police and beat his prison rap.
This will be our last night in France.
(Wednesday May 29, 2019)
OK, I admit it. I’ve gotten behind on my charting. Head off for a few weeks and the wheels come off.
We are 18 days into our journey, have just passed the halfway point of the classic Camino, from St. Jean Pied de Port to Santiago de Compostela, and all is well. We had a little drama last week when Jane got knocked down by a careless bicyclist, but the wrist x-ray was negative and the multiple abrasions are mostly healed. I am comically slow with my sciatica, knee DJD, and general “waddlesomeness”; having to eat humble pie and be the passee when I used to be the passer, but I’m still getting it done, shrugging off the alarmed stares of my fellow perrigrinos, and finishing each day without any new signs or symptoms. Have decided to avoid any NSAIDs or acetaminophen, don’t want to mask anything.
I realize the prior paragraph sounds like a legalistic disclaimer, when what I really want to convey is the awe and wonder we all feel each day. I’ve never been to Spain (despite kinda liking the music) but I gotta tell you, there is beauty here like nothing I’ve seen. I had hoped to blog each amazing day, and send photos that can’t begin to capture the grandeur and scale of this ancient land, but the blogger interface I’m using is like something from the Stone Age, and the online support/connectivity is likewise. That plus my late arrival each day means I’m just not getting it done.
What I really regret is not relating the emotional and spiritual dimension of this trip. You all know I’m not religious at all, but to talk with hundreds of others who are making such sacrifices, hear their stories, hopes and dreams; and then see the countless shrines, chapels, work of arts and cathedrals that were the life’s work fo so many over the centuries, is sobering beyond description. I’ve given up on trying to blog, ruefully because I so want to record my impressions contemporaneously, and hear feedback in real time. Instead I’m taking pictures (actually Jane is taking most of them, and you can see many on her facebook or instagram pages) and trying to capture each day’s events in my dusty hippocampus, hopefully to resurrect them in a post-trip journal, to share later. Honest.
Today we are in Terradillos de los Templarios, just a half kilometer beyond the albergue where cousin Becky got laid up with a bum ankle a couple of years ago, completely on schedule, with good spirits and high hopes to get this done. We are due to finish in Santiago on June 14th, and I, with or without the others, to continue on to Finisterre, arriving on the 17th, Muxia on the 18th, and back to Santiago where we fly out on the 22nd. Pretty tight schedule, any setback could derail this, but so far, so good.
Just another relaxing vacation.
Thanks to you all for your comments, to my partners/associates for covering me for this prolonged time. Thanks to Dad for his hilarious poem, to Andrew for caring for the house and our mini poodle Lucy, and again to you all for your best wishes.
(Sunday, June 2, 2019)
And It Shall Be Leon
Isn’t that how the Elton John song goes?
A quick update from the front. I still plan to produce a chronological narrative of our Camino, but that will have to come later.
Yesterday we arrived in the 4th largish city of the trip. We’ve already seen Pamplona, Logroño, Burgos—this time it’s Leon. Frankly, I’d never heard of it, just like the others except Pamplona, and only that one because of Papa Hemingway and the bulls. They’ve all been mildly impressive in their way, a break from the countryside, each somewhat problematic because of the long approach and exit through their suburbs.
Leon looked less impressive from far away, didn’t really dominate like the others, no obvious walled-fortress thing going on. It was a welcome respite from eighth days of a fairly featureless plain called the Meseta, itself kind of cool in the first couple of days after Burgos, but later devolving into long stretches along a busy highway. Widely regarded as the lamest part of the Camino, but still fun for the personal interactions. No rain, despite what Henry Higgins says.
Anyway, yesterday was beastly hot, even worse in a city, and we were happy we’d splurged on a real hotel, had a great salad while we waited for check-in time at 2PM. After a blessedly long shower involving lots of towels, and a little siesta (one of Spain’s best ideas), we wandered out to explore the town.
It was actually quite cute up close, charming little streetscapes punctuated by impressive edifices, the populace all dolled up for Saturday night, us Camino slouches notwithstanding. You can only carry so much wardrobe on your back. The quirks of the European time zones mean that the Spanish sunset is after 10PM, and it was still quite sunny in the early evening.
OK, one more cathedral. Leon’s was under renovation, as so many are, heartbreakingly the final iconic one in Santiago is closed, we won’t be able to see the iconic swinging insense that is the classic finale of the trek. Rats. In this case, it was only the rose window, the rest was open. Still charged 6€ to get in, 5€ for me with the senior discount. Hmm. At least the audio guide was included. I was in a mild state of pique as we entered the nave.
OMG. O.M.G. Our pictures, even the fancy ones in the catalogue, can’t begin to capture the soaring magnificence above us. Stained glass was everywhere, dazzling in the late day sun, supported by the thinnest ribs and arches of stone. We learned that Gothic, which I’d always equated with hopelessly old fashioned and horrifying, was actually the great paradigm shift of the thirteenth century. Before that the going style was Romanesque, with massive, thick arches to support the weight and very little space for windows. Somehow the artisans and architects of the day figured out that with interlocking ribbed arches, flying buttresses and other in innovations they could go higher and thinner, leaving lots of space for these incredible windows. Words can’t express the awe I felt. I’ve been blown away by Saint Chapelle in Paris and of course Chartres, maybe this one made more of an impression because we’d walked 300 miles to see it.
We went on to have a sumptuous dinner and watch a “football” game between Liverpool and London in an outdoor bar with our raucous UK perrigrino friends, didn’t get to bed till late. Still woke early to get out of the hot city and here we are, in a little albergue 16 miles down the road. Hope too make Astorga tomorrow, famous for its chocolate factories.
Anyway, that’s the news from Lake Wobegon.
On the whole, I’d say it was worth the walk
(Friday, June 14, 2019)
779 km officially, quite a bit more in reality. The cathedral at Santiago is just stunning, even when first sighted from five miles away. 34 days of waking so far, I’m heading on to Finisterre tomorrow but I guess I’ll be following myself to the ends of the earth; the ladies have opted to spend the last week at the beach and on a road trip. Many details to follow, but all are well and in good spirits .
Lighten up
(Tuesday, June 18, 2019)
Haven’t been able to resist downloading the Washington Post, knowing full well a major perk of doing something like the Camino is to get away from all that.
So much doom and gloom. Makes me want to say, “c’mon guys, it’s not the end of the world.”
Oh wait a minute. It is.
Camino retrospective
Sunday June 30, 2019)
OK family and friends,
It’s time to wrap this up. I’ve been back a week from this wild adventure, way overdue in sharing and journaling, still chagrined I couldn’t manage to blog in real time. Most of you have seen the sporadic emails and the buggy, half-done posts on blogspot, and some have heard my oral impressions, and scrolled through a few of the pictures. Many of you, I’m sure, are past caring. But for those of you who are still curious, wondering what in Sam Hill I’ve been doing off like that for 6 weeks, I offer up this summary, compendium of impressions, and reflections of what it all meant.
For ease of browsing, I’ll try to sort things into trenchant questions:
What on earth is a Camino? Wasn’t that a cheesy Chevy from the 70s?
Camino means “way” in Latin, and Iago means James, so the Camino de Santiago is the Way of St. James. For over a thousand years, pilgrims have come by foot to the town of Santiago in northwest Spain, where the apostle is said to be buried; via many routes, the most popular being the Camino Frances, 486 miles from St. Jean Pied de Port, a smallish French village at the foot of the Pyrenees. Recently popularized by the 2010 film The Way with Martin Sheen, larger numbers do this each year, over 300,000 in 2017.
OK, but you’re not religious. What gives?
It’s no secret about me and my grandiose expeditions. I try to do one every year. The film made an impression on me, my cousin Becky had done a significant part of it in 2016 and left a great blog, another friend had done the whole thing the same year and was very enthusiastic, so the bee was in my bonnet.
Our daughter Hope graduated from college this year, had a couple of months before heading off to Brooklyn and her new career, and as a graduation present we offered her a big trip, with the condition that it be something epic. We were delighted she chose the Camino. This would be my longest expedition since med school 40 years earlier, my partners were very gracious to agree to me taking such a long vacation, and we knew it would be many years before Hope could get so much time off again. Jane was game, and Hope’s childhood friend Mari signed on as well. The fix was in.
Only about half of the pilgrims do it for religious reasons.
What exactly did this entail?
A four-leg journey to St. Jean, and we were off on Sunday, May 12th. As pilgrims on foot, we were entitled to stay at modest hostel-like inns called albergues, where for 5-15€ we got a bunk bed in a dorm, hot showers, and a place to wash our clothes and cook a meal. For the same amount we could buy a “pilgrim” dinner and breakfast, with three courses, bread and wine; modest but hearty and filling, with veggie options for Hope and Mari.
To prove we were indeed pilgrims and not just tourists who had parked their car around the bend and were looking for cheap room and board, we had to present ourcredential, a passport that showed the stamps and dates from each stop along the Way. We got our first stamp at the pilgrim office in St Jean; <Image.png>
when we were done, the credencial looked like this (there were just as many stamps on the reverse):
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We carried backpacks weighing 15-30 pounds, Jane had hers shipped ahead each day after tweaking her hip on day 4.
We awoke at 6 each morning, generally on the trail an hour later, averaged about 17 miles a day (milage details below), with lots of stops for snacks, sightseeing, etc. Hope and Mari took off like shots and were often in around noon, Jane around 2, with yours truly limping in around 4. Showers, often laundry, socializing, dinner at eight, and snoozing by 10. A simple life, really.
How far did you say that was?
Good question. The “official” route is measured at 782 km, or 486 miles, to the cathedral at Santiago. I carried one of those geeky Apple Watches, that tracked our actual mileage by GPS, including all the side trips, town explorations, pit stops, backtracking when lost, wandering back and forth across the trail and such, and recorded 599 miles to Santiago, 698 with my extension to Finisterre and Muxia. Along the way the total vertical ascent was 50,000 feet, almost exactly. I got even geekier and made a spreadsheet with the day-to-day details, I could send that along to those planning to do the trip themselves.
Jane and the girls finished in Santiago after 34 days, my extension took six days more. 40 days and 40 nights. Maybe it’s good I’m not religious. We got hardly any rain😊.
So 17 miles a day with a 30 lb pack? With your back? Are you nuts?
Jane wondered the same thing, really wanted me to`ship my pack ahead, too. I resisted for reasons I can’t articulate. Maybe a guy thing. But how macho can you be when everyone is passing you?
Anyway yeah, I was in pain, sciatica down both legs and accompaniments from both knees and hips but somehow manageable, not progressive. Avoided any meds to mask things and monitored carefully for signs of cauda equina syndrome. For all my foolishness, I was determined not to be a horse’s ass. The signs never came, if anything the pain slowly improved, but never left. Getting out of bed in the morning was a comical experience, I tried to quell the looks of alarm by saying I was just a drama queen.
I spent some serious scratch on two things—a great set of hiking poles I used constantly. I couldn’t have done it without them. So yeah, I basically did the Camino on crutches.
The other investment was a pair of custom-made ear plugs. Worth their weight in gold. The snoring in the albergues, I’m told, could be legion. I wouldn’t know.
Now that I’ve been home a week the sciatica is gone, the limping is slowly improving and I’m delighted to have lost 35 pounds. Keeping it off will be the greater challenge.
So far I’m not hearing that this was worth it.
My bad. It was. This is the hardest part to put into words.
To follow in the footsteps that pilgrims have made for 1200 years. You hear my whining; these people had none of the hi-tech gear and creature comforts we enjoyed, beset by famine, disease, and bandits—many did not survive the trip.
To follow in the footsteps of Druids, Romans, that Iago dude, El Cid, the Knights Templar, the Crusaders, Charlemagne, Roland, Napoleon, Sir John More, Hemingway—to name a just a few.
Druid ruins
Memorial to those massacred by Franco in the Spanish Civil War
To cross the Pyrenees, to enter a country for the first time on foot.
Sunrise from our first albergue
Crossing into Spain
To get to a height of land and look over a vast landscape, knowing you’ll be crossing that view over the next couple of days, only to survey another expanse to cross. Nay, not to just cross, but to experience.
That’s Pamplona down there.
To cruise slowly, almost float, into a view like this, marveling at each new perspective, each different play of the light, each close-up view of agrarian life
The Ends of the Earth 