Camino Day 6: Puente La Reina - Estella (14/09/14)

Movement started in the albergue dormitory just before 5 am! Although I had my ear plugs in, people kept going in and out of the room to the bathroom and as the light was on in the hallway I was soon wide awake. Others were rustling through the plastic bags in their rucksacks so I decided to get up at 5.15am and join them. Anyway, the discomfort in my right shin was atrocious and the muscles were throbbing slightly, so I wanted an early start to give myself plenty of time to get to Estella and have periods of rest on the way if needed.

It was still dark & chilly when I stepped out of the albergue as the bell in the tower of Iglesia del Crucifijo was striking 6 O'clock and I made my way down the deserted Calle Mayor through the town, enjoying the sounds of early risers in some of the houses waking up. One cafe, to my surprise, was open so I had an espresso to wake me up and get me going! As I walked over the bridge the reeds in the rio Arga were whispering atmospherically and I turned and took a last look back at Puente La Reina through the town wall gate; I liked this town and had enjoyed staying there.


The Camino crossed a modern road and then set off down a farm track through fields and past watery ditches interspersed with the intermittent exclamations of bleeping frogs. Once away from the lights of town it was very dark as the sun had not yet risen and I once again inwardly thanked my friends, the nuns in Mallow, for their LED torch, especially where there were forks in the road and the Camino arrows were hard to see in the dark and undergrowth.


My right shin was killing me although I had taken some Ibuprofen which hadn't kicked in yet and I was staggering along wondering how on earth I would make it Estella, when two American women in their 20's came along and asked "are you ok?". I explained my leg was very sore. "Oh" they replied - "we wondered if you were drunk!". My leg did improve when I was going uphill as the shin muscles had less work to do dorsiflexing the foot, but when I was walking on the flat and particularly when I was going downhill, it was very painful!


The track now started a fairly steep ascent up the hill to the village of Maneru (at 470m) and consequently my shin got some relief. As I climbed there was a glorious sunrise over the distant hills and I kept stopping to take it in and enjoy the moment. The American girls were labouring up the hill and it gave me some satisfaction to stagger past them to shouts of "hey look at you - way to go!". Was it the rejuvenation of the sunrise or was the Ibuprofen finally taking effect?

The village of Maneru was either largely deserted or still in bed as I walked past the escutcheoned 16th Century Houses and back out into the countryside and on towards Cirauqui - already visible and impressive on a distant hill and looking like a location from a chapter of Don Quixote. At this point Matt and Ben texted me to say they had just left Puente La Reina.


It was another beautiful sunny morning as I walked into the outskirts of Cirauqui (whose name in Basque means Viper's Nest!) and noted to my surprise, as it was a Sunday morning, that the Council bin lorries and workmen were just pulling out of their depot. As I climbed up into the narrow medieval streets of the town centre on top of the hill, I wondered whether my senses were deceiving me; was there a very strong smell of beer? Could I hear a loud commotion going on ahead of me? Rounding a corner I was surprised to find young men and women standing and sitting around, singing and shouting with plastic cups of beer in their hands. I passed by them (and a very interesting medieval inscribed pilgrim cross) and made my way into the plaza where the scaffolding from a stage was being dismantled. The cobble stones were literally awash with beer and a sea of plastic cups; the stench of beer (and other things!) was incredible and large numbers of slightly initimidating youths, male and female, were knocking back more beer and shouting and chanting loudly. Some of them tried to accost me (probably to do no more than offer me beer) but I got out of the plaza as quick as possible and made my way up to the solitude of the 13th Century Church of San Roman.

Cirauqui

Pilgrim cross in Cirauqui

The church itself is chiefly interesting because of it's gothic portal which like the one at Iglesia de Santiago in Puente La Reina and one we would see later at San  Pedro in Estella, has a well preserved Mozarab multi-lobed arch. At the church I met a young woman who spoke English and explained that the village was celebrating the festival of the Holy Cross and after mass at 12 noon, the relic of Santa Cruz would be paraded around the local villages. Down a nearby street I found the village's young priest and a group of older people walking around the village stopping at different locations and singing hymns about the Holy Cross. I was struck by the dissonance between the older people singing hymns and playing thier guitars and the scenes of unbridled drunkenness I had just witnessed in the plaza; traditional ritualistic religion can produce some strange contradictions I mused!

San Roman

The path out of Cirauqui was extremely steep, rocky and uneven and I found progress very painful and slow as I "ow! -ed and ouch!-ed" my way downhill at a snail's pace. Any self pity I had was challenged however, when I saw a young man in his 20's who was severely disabled with paralysis of his right leg and arm also descending the hill at a painfully slow pace - his right leg trembling almost uncontrollably as he leaned against a staff! I wondered how he could walk the Camino at all given the uneveness of the terrain, whether he was doing the whole pilgrimage and I thought again about all the different reasons people walk the Camino and wondered what his story was? I was so impressed by his courage and perserverance, but didnt want to seem patronising so left him to it and walked on.

View leaving Cirauqui

The path on which I was now struggling over was the remains of a Roman road and much of the Roman road surface could still be seen and I crossed over a Roman single arched bridge. The busy A12 was over to my left and eventually I walked underneath it through a concrete underpass, then over the rio Saldo and up to another hilltop village called Lorca. Here I was delighted to find a cafe open. Normally on Sundays a lot of the shops and cafes are closed, so I had bought a tin of sardines, some bread, fruit and chocolate in Puente La Reina the night before. I took the opportunity of the open cafe to have another coffee and a snack and rest my weary shin. I was pleased to be making such progress.


12th C Church of San Salvador, Lorca

Beyond Lorca the path passed back under the A12 and the view opened up and I could see the town of Estella and it's suburbs in the valley of the rio Ega below. Descending I reached Villatuerta, which although it clearly had ancient roots with a medieval bridge and 14th Century Parish church of the Assumption, with a 13th Century bell tower, seemed to mainly consist of modern suburban housing developments - clean and tidy and pleasant, but somehow rather soul-less after places like Puente La Reina and Cirauqui. I dipped into the cool of the parish church briefly and admired the Baroque and Renaissance high altar and side chapels and received a sello from a pleasant lady manning the information table.

High altar, Church of the Assumption, Villatuerte

Between Villatuerta and Estella on a hill amidst olive groves and set a little way back from the Camino path in aloof isolation was the little 10th Century hermitage of St Michael which is all that remains of the monastery of San Miguel donated by King Sancho of Penalen to the Leyre Monastery around 1061 - 1065. The hermitage is apparently of great historical significance because it is one of the first pre-Romanesque churches in the Western Pyrenees and dates to about A.D. 970. It had a set of a reliefs high up in the Southern wall below the cornice which include what are probably the earliest sculptures of the crucifixion and St Michael in Spanish art. The reliefs are now in the Museum of Navarre.


Entering the church I was struck by the vast amount of items covering the altar in the otherwise bare interior; letters, stones, multi-coloured ribbons, crosses made out of olive twigs, soft toys and holy medals. I walked over to the altar and read some of the letters; there was a pathos in their contents; stories of dead parents, much missed, terminally ill friends and children; people with broken lives, trying to piece them together as they walked the Camino. One letter was written by someone from Cahersiveen in Co. Kerry who obviously had experienced some unidentified hurt or tragedy in thier lives and had left a stone on the altar from the fort at Caherdaniel, hoping symbolically to leave their hurts behind. I was also struck by how many of the letters were addressed to no-one in particular and seemed to be appeals to an unkown God or spiritual being; one they were unsure existed but hoped did. I was oppressed by the sadness of the items which seemed like the flotsam and jetson of a tide of human suffering which had washed up to the place and left the detritus of prayers and hopes on the altar. Having a personal relationship with Jesus Christ myself and knowing the hope, joy and peace  that this brings, I prayed that the people that these items represented would come to know God for themselves personally and experience his love and healing. Then I stepped back into the sunshine and birdsong of the olive grove.


Outside, sitting on the grass amidst wildflowers, I ate my tin of sardines using my penknife and soaked the olive oil in the lovely crusty bread I had brought. Munching my dessert of fruit I kept a close eye on the Camino path in the distance as I expected Matt and Ben to come along at any moment as I had been walking so slowly with my leg, but there was no sign of them.


A final walk of about half an hour brought me into outskirts of Estella and I turned right on a small pedestrian bridge over the river opposite the 12th Century church of the Holy Sepulchre. My leg was killing me and it was very hot and I was desperate to finish. I made my way up to the Parish Albergue of St Miguel. It was 12.50 and it had taken me 6 hours and 50 minutes to walk from Estella. The albergue didnt open until 13.00 and already quite a few pilgrims were waiting outside but as there were 32 beds and only 10 people waiting so I relaxed and knew my bed was secure and got into conversation with an Italian in his 30's called Fred. At 13.00 the door opened and the Hospitalero and his wife appeared and announced in French that there was no space as only pilgrims who had pre-booked could stay at the albergue. There was a general exclamation of disbelief and disappointment and then the Hospitalero said "only joking - everyone is welcome" and smiled, whilst his wife cuffed him around the ear!! This set the tone for my time at the albergue - although probably the smallest one I stayed in, it had a very friendly, homely, family atmosphere. The Hospitalero and his wife whose names I have unfortunately forgotten were Breton and very kind and helpful. When my credencial was stamped the Hospitalero beamed and said in broken English "Ah - Ireland! The Bretons and Irish - the same!". An honesty box was place in the dining area for pilgrims to make a donation as no charge was levied for staying in the Albergue.


Two hours and 20 minutes later Matt and Ben arrived and it was nice to see them after over 20 hours! Our hosts wife provided free foot and leg massages (with another donation box) so after a shower and doing my laundry, I availed of one and found that it really helped relieve my shin splints so much that I nearly nodded off on the couch!


Later in the afternoon, Matt, Ben and myself made our into town passing the late Romanesque church of San Miguel where examining the carvings on the portal, I particularly enjoyed the one of the angels pointing at the empty tomb whilst Mary Magdalene looked on bewildered. I will discuss Estella more in the next post but we liked the town a lot and making our way down the steep steps below San Miguel, we celebrated completing our planned walk from St Jean Pied De Port with a beer in the Plaza Fueros and later had an excellent pilgrim meal in a cafe there.

Empty tomb on the portal of San Miguel

Matt and Ben made their way back to the albergue whilst I sat in on a sung mass in the church of San Bautista. I was struck how the congragation nearly entirely consisted of older people and I was reminded of a statistic I had read that attendance at mass in this once highly religious country has dropped to 20%. Outside by contrast, young families and people of all ages were enjoying a Sunday evening stroll or a coffee with friends and children were playing in the plaza.

Steps below San Miguel, Estella

Returning to the albergue tea and coffee was available and a young American guy in his 20's was showing the Hospitalero his left foot and saying that he was in agony. The metatarsal area of his foot was extremely inflamed and quite swollen and he appeared to have a pressure related sub-cutaneous breakdown due to excessive pressure because he was a little overweight and his pack looked very overweight. I explained that I was a Podiatrist and offered to examine his foot and when he agreed I debrided the area of the lesion with a sterile scalpel and applied an iodine dressing. I advised him to go to the hospital or a GP the next morning and advised him to take a rest from walking for a few 
days.

Celebratory beer in Plaza Fueros

I was also surprised to meet a family from New Zealand who were walking with their 14 year old daughter. I asked them what their secret was as I couldn't imagine my 17 year old daughter walking the Camino with me! Another Italian family were walking with their 8 year old son which also amazed me!

I climbed into my bunk at 9:30 just as an impressive thunderstorm started lighting up the room like a gothic horror movie. I mused as I dosed off that the life message from the Camino for me that day had been to press on despite my troubles (in this case my leg) and I would succeed.