THE BEAST WITHIN

8 OCTOBER 2016

From now on, if I say I’m on the scenic route, it means I’m lost! So, I’m on the scenic route right now …

The gentle stroll and a casual 20 km has turned into a mountain climb. I meet Piero, who is another Portuguese pilgrim from Lisbon. I have promised to cook for him later … assuming I find the fucking village! It’s obviously Piero and ‘Miguel’s’ fault, not mine. This walk was meant to be a gentle one. Piero is young and fit. As he overtakes me, he says in broken English “I see you in the village, don’t be long”. I mean that’s a challenge, isn’t it? So that’s all it takes. ‘Miguel’ has a knack for interpreting words, and says “You are not going to take that, are you?”. My reply “No fucking way!”. Is it a race? Of course it is! I want to follow the little yellow arrows, Miguel convinces me to follow the unmarked road. “It’s going to be quicker, and we can cut him off”. We are so clever and make a handsome couple, even if we say so ourselves. A short, but tough climb up the wrong hill, we are forced back down, and up another even longer wrong hill. Miguel now thinks this is funny, I hear his insane laughter, I’m not amused, I’m the one walking. So after another hill and back again, I ask for directions. A Portuguese local goes to great lengths to tell me I’m lost and proceeds to tell me there is a very big hill ahead with a fantastic view. I’m too polite to tell him, I don’t want to know how big the hill is, I just want to know where the fucking thing is. The correct hill would be great. I’m no ‘tourista‘ out for a Sunday stroll and the view will most certainly not be stirring anything in my loins. So I’m back on the track once again, with clear indications and plenty of arrows pointing the way. I head for the markers and Miguel is like “‘Hombre’, Trust me”. Is Miguel now is a doctor? Miguel continues with “Stay on the road, I can see it’s quicker”. The sucker in me believes him again. I am now sitting at some random bus stop, still lost and not knowing if I’m on the right road. Miguel is in my backpack, fast asleep, not taking any of the blame. To be honest, it’s been a great walk, we got to see things that we would not have otherwise seen. My feet feel fantastic after marching at pace. I love this Camino and getting lost is part of my journey. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I think that 20 km’s is now becoming 28 km’s. I figure it’s only 6 km’s more, when I see a village in the distance. Assumptions are the mother of all evil. Miguel is a twat.

8 OCTOBER 2016 – MOS
That took longer than expected, but the unbridled pleasure it brought to all parts of the anatomy was nothing short of orgasmic. Steady on folks, we’re only talking about a shower, but what a power shower it was. I found the largest shower ever. It had a fold-down seat big enough for all of us. I need to mention that it was for the disabled. Also found some aloe gel shampoo that belonged to a pilgrim from the Netherlands, and of course we used it, including his conditioner. A question enters my head, “What kind of ‘pelegrino‘ carries conditioner?”. The cost of today’s fine albergue was 7 euros, I made sure that I used that amount in hot water. It was well-earned. Forty minutes later I’m on my bottom bunk, Vaseline tub just about empty, but I figure the ‘fellas’ deserve a fondled treat as well. So Miguel and the Beast? Look, before we get all excited, it was only 20 km’s, no big deal. Bollocks – no big deal! We left the albergue last as usual, a full two hours after the rest. Had a quick coffee and toast before leaving. We started at 09h00, not counting one coffee break, and smoked it in just over 4 hours. No great shakes in the early morning sun and mist, no one in front of us, the rest long gone. I didn’t even think about them. “Stop it Miguel, I’ll get to you and the beast soon enough!”. At this point I come around a corner in full-flight, and an even fuller smile, not at anyone other than myself. I was enjoying this, low-flying, head bent low. Surprise, surprise, there is a coffee shop. There they all are, it looks like they have been breeding as well. There are so many of them. I had given them enough time for a little daypacker fornication.
All of the chairs are taken, everyone happily chatting, drinking coffee. Day packs scattered everywhere, sandwiches in hand. Why don’t you all just have a frigging Picnic? I give up on counting the horny bastards, the daypackers that is, instead focus on counting pilgrims. There are five out of at least twenty people. I just love daypackers, really I do, they keep me occupied, keep me honest.
Now for the beast, whenever I’m hell-bent on destroying myself, I unleash it. It has no feeling, no heart, no soft spot, no sore feet and no eyes. It snarls and growls, it makes me take the pain. I figure ‘it’ and Miguel are going to get along just fine, with Miguel in charge, pushing the beast. I will surely crumble under the pressure and let them have their way. The two of them are now fully in charge. They reckon that a thirty minute head start is enough and pull my body reluctantly out of my chair. It’s out of my control and I know it, but deep inside I smile, wanting it. What else is there to do? This is seriously how I walk sometimes, it really has nothing much to do with the daypackers, pilgrims or whatever else I need to get the job done. The job of getting fitter, thinner, happier, is all that matters. It takes at least a half an hour before Miguel and the beast are rewarded. They see two of them in the distance, their shiny new poles gleaming innocently. I would like to add that at this point, I think I’m moving pretty quickly. It happens like this most days, we dig deep and find more. Things can get kind of tricky when this happens, because once you take them, you have got to hold the pace and hold it all day long. Otherwise you end up looking like a complete twat should they overtake you again. I have two of my favourite Scooter tracks on repeat and full blast. Please read the lyrics, they make us happy as we wreak havoc with every step. Blister? What blister? The lyrics … for the boys in the sandals, ‘Miguel’ and ‘the Beast’

cooper the producer
But now it’s scooter
Who are supa dupa
I’m the hard rhymer
The track attacker
The mic enforcer
The chick’s checker
I am the law
I’m the quarterback of the scene
We bring the noise and make you scream
What? !
Candyman, that’s who I am
Dave – the track attacker
The mic enforcer
The chick’s checker
I’m bigger and bolder and rougher and tougher
In other words sucker there is no other
I’m bigger and bolder and rougher and tougher
In other words sucker I’ve got no brother

Who the fuck is Dave? It’s Miguel, the track attacker!

Man, and that’s all we do, Miguel the track attacker on the left, the beast, no eyes, just fire, on the right. I am in the middle, getting dragged along. I gamely grab that bugle of mine and try blow it, it falls onto the pebbled track below. No time to pick it up, “gotta go, go, go” … Scooter says so. One daypacker at a time, one village at a time, that’s how I like to do my Camino. They are bunched up, my head is bent, I can only see a short distance in front of me, from behind my peaked cap. I almost walk into an oncoming car that has stopped. The daypackers think it’s funny, I don’t. It happens again shortly after, making us pay a little more attention. Passing pilgrim number 15, 16, no it was 17. But who’s counting? My feet are on fire once again, but it feels good and we aren’t stopping. I’m way out in front now and holding it, two give chase but not for long. I’m up over a hill but clearly nowhere near ‘over the hill’. I see O Porriño in the distance and am really surprised that we have arrived so quickly. I still have another 5 km’s to go and know that the lot behind me will be calling it a day and heading for the cosy albergue close by. I arrive in Mos which has an albergue with sixteen beds, I’m fourth in and there are no more. Just the kind of place you would like to spend with a pretty Camino wife. I’m on the home stretch to Santiago, which I know so well. Expect more stupidity, it does it to me every time. It’s a three day finish but the wife has given me an extra day. I don’t know why, I’m not the ‘touristy kind of guy’. I think it’s 85 km’s to go, we could do that in two days, but that would be just plain stupid.

RENFIELD

Leon – 28 September 2016
The shit that happens to me! I was going to tell you how I got mauled by bed bugs last night, but this is way more important because I don’t know how much time I have left! Please tell my wife and children that I love them. As far as I can tell, I’m just around the corner from the homeless soup kitchen in Leon. I don’t even know what place I’m in, but it sure isn’t a fucking albergue! All I know is that I’m in bed number 16 but not sure about much else because I was processed so quickly. Maybe I am in ward 3? I have a picture of the name of this place attached below, should you not hear from me again. Something is not quite right here. I was directed here by a kindly old lady working at some foundation, possibly an organ donor foundation. I should have known something was not right when they would not let me in before 21h30. I arrived five minutes early and the grumpy intern shat me out. I shit you not, he’s wearing a white coat as well! During the interrogation which went on for ages, the intern explains that this place is not for pilgrims trying to go to heaven. I try to leave but he says “No”. I’m forced to fill in some forms and sign. I don’t know what the fuck I’ve signed because as animated as I may be in Spanish and always fluent after a jug or three of Spain’s finest ‘Plonk de Noir’, I can’t fucking read anything in Spanish. I’m asked if I snore, I say “No”. I’m told smoking is forbidden, there are three strange old men in the next room smoking, staring blankly at an ancient television. They are engrossed, paying me no attention. The fucking thing is switched off. I look around furtively, for an easy escape. “Signor” and somewhat gruffly, he now wants my passport. I reach into my money pouch and slowly, and hesitantly take it out. For some reason it has a massive blob of mayonnaise on it. A takeaway sachet must have broken in my pouch. With a look of sheer disgust, he gingerly takes it out of my shaking hand. All the while, his bulging eyes have been locked unflinchingly onto mine. He wipes it off with a tissue, looking at me like I’m some sex offender. He records my details and stamps another processing document. I’m not sure but in the distance I convince myself that I hear a tortured scream. I’m ushered into the holding room with the three old men smoking, still staring blankly at sweet fuck all. I’m not feeling good about this. Tick tock, tick fucking tock! Apart from that, the silence is deafening. Ten minutes go by and suddenly the intern is back. He has some linen, a pink towel and I’m not sure, but maybe one of those hospital gowns. He has also literally tagged my backpack. WTF is going on here? I’m handed the linen and told to follow with my backpack. He opens a door, I think the sign on it says “Evidence disposal”, I’m not sure, I can’t fucking read Spanish. I also have an active imagination. He locks the door, my penknife is in there. Tonight’s food is in there. My whole life is in there! I have not eaten. He leads me to a sterile room where all the beds are numbered … like my days might be. I protest trying to explain I need to get stuff out of my bag but he won’t let me. I indicate that I need to shower. He tells me to wait and shuffles out, kind of like insect-eating Renfield – as in Dracula’s “Renfield”, and returns with a little cap of shampoo. This is just too fucked up. In case you’ve never heard of him, Renfield is an inmate at the lunatic asylum overseen by Dr. John Seward. He is thought to suffer from delusions that compel him to eat living creatures in the hope of obtaining their life-force for himself. Later Renfield’s own testimony reveals that Dracula would send him insects, which he begins consuming. Back in the sterile room, there is one really skinny old man wearing a pair of psychedelic underpants, that’s all. He just looks at me blankly, like in “The damned”. His few belongings are neatly folded on the side table. I’m told to do the same … but I leave my trousers on! I’m now in bed, and every time I look up, the psychedelic dude is just staring at me. Renfield just turned the lights out and it’s darker than dark, I can’t see a thing. I forgot to mention, this room has windows, but they are shuttered, metal shuttered, and closed. I’m now lying in my bed, it’s a corner bed, I take comfort in that. It’s eerily quiet in here, being the non-snoring room. I wonder if they take the snorers first? Thank God it turned out to be a homeless shelter and I get to live another day. The Municipal Passers home is a public facility, temporary shelter, which answers to the most basic of the needs of the homeless, with a perspective of specialised service and comprehensive intervention with these people.

 

A MEERKAT AMONGST THE SUNFLOWERS

Quickly now, double quick time! I have 9 km’s to start an uneventful day I’m sure? Backpack packed last night, so I quickly brush my teeth and attend to the other business that one does on a Camino. I hit the track. I finished yesterday, not quite at speed, but definitely feeling a bit better. I pass a few pilgrims and it’s business as usual. About 3 km’s in, I feel ‘them rumblings’. I have no toilet paper, I’m on the ‘mesetta’ (Spanish plains). There is nowhere to go, so I ‘knyp’ (pinch). It’s getting so bad, I seriously fear that I’m going to shit in my pants. It’s a straight road, no bends, and pilgrims behind me. Are you lot getting the picture yet? I convince myself that I can hold out for 6 km’s more. It’s getting worse. I’ve picked up the pace, looking ridiculous because I’m ‘knyping’ so ‘fokken’ hard. I’m now passing a sunflower field on my right, marching like a speeding penguin. My ‘poephol'(arse) is now leading the charge of the ‘bog patrol’, followed by stomach, Budgie and the rest of the gang. I have to say that ‘poephol’ sure knows his shit, pulling us along at breakneck speed. It’s Fucking useless. I’m shouting “Ek kan nie meer nie korporaal, Fok, ek moet Poep!” (I can’t anymore corporal, fuck, I need to poop!”). There is a shallow ditch on my right, then sunflowers and salvation. My military training and survival instincts kick in. I dive into the ditch, double roll, land facing the sunflowers, it’s quick, leaving the pilgrims behind thinking that I’m fucking fast, gone in the distance, just vanished. I’m in leopard-crawl position, look around for support, there is none. Keeping my head low, fearful that I get my head blown off, bullets whizzing above. I hear the blast of mortars going off in the distance. Off target, thank fuck. I then remember that I’m just going for a dump. Still I leopard crawl at speed, afraid of being spotted by the approaching pilgrims behind, totally oblivious to the life-and-death struggle going on in the sunflower field. I head towards the back of the field, looking for a good seat. I unclip, unzip, I have a spare sock that I have found, no bog roll. I position myself, then remember I’m wearing my blue, very visible fleece and quickly remove it. I’m wearing a red shirt, I’m fucked. They approach, I look like a ‘meerkat'(mongoose) peeping up wearing my cap and sun glasses. My body freezes, except for ‘poephol’ that is, he cares not. I pray that they don’t see me, I suspect they do. Anyway, sock at the ready, I wait for them to pass, finish up and get back on the track again. I don’t overtake them, lest they see the little wet spot on my bottom. It’s not over yet, 3 km’s later ‘poephol’ is in charge again and it’s double-quick time. I make it this time, finding one of my favourite albergues. As I come in, there’s a pilgrim standing on one leg, doing ‘karate kid’ moves, all that was missing was the pole. He “Buen caminos” me. Mate, I’m just trying to get to the fucking shitter. If it’s not Budgie, it’s ‘poephol’. I’m feeling better now, having dosed up on Imodium. I hope you fine folk have an awesome day. I’m really hoping that the rest of my day is uneventful.

SHEILA THE SLUT

Last night in an amazing albergue after a near-death experience, I finally meet up with Bruce the Australian I will call him Bruce, because once again I can’t remember his name. When I first met Bruce my ‘now-smaller’ gut instinct was that he was a dick head. I’m good with shit like that. I will get to that later. I’m really struggling with my blisters at this stage. You must be tired of the bitching and crying I have been doing. So I’m really hobbling all over the albergue, when Bruce looks me up and down and says in that Aussie twang that we all love so much, “Mate, I used to be in the Australian army, and you got to walk through the pain”. He’s right of course, I get that, having had my fair share. He proceeds “Mate, I’ve got this massive blister on the back of my heel, I’ve had it since Paris because I was stupid”. “My training has helped me walk through the pain”. It’s almost said like” Man up son!”. I’m impressed and almost faint, I restrain myself from ripping off my ‘compeed’ plaster and the skin that will follow. Both feet – What’s the point in both of us fainting? I also don’t tell him that I was an operational medic in the South African Army, when we were at war upholding apartheid. I’ve seen my fair bit of shit. Blown-off limbs, one from a little girl, no older than 10. I know what blood smells like, have washed plenty off my hands. I have casevaced plenty of wounded people, and sadly even witnessed death. We had no choice, it was conscription or jail. I make a decision not to share any of this with battle-hardened ‘Sergeant Bruce’. Fabio is the second Italian I have met. He is the pilgrim nurse who has come to help this ‘Australian trooper’ and things start to get interesting. By now I’m laying on my bunk watching all of this unfold. Fabio manages with great difficulty to eventually remove the plaster, because Bruce won’t keep still. His facial expressions are like nothing I have ever seen. There are even little tears forming. I’m thinking, shit, it must be bad. In broken English Fabio says “Hey it’s not so’ beeeg’!”. It turns out to be the size of a one pound coin, nothing like the size of the small ‘islands’ on my feet. Fabio cuts the skin off which exposes a somewhat red patch, and puts a massive plaster on to protect it from his boots. Bruce sits there white-faced, the Camino tan gone, I am watching with that lazy smile of mine. From now on in, he/she will be known as ‘Sheila’. Back at the albergue last night, Sheila tells me that after her blister, she took a day off, followed by a 2 km walk the day after, followed by a 5 km walk and then later, a bus to Burgos. She also seems quite proud to have only walked 11 km’s, getting in at 13h00.Sheila doesn’t remember me. I tell her that she slept on the bunk above me and that I was present for the ‘blister incident’. There are no more war stories. Enter ‘Dick head’ as promised. Twelve of us sit down for a communal dinner. There is paella and salad, enough for all. I’m sitting next to Tina, a Danish girl and she next to a Spanish guy. He speaks hardly any English and is called ‘Biktor’. We say “Biktor?”. He says no, “Biktor”. This carries on a while, we are all laughing. He pulls out his iPhone and spells it for us. V-I-C-T-O-R, then proudly says “Biktor!”. We are dizzy with laughter, Biktor can’t pronounce ‘V’ but can hear ‘B’ when we say it. Should we meet again, “Biktor” it is. We are all on our second helping, except for Biktor. Sheila the slut, having finished her third huge helping, dives in for a fourth. Tina defends Biktor who has a stomach bigger than his personality. He is obviously hungry, also having walked 29 km’s. Tina says three times in fluent English “Hey Biktor, has everyone had one helping?” three fucking times. Slut-face hears and piles on another spoon, leaving Biktor with half a spoon and literally scraping the stuck bits, which incidentally are the best. Sheila also pours a full tumbler of wine. The rest pour a third glass, which is the norm out here. The next morning Sheila sneaks out at 06h00, waking me with a noisy exit. I watch her leave. I get up and leave at 07h30, with one mission in mind. I catch her at the next town, just leaving, I have breakfast and catch her again and then one last time. I smoulder past her, knowing that she’s not going up the hill like the rest of us. I also know that I won’t see the bitch again. Some things really get my goat, Look, I’m no angel, but I know common courtesies, manners and how to at least try to be respectful to other pilgrims, even daypackers ! There is a code out here. The spirit of the Camino hey Sheila ?

BUDGIE AND THE SLEEPING PILGRIM

Oh this Camino of mine … I almost died today, seriously!  Feeling as fit as a fiddle, I set off this morning knowing that 33 km’s would be done with ease. So, sorry to disappoint, no heroics today. To cut a long story short, I spent the entire day walking and listening to James Blunt. Feet hurting a tad more than I’d care to admit, I arrive at Arroyo San Bol. Knowing that I still had 11 km to go, I put ‘Scooter’ on. Scooter is a German happy, hardcore, techno-rave. It has got me out of many a tight spot when the going has got tough. Hey, but that’s just me, it’s the way I like to walk. Hardcore all the way – Pump up the volume. “No quarter asked, no quarter given”. Fighting talk hey? My thinking is that I’m going to walk into a village, knowing that everyone is in, sitting out there drinking beer, relaxing, their work done for the day. Then I will do it in style, crank up the volume, walk in upright like I own the village and leave like I’ve just destroyed it. Nothing left but dust and bones. A quick stop, coffee and Aquarius. I change my socks and bring out my ‘Porra ferraris’,(my open sandals). All the albergues are full, so are the taxis – loaded up with backpacks and ‘pilgrims’? I leave, and it feels like I haven’t even walked today – apart from the pain in my feet. I know that I’m now walking-fit, smoking-fit, so I hit the road with intent, the ‘ferraris’ are feeling good. The Camino has something different to offer today.
I know there are three pilgrims ahead, having seen them leave. I’m happy that I have something to do. I’m really happy, everything is perfect and I’m coasting, listening to Scooter. There is this dude ahead that I’m trying to catch. It’s so unfair, he has legs like I’ve never seen before. I’m really annoyed that I have to stop for a piss. I should have packed it in then and there. I really need to pee and pee bad. It hurts, I get the old ‘budgie’ out, he offers a few measly drops. Back to catching the dude in front, it’s with extreme exertion, near-running that I catch up. Holy crap! This dude’s legs, well that’s all he was, just legs, all the way up to his ears. Actually, forget the ears, it’s just legs, no arse, no stomach, no fucking arms, just legs, sunglasses and a peak cap. That’s it, I try hard to catch him. I just want to tell him how ridiculous he looks, that and it’s hugely unfair. I take some pleasure in the knowledge that he can’t even enjoy a cold beer when he gets in. No arms, remember?  So I give up, knowing that by the time I get in, he will probably be in Santiago. ‘Budgie’ is at it again, I’m desperate for a piss. I let the little fellow out, but once again there is no generous donation. I now start to think that I am dehydrated. (Please feel free to advise on the symptoms). I’m standing out there on the track in the middle of nowhere, ‘budgie’ is still hanging out doing fuck all. I down half my water hoping this will encourage him.  ‘Nada’, ‘zero’, ‘fokol’. Frustrated, I put the little fucker back in his cage and set off again. Not even five minutes later, it’s same thing. This goes on six more times. I’m seriously worried that I may die. We have already had two deaths out here and a lot of people getting heatstroke. Who says I’m not next? Hold on a moment, there he goes again, I feel the need to pee, and stagger over to a Stop sign in the middle of nowhere. I turn my back on the track and unzip again. Nothing except a drop, when I squinted my eyes. I’m so pissed off. Yes, a well-intended pun. I yell out “Come on for fuck sake!”. I turn back again, ‘budgie’ still glumly peeping out. Now wait for it … There’s a bush right next to the Stop sign – and a frigging pilgrim laying there sleeping! I shit you not, he may have been sleeping, but definitely not now. He’s less than a metre away, I could have pissed on him had ‘budgie’ been in the game. What are the odds? I’m still worried and move on. My mouth is dry and I’m just about out of water. The only positive out of all of this is that if I pass out, the resting pilgrim will find me, and knowing my luck, piss on me. The Camino having witnessed all of this unfold, decides in a moment of pity, to throw me a bone. I come up to a sign, saying “Albergue 800 metres”. Hontanas is 5 km’s away, so it’s a no-brainer if I’m going to survive to walk another day. So 29 km’s instead of 33 km’s still makes me happy. The reward is that this is one of the best albergues I’ve been in. There are twelve beds, I get the last one. It’s 5 euros and an extra 6 euros for an excellent communal dinner, which is filled with laughter and friends. There is only one toilet and shower, in the same room. I stand outside the door, marking time, doing the dance of joy, crossing my legs looking like a twat. Finally the porcelain throne becomes available, but ‘budgie’ is still sulking. I am going to have to have a serious chat with him later. I have no doubt that I was seriously dehydrated but I’ve said this before, stupidity and I are great companions. ‘Budgie’ needs to cheer up because tomorrow is another day.

Second Instalment. Hey Ho and a bit of Mo

We sat halfway up that hill and drank beer. We were the last in and the last out.  We finally get our packs and check into our albergue, claiming our hard-fought-for beds. By now I assume you know Jerry is German, “Ja?”. For the life of me I cannot remember his name, no matter how many times he repeats it. So Jerry it is. Jerry decides on a nap, I grab the Vaseline and head for the showers, it’s personal okay? Feeling somewhat refreshed and walking tall again, I check in on Jerry, he’s missing in action, actually back at the bar, drinking beer again, like all good Germans should do. Fritz is his other name, Fritz is showing potential. He’s sitting at another table, place for four only. Ella is with them. I met Ella for the first time when I slept with the nuns way back when. I took an instant liking to Ella from Birmingham, the ‘Brummie’ in her is plain to see. She pulls no punches and has a wicked sense of humour. “OMG!” is one of the first things she says to me before I try score with the nuns.  “Is that a Nandos tattoo on your ankle?”. I’m like “Yeah”, in that lazy drawl that all the girls like. “I’m proud of my cock on my ankle”. It’s amazing how instant friendships develop out here, birds of a feather and all that, but more about Ella later. She sat with us when we first stumbled in. It’s not been five minutes since we’ve been seated, that she bursts out laughing, saying “Fuck! I can’t believe you’re talking about Hitler already”. I was trying to tell him about this movie “Look who’s back”. Okay, enough waffling, I’m sure you’re all eager for a little more adventure. So to cut a long story short, we have dinner together, share more war stories and vino. We are the last to creep into the albergue, not before Jerry tries to convince me to try and join the girls in the pilgrim tents. Bless him, he’s new to all of this. I obviously decline, and my wife also gets to read this. So what goes on the Camino, stays on the Camino … and all that malarkey. He tries to get me another beer, I’m just too damned tired. It’s an early start, just getting light. I hang about, have a coffee and a fag, telling Jerry that I will catch him. He smiles dubiously. (As I write this, Jerry has bussed ahead by two days, so I guess still catching him?). But catch him I do, a little disappointed that this hill that I fought so hard for, offers so little resistance. I feel  remarkably fresh, considering what I put myself through yesterday. The amazing healing powers of ‘vino’ and ‘cerveza’. This hill seems to have a memory, the same with the Camino in general, and now on my ninth time it knows and remembers me well. I have run down this hill three times now, the first time mainly unscathed. The second saw me limping badly with a swollen ankle for well over a week. I don’t run down because I’m cavalier or anything like that. It’s easier on my knees. And of course it looks good when you see a fat bloke charging down the hill like he has just opened a McDonald’s! I have clearly not forgotten that dead pilgrim bitch. Fat people have feelings you know. Another enduring memory I have of this downhill charge is my second visit. This is a rough old hill, scattered with loose, smooth boulders of all shapes and sizes. Pilgrims carefully picking their way down, but “Oh no sir, not I”. To be honest, I get a thrill out of it. The portly diabetic in me making a meal of it. I have seen so many fall on their arses. So the memory … I’m charging down this hill, I have a sister who likes to think she can run, well I’m a lot faster than her! Pilgrims scatter and make way for my path of carnage, they hear me coming, rocks shooting out like shrapnel, some of them take cover, hiding behind trees as I cut my own trail. I overtake this Canadian, he steps aside shouting after me “Hey, where’s the fire?” I am half turning, it’s still a blur, over my shoulder, “No fire mate, just called ahead and there’s only one bed left!”. The look on his face, an eternal memory for me. This hill remembers and remembers well. I am halfway down and am thrown a bone in the form of another Canadian. How fucked up is that? I mean almost at the same place! This Canadian is a bit older, but I’m going to have him anyway.  I am Mo, almost sprinting, almost falling a good few times, my ankles twisting almost every second step, but they take it. In full flight, I’m sweating, I feel 51 again. I get to the bottom of the hill, turn and jog on the spot, giving him the ‘Mo’ love sign, I’m pretty sure he knows Mo….who doesn’t? I wait patiently, so that I can ‘high-five’ the nearly dead old fucker. A grumpy one at that, not amused at my youthful childish gestures. He just mumbles past, leaving me looking like a twat, waving at all the other pilgrims up the hill. I waved a bit longer than was necessary, I had stopped jogging on the spot. The day pretty much over, I came into Uterga feeling pretty good, apart from my fucking feet, still they protest. I am in Viana right now, having survived the running of the Bulls. I’m in bed, it’s dark and all is quiet. I’m feeling fit, fat and happy. Tomorrow is another day and stormy weather is predicted, that coupled with my stupid decision to try for 32 km’s. I can only but try.

A little pain in Spain, but I’m back in the game

Ola, We’re back! Apologies for the delay, but we’ve been kind of busy, missing in action so to speak. It’s been a few days too many, so please forgive us if it’s a little longwinded, for this little tale that I’m about to share with you, is about raw courage and then a bit more. Mostly it’s about me, it normally is, hey? “What’s that you say Miguel?”. Ah, sorry folks, I forgot, Miguel too, has displayed guts and true determination, the fat fuck reminding me daily. The truth of the matter is that I need him most of the time out here. Hell I’m even starting to like him. I guess what I’m trying to say is that we all have an inner voice, a conflicting voice, good and bad, weak and strong. Look, I’m no psychiatrist, but, surely I’m not alone in this? Well gather around, let’s get on with this dramatic tale. So where was I? I have moved on from snogging the rugged taxi driver and feel no remorse or regret. Now heading for Pamplona. I Saddle the black stallion and head out at great speed. We ripple in unison under the early morning Spanish sun, I pull out my bugle and blow it all the fucking way. Spurring the black stallion on. Pamplona knows we are coming. It’s a quick 13 km’s, so hardly building up a sweat. A quick coffee break and I water my horse (read that any way you want). I call my beloved and blow that old bugle even harder. “Hey Hun, 13 done and dusted and only 10 to go!”. She’s suitably impressed and justifiably so. The ‘caberlero’ in me remembers that we still have a job to do, and we get the fuck out of dodge, heading for the hill. Now then, about 1 km into the chase, the big black stallion has turned into a lame-arse donkey. A short while later, I am catapulted high into the air, landing in the dust. I crawl to my knees, and fuck that old donkey can run. He has bolted and now disappearing into the horizon. For fucks sake, even Miguel has left the building. It is unbearably hot, I’m left alone to stagger on. Bugle! What fucking bugle? There are times when you question your insanity, this is one of those times. It feels like I have been walking forever and a day. I’m now at that same coffee shop, my third visit. I’ve only walked 2 km’s! I do not feel well. Two litres of water in my belly and everything looks yellow. I rest my head on the keg table outside the dusty saloon to think again. Dusty saloon? What dusty saloon? The stallion and the donkey, both long gone, now drinking water at some shady trough in heaven. I could desperately do with the donkey, to feed on its stubbornness. Still the hill waits, I head on out again. It’s not the pain in my tormented feet, it’s the heat being the greater danger. I’m walking, leaning on my sticks every couple of steps, belching uncontrollably. I start to consider heat stroke and paranoia sets in, and you know the old story with paranoia, the more you think about it, the worse it gets. The thought that I could die, actually crosses my mind. I find a bench, it’s too hot to sit, instead I stand there on my poles. I drink deeply and pop a few pain pills and slowly move on up that hill. It’s now a dusty white track, it’s glare almost blinding, the hill no closer. The track is now littered with rough gravel, fueling, teasing the pain in my tortured soles to even greater heights. In the distance I see a tree,  “Or is it a mirage?”.  No it’s a tree, Calling out “Miguel, Miguel”. I’m like “Fuck it man, Miguel is long gone!”. I see the forlorn shape of Jerry, sitting under that tree, smoking, just smoking. I crash down next to him. We say not a word and both of us smoke. Suddenly, pent up with rage, I grab that fucking bugle, dangling loosely on my backpack and bash it relentlessly against the tree. Jerry is eyeing me suspiciously, as if I were from another planet, but I suspect he understands. I throw it with all my might onto the track. It lands, begins to melt, shining no more, its molten metal, seeping into the ground. We watch in silence. My cigarette butt follows shortly after, it bursts into a puff of flame, gone in an instant.  Are you lot getting this, it’s fucking hot! Jerry heads on out, I drink more water and light up again. Shortly after, I follow. Coming around a bend, I find Jerry slumped under another tree. I’m telling you it’s ridiculous out there. He beckons, I mutter “Nein danke”, and stumble on, remembering that there may only be one bed left. Not that it helps my cause much. 30 metres later, I’m rooted to the spot, leaning on my poles yet again. Jerry catches up to me and together we hug all the trees together. Smoking. It’s his first day, his first baptism under fire. We are comrades. We limp into town, wet to the bone, land together in the only two chairs available. Jerry orders me a beer, I’m not refusing. I go into the bar, only to discover that they are ‘complet’, no more beds. This is desperate stuff. I ask if the other albergue has beds, the barman shrugs his shoulders uncaringly. The cold bastard. I trudge further up the hill, there are only two beds left. The good pilgrim in me pays for both, fearing late stragglers as you often see out here. Back at the bar drinking beer, we don’t care, sharing war stories, the other pilgrims, wide eyed. Our backpacks, bloodied, still where they landed. We stay there for two hours. I am showing off my fluent Spanish every time the barman passes by with “Cerverza Por favor”. A short while later, I see this Lebanese pilgrim come stumbling in, only to be turned away. The pain on his face clear for all to see. Do I give a fat flying fuck?  Actually I do, he carries a backpack and not a loaf of bread. I sat out here earlier today, writing, and then accidently deleted it. Did that piss me off. Later at dinner, I found a worm in my peach. But that’s the Camino for you, I’m relaxed and happy again, feeling fit. So apologies, but for that, I would have got to the point of being back in the game.

Oh, The shame in Spain …

After my traumatic, hobbled stroll into Espinal yesterday, I know that I will be taking a day off. This my dear friends is not my shame, for that you will have to read a little further. Naturally, Miguel is not happy with this, but I have learnt to listen to my body. Miguel retreats to the dark demonic corners of my mind … Waiting! I’m not happy, knowing well that it will end in tears sometime in the near future. It’s a great albergue for 12 euros. I’m in early enough for lunch and order a rare steak, as I like it. Sitting there watching the blood seep out, I’m forced to block images of that poor pilgrim, hunched in a pool of dried blood, where I left her. The flies … Well fuck that, the steak is amazing and I am too hungry to let guilt get in the way of me picking up weight. So a full day off, and a good decision in the end. I’m looking forward to the walk out of Espinal, Miguel convincing me that we are “Gonna smoke ’em” tomorrow. My feet scream out in horror, but it’s gone down to a vote. We win 3-2. Miguel, for some reason or other gets two votes. I attempt to get an early night’s sleep, but the dorm is full of cyclists, sweaty cyclists, sweaty, snoring cyclists! I then remember that the other dorm is empty. I tiptoe quietly out, so as not to disturb the snoring bastards – Yeah I’m that kind of pilgrim. My halo shines brightly. It turns out just as well that I slept alone. I drift off into a restless sleep. I must have left the door open, I roll over, open my eyes and let out a bloodcurdling scream. It’s her! Right up close to my face, empty sockets, the smell of blood heavy in the air, mingled with the charred smell of a McDonald’s hamburger. I’m in hell, I’ve been caught. I let out another scream and roll over like I did when I was a child having a nightmare. She snuggles closer, whispering “Fat pig, fat pig”. I’m making little whimpering noises now. Okay, it did not go quite like that, but I did have a frigging bad nightmare. I’m sure my wife is smiling at this, because she know that I often have nightmares – I have had them since childhood. This alone I cannot remember, but waking up sweaty, my heart racing. I figure it may have been her. So grateful for sleeping alone in the empty dorm, and not having to wake up feeling like a twat in front of the cyclists. After that shit, I’m up early, adding another ‘compeed’ plaster to each foot. I tape them up as extra insurance. I set off at a fair old pace, feeling comfortable. Damn it – Be patient! The shame is coming. The plan is Espinal to Zubiri, a meagre 15 km’s. I am 5 km’s into the walk, not happy, my feet even less so, stop for a cup of coffee and make the decision to follow the asphalt. Huge error, and ironically so, because I land up in a hellish town called Erro. Shortly after the coffee break, I’m in serious pain, the heat of the tar underfoot, infuriating my blistered feet even further. I’m leaning on my sticks every couple of metres. Listen to me ! I’m not trying to paint some heroic picture of some tortured soul or something like that, I’m just telling it like it is, or was. So I stumble on in the heat, eventually finding something that resembles shade, crash down, not giving a flying fuck if I land in poison ivy again. I unclip as I lay there and frantically grope for my seriously strong painkillers, pop three of them and gulp them down. I light a fag and lay there and wait for them to kick in. I even phone my wife and discuss coming home, I shit you not, I’ve had enough. Suffice to say, the pills kicked in and I stumbled on, finally coming into Erro. No bar, no toilets, fuck all. I am in serious need of a dump. I stumble into a pharmacy and manage to replace the reading glasses that I lost. Sitting under a shady tree, I phone my wife yet again and am seriously considering a taxi. Too expensive and only available in two hours, I glumly limp off again. (you’re all crying your eyes out about now, aren’t you?). I manage to eke out a few more km’s. I’m standing there, leaning on my poles, just resting. As I look up I see a taxi approaching. The driver and I – our eyes lock – It’s love at first sight. He slows and kind of questions with his hands. I coyly smile and nod, he stops, it’s all in slow motion. He glides out of the car, tantalisingly opening the rear door. Extra slow motion, as you see in the movies, I am running towards him. He’s ‘hermoso’(handsome) as well. Nervously, I ask the fee. With a sultry Spanish accent, he replies “Para Tu peligrino, nada”.(For you pilgrim, nothing). I reply with tears in my eyes “Gracias hombre”. He courteously opens the door for me, I blush as I get in. What happens next is a blur. He’s next to me and we tenderly embrace, and I smell his muskiness. Suddenly, my Irish mate Mickey pops into my head, I wrench myself away, feeling sick. ‘Hombre’ looks hurt, I apologise and we drive on in silence. He tells me he knows of a good albergue and proceeds to take me there. We finally come to my ‘Shame in Spain’. He pulls up outside the albergue, there are pilgrims everywhere. I feel them staring at me, they aren’t, but I feel it. I really feel like a cheat, even though loads do it. I jump out and perhaps even limp more than I should, even though, it was only about 4 km. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I would hate to be tagged a cheat. I try to walk upright and in the way I’ve come to see so many pilgrims do. Please let me add that I don’t see others as cheats. Each to their own on the Camino, the personal journey being more important. There is no shame in kissing the taxi driver! A quick roundup of today. I don’t think you will be hearing much of my bitching and moaning anymore, Miguel came out to play today and it feels like he’s here to stay. I had a fantastic hobbled walk, and then like ‘Keyser Soze’, the limp was gone. I hammered the blisters and embraced the pain. I sang out loud, I laughed and cried even more. Fuck, sure it hurt, and it felt good. We are back, you can expect more swashbuckling takes of blood sweat and tears from here on in. Now in for the day, dressing the salad for the communal dinner, sleeping with the nuns, I have high expectations for tonight.

Bullfighting fat pig and McDonald’s … Oh yes and daypackers!

Almost an uneventful day, almost. The Camino that I have come to love so much, never fails to disappoint, but this day was nothing short of ridiculous.

Before we get to the main event, I want to reflect a little on yesterday’s arrival in Roncesvalles. I know it was only day two, but for the shape and condition I was in, it was merciless – not that I was looking for any mercy. I walk with my earphones on pretty much the whole day. Sometimes when it gets really tough, I put the appropriate music on and let it pull me through. It was no different yesterday with the last 1 km uphill ahead of  me. Bathed in sweat and my family of not-so-little blisters, screaming at me. “Clubland 90’s” mix it is! I need something with a little beat, something with a little swagger.  Too much swagger if you ask my feet, who have conspired and are now in open revolt ! But Miguel is in charge and FTC! (Fuck the consequences). I’m really pumping up the last stretch, my lungs screaming , I have a stitch, I literally scream out “Stop Miguel, Stop”. I reach the summit, the hero in me biting back the tears. The reward of it all was the downhill, expecting 4 more km. It turned out to be more like 1 km and a euphoric fist-punching. I bellow as I see the albergue below. I have always had an issue with daypackers, the ones who transport their backpacks ahead. It’s not that with which I take exception, or even their cute little day packs, filled with ‘baguettes’, ‘charcuterie’ and the finest stink cheese their euros can bye. It’s not this that gets my goat, nor the fact that they near-shag themselves to death under some shady tree. It’s the fact that they always turn out to be the people with the most ‘anti-Camino’ spirit. I figure if you want to walk or try to walk 800 km’s, carry your own damned backpack. My son who was 12 years old at the time, walked 240 km’s with me, carrying his every day. Yes, there were tears, but he carried that backpack every day for thirteen days. I tried to take it from him, I pretended to take it anyway, but he would shrug me off and soldier on. The spirit of the Camino. I had to stand in a queue for two hours, just like the rest. The queue behind, three times longer . Everyone standing there patiently in their blistered feet (I’m not the only one). We stand there, sweaty, smiling, chatting, making new friends, but most of all, shaking our heads at each other, with a happy grin on our faces. We know that it separates us. Boom! Crash! They come crashing through the door, cursing, grunting,  pushing. They stagger through us, some of us falling over our bags. You see the baggage carrier is on the other side and their bags are all tagged large and bold – the shame of it. It gets worse, one woman is trying to push through the queue, angrily gesticulating. Not even the courteous “Por favor”. Not a word, just pure anger, almost hatred. They are aggressively protesting amongst each other at the length of the queue. Tapping with their sticks on the office window, trying to push in, feigning injury and a lot of other bull. We close ranks and hold the line. By now I have a full blown erection, bigger than my lazy smile. Some blush at the rigid sight, but for most of them, they just don’t get it. Walk like a pilgrim, act like a pilgrim and maybe, just maybe I’ll cut you some slack.

Today’s anticipated 26 km’s was always going to be a bridge too far for me, my blisters pushing Miguel into the distant background. Firmly in control, they barked all the way. I am forced to take an early breakfast and coffee at a roadside bar after only 2 km’s. I probably hung around a bit longer, trying to put off the inevitable. After 1 km or so, I was overtaken by one of these daypackers. I had made up my mind to pull in and call it a day, with only 6 km to go. Hobbling along like a 52 year old, minding my own business, alone, the odd car passing by. I see the daypacker far ahead, at least I have something to do, like catch up to her. To my right, in the distance, I see another pilgrim sitting on the side smoking. I take my earphones off as I often do, incase we need to chat or just say “Hello”. I am now about 15 metres away from her. If she does not pull out the biggest middle finger and give it to me?! I stop, confused, look behind, perhaps for an approaching car or maybe someone worthy of a big fat middle finger. No it’s aimed squarely at me. I’m now drawing level with her, she pulls out another one shaking it at me. I’m left wondering how many more of those she has, I mean for all I know, she has a whole backpack full of middle fingers. I politely ask. “Hey, are you okay?”. I now know that this is all directed at me as she dives into her backpack and pulls out a good few more. Fuck, I hope she runs out soon. I repeat “Are you okay?”. Wait for it …  in a heavy foreign accent “You fat pig!”.  “Excuse me?” I stutter. She follows with more. “You big fat pig ! You big fat pig!”. Real Tourette’s I figure. “Keep walking to McDonald’s, you big fat fucking pig!”. You couldn’t make this shit up if you tried. Wounded, I start to laugh and laugh hard, feeling better but fuelling her demons even more. I walk on smiling, followed by more abuse. Well now, I have something to think about, like maybe losing weight. I pick up my hobble-pace, knowing that I’m burning more calories this way. I have not walked much further, thinking I’m not having this, when I turn, unclip my backpack, and in a full unadulterated sprint, charge her, frothing at the mouth. Like a matador in his prime,  I launch my corpulent body high in the air, landing, thrusting my walking poles straight through her eyes. I hold them there, she shudders and convulses, not even a whimper, such was my speed. I wait there watching her bleed out. Satisfied, I say “Who the fuck are you calling fat?”. The spirit of the Camino hey? The bitch, now I’m not going to heaven. I finally catch up to the daypacker,  slightly worried that she will see me blood splattered and start screaming. She is lost. I give her directions. I ask her “Did you also get abused back there?”  She smiles and replies “Are you talking about that mad lady back there, the one with a  backpack full of middle fingers?”. “Yes” I say, “But she called me fat!”. We both laugh hard at the insanity of the moment. It was a reflective walk in for me as I sat down on a bench to think about  it. It made me want to cry, I did not. I’m hopeful that this Camino will sort out her demons, I’m sure it will. I don’t know, nor judge this lost soul. I think a lot of us get lost, a lot of us walk. Who am I to judge, I bear no resentment, but I am sorry that I killed her. I am in an amazing albergue getting ready for dinner. With my feet firmly in control, I very much hope that Miguel will walk tomorrow.
Be safe wherever you are  “Adios Chicas e chicos”.

Tourette’s, two sisters and maybe a little more

Woke up this morning feeling fresh and ready for more. I  pulled a muscle, it felt so good,  so I pulled it again. Too much information, I know. Anyway, my ankle felt pretty good, thanks again Honey, the strapping you packed worked a treat. The Danish guy also made me pop a pill last night, so not sure.  For now you get the  credit. I have not forgotten the unpacked styling wax … or for that matter, the ‘Che Guevara’ cap. Come on you know the one that I tried on in the shop, you know the one that fitted me perfectly, but by the time I got home, it had shrunk. Or maybe my head grew?  I would have been the coolest dude on the Camino, now just a twat in a grandad’s hat. Anyway, strapped up tight, had a quick bite and a strong coffee. I set off at a fair pace, confidently managing 4 km’s in an hour. Not my best I know, but I’m happy. For sure a perfect walk in store? Nope, I forgot about that damned mountain, the one I made all wet and then boasted about it. After a well deserved break, I sat down for fag. Fag at the ready, I forage around for my lighter, I forage a while longer. It’s lost or perhaps even stolen. Then I hear a giggle, I shit you not. It’s her, that bitch! Before I forget about the Tourette’s, Let me slip it in here. This I’ve said many a time before. For some reason my camelbak’s cord is too short. Josh Lynch? Just kidding mate. I need water on demand, I hate unclipping for a drink. Now picture this, I’m thirsty, I try and drink, turning my head sideways, it’s just out of reach. I try again and again, eventually snapping viciously, twitching and snarling. Ten minutes later it develops into the full blown version, I am cursing as much as I can. The backpack gets unclipped a short while later and I drink, muttering all the while. So as Floyd would say  “Back up here folks”. “Good morning Miguel, I trust you had a good night?” I’m like “Don’t start that shit!”. I beg successfully for a light, that seems to shut her up for a while. I smile and almost feel a stirring in my loins. Back on the track again, with visions of grandeur, visions of catching those pilgrims that left an hour before me. That was not going to happen, now was it?

Sometime later, both feet start shouting up at me “Miguel, hombre, for fucks sake, pull over!”. Listen, I’ve heard these fellows bitch before, they’re pretty good at it. I ignore their shouts of distress and spank it for another 1 km further. I know, now it’s too late. I pull up sensing the boys downstairs are not talking ‘merde‘, sitting down on my fat arse in some more poison ivy. The story of my life. I gingerly pull off my left sock, all knowingly. There they are, proud and puffed up. Been here before, poke the ‘bejesus’ out of them and gently apply my ‘compeed’ plasters. The hills around me burst  into hysterical laughter, eyes twinkling. “Ola Miguel”, like dripping honey, way too sweet for me. “Whatever”, I mutter.

So that’s me in a state, with 10 km’s to go. There’s “gonna be a whole lot of hurting”. Angry, I turn up the music and suck up a little more, I know this is going to piss her off to no-end. Once again, I feel a stirring in my loins. Yes it hurt like hell, but then it’s supposed to. Almost out of her clutches and on the last km downhill, I sheath my bloodied poles, I’m just about to turn up the volume again. She bellows “Miguel, I’m not finished with you yet!”. Miguel smiling, “Yeah whatever”. “My two sisters lie in wait for you!”. My reply, “If you are referring to those supposedly rugged mountains of Leon or O Cerebro … Been there done that”. Quickly adding “If you are implying group sex, it “ain’t happening sista”. She turns crimson red at my rejection, I smile broadly once more. Before I know it, I’m in. I cannot resist one last dig, so turn one last time and shout up into “them thar hills”. Oh, by the way, I forgot to put vaseline on my nuts this morning and they are now chafed.  This doesn’t please her, she knows it’s now 3-1 to yours truly. Not much more to say, other than one more blister on my right foot. I stood in the queue for two hours, smiling contentedly, silently, letting my backpack do the talking instead. Now time for my three-course pilgrim menu, wine included.  Only 10 euros honey !

See you all out there tomorrow.