Strong at the Broken Places: Part 4. Bilbao and After

I had to leave   early to walk to the bus station the next morning after ending my bit of the Camino de Santiago at Logrono in Rioja province. I was heading north to Bilbao on the northern coast of Spain to meet my sister before travelling back home to Ireland.   Light was just starting to trail ahead of the morning and wiry, delicate cats wound in and out of doorways like phantoms. Early morning workers walked along head down in a fug of early rising. My stomach rumbled in response to smells of coffee and bread wafting out from apartment blocks and early opened cafes. I passed camino walkers/pilgrims walking in the opposite direction to me and turned to watch them wistfully. I could see their scallop shells that quintessential mark of the camino bouncing up and down on their back packs, marking their identity as pilgrim, a walker of the way. I longed to go in their direction. Instead I turned back, hitched my back pack into a more comfortable position and turned my thoughts north to Bilbao. 

My sister and I were arriving the same day In Bilbao. She had travelled over from Australia to England to visit my parents. I had booked my outbound flight back to Ireland from Bilbao and we were both travelling out of the airport on the same day – myself to Ireland and her to England. So we were going to have couple of days catching up together in Bilbao. Bilbao is the largest city of the Basque country in northern Spain. It used to be the commercial hub of the Basque country due its port activity as it is situated near the northern coast of Spain. It experienced heavy industrialisation during the 19^th century for which it was known. A surge of tourism came with the opening of the Guggenheim museum in 1997. This radical museum brought a more visionary aspect to modern architecture and it is also considered one of the best contemporary art museums in Europe. 

Guggenheim Museum,Bilbao

I combed Bilbao with my sister eating up the streets by foot – another though albeit different type of camino to that I had just finished. We talked non- stop through the streets and cafes walking, eating and drinking up the miles. 

Bilbao

My sister had a step counter on her phone. We were agog to find that over the 2 days we were there, we had clocked up 10 miles walking a day. We tended to drift several times towards the Guggenheim museum revelling in the idea that were getting a 2 for 1 deal in terms of the fact that the  Guggenheim is both a feat of architecture and art .Our heads were permanently craned as we traced the sweeping curves and wave like dimensions of the building. Outside we enjoyed the playful sculptures such as a huge spider that looked as if it was about to lay an egg and the somewhat worn puppy dog sculpture – a large puppy made up of thousands/millions of plants and flowers – a little scrubby in places – as if he had just returned from a foray in the forest.

Puppy by Jeff Koons

We sampled the Basque version of Prosecco, a slightly sparkling, very dry white wine with high acidity and low alcohol content, called txakoli. We were amused by the eye rollings and sighs that our attempts at its pronunciation evoked in the waiters and others attending on us at cafes and restaurants we stopped at on our ramblings.  During our time in Bilbao, our conversation would return many times to our parents, namely our father as if unbeknown to us we were foreseeing what would happen later that year. 

Later on that year back in Ireland at work in the nursing home, I was sitting briefly at the nurse’s station acutely aware of my throbbing feet – taking a few seconds before ringing the doctor to come and see a sick resident. I took a slug of water from my water bottle and my eye fell on a postcard propped up amidst all the detritus such a forms, stethoscopes, envelopes, rosary beads, hastily scribbled notes and such   that accumulate in a busy nurses station where there are plenty of nooks and crannies   to stuff things, not having time to put them in their proper place. It was the post card I had sent fromViana, one of many I had written whilst sitting on the sun warmed wall watching the swifts wheeling overhead. As I read it, I was immediately transported back to the sunflower warmth of the sun on my face and how warm the stone under me had felt as I snuggled into the seat cut into the wall surrounding the cathedral. It was if that post card was like a door into a wonderful Narnia heaven like land, I recalled that feeling of languor and pleasurable anticipation of an enjoyable afternoon and evening ahead.

Guggenheim at night

And then even later on in the year when my father was failing fast I recalled the eccentric patron at the first albergue I had stayed in at the beginning of the camino in St Jean de Pied de Port and what he had said wildly waving his arms in the process – that you cannot control or break the camino for it will break you.As Ernest Hemingway put it in his novel “A Farewell to Arms” as it hurtled towards its pithy and heartrending finale – “The world breaks everyone and afterwards many are strong at the broken places”. How right that patron was about the camino and how right Ernest Hemingway was about our own camino or way in life. I had yet to realise that when I was doing that first third of the camino to Logrono and unaware of what lay ahead later that year.

And finally as autumn took hold that same year, the evening before my father died, he was lying in his bed downstairs, gazing out of the window. At that stage he was not talking and I looked to see what he was looking at. It was a magnificent sunset set in a   mackerel tinted and textured sky which in all the hustle and bustle of what was going on with looking after him, I had not noticed. He was looking at it as if he too, like myself that day at the nurse’s station with the postcard, was recalling something.  As if he too saw swifts wheeling acrobatically above on a sunny May afternoon and felt the sun warming his face, leaving a feeling of languor and peace and he had not a whit to worry about except where and what to eat on a sunny evening in a northern Spanish town on the Camino de Santiago – the Way of St James, my father’s name. Maybe the  door into his own  Narnia was that beautiful evening lying in his bed looking out of the window out onto that sunset as he was making his own way, his own  camino out of this world……..   I would like to think so.

In memory of my father James Feeney who both ended and began his own camino on 10^th October 2016.

Strong at the Broken Places: Part 3. Viana to Logrono

The walk from Viana to Logrono the next day was only 10km and never really lost a somewhat suburban aspect as if signalling that my days of walking Spanish  country lanes , fields and forests and encountering small, higgledy higgledy  villages with white washed walls and  brightly coloured shuttered windows  were finally at an end. The Sligo native and I walked part of it together speaking in that desultory half asleep manner of early morning. Then I walked on ahead as he stopped to browse through some market stalls. I could see the footpath ahead entering the suburbs of Logrono. I stopped at the last field before entering manicured parkland that ran alongside the river Ebro and stood with my back to Logrono. I could see the hazy hills and countryside I had walked through. The field that I had stopped beside were filled with red poppies firing all around me in a blaze of colour.

Leaving the camino behind. Entering Logrono, capital of Rioja province my last stop

This was northern Spain – flamenco reds, sunflower yellow sun, dark greens of spirally cypresses in the distance, a child’s version of a drawing a bright blue sky – so different from the muted lilacs, greys and duck egg blues of the less flamboyant but nevertheless magical, mystical north west region of Ireland.

Then I turned my back on the camino for a while anyhow and started to walk into Logrono.  In Logrono I had quite a few tasks to carry out and I felt as if I was gradually being pulled back into my general daily life having stepped off that Wizard of Oz like way. I was planning to spend a day in Logrono and then head north on the bus to Bilbao, an industrial Basque city on the coast famous for the Guggenheim museum, a feat of modern art combined with architecture. I was to meet my sister there. So  my head was beginning to rattle with thoughts like scattered cats such as my accommodation after exiting the albergue, a post office to buy stamps, bus times and where to find the bus station to Bilbao, where to find an ATM etc.  I was hoping Logrono was going to be user friendly in that aspect and I was heartily relieved to find that was in fact the case. The wide and sweeping river Ebro runs through Logrono and there are many parkland spaces and paths along it. I took one of these along the river bank wending its way into what I hoped was the centre of Logrono. Soon I came to a sign that indicated a centre for information for pilgrims and a few minutes later I arrived at a majestic stone bridge which was a busy avenue for cars. This was the Puente de Piedra (Stone Bridge) which took the pilgrim’s route to Santiago de Compostela into the city. 

I had arrived to the city of Logrono. I took the stone steps up from the river path to the avenue and there it was – an information centre dedicated especially for pilgrims. Those scattered thoughts started to lay down and purr. I obtained all the information I needed and was able to also store my pack there. This was such a relief as it was still early and the albergue was not yet open. And I wanted to take a walk and start ticking off my list of tasks. 

Logrono is the capital of the Rioja region and is famous for its red wine and being on the pilgrim’s route to Santiago de Compostela. It is well off the tourist radar and feels like a traditional Spanish town with a modern twist.

As well as red wine Logrono is also famous for food, namely pinchos or pintxos in Basque , meaning one serving. Pinchos are Northern Spain’s version of tapas and are small portions of food served up skewered and often on a slice of bread. There are many taperias located within a four block area near the town centre of Logrono with some offering many varieties of pincho, while others are famous for just one such as seta (mushrooms) for example. 

A rather lugubrious looking pilgrim!

They are usually cheap and paired with a glass of 

red wine cost around €2 -3. So you can do a sort of a “food crawl” as opposed to a “pub crawl” visiting the different bars and having a glass of wine and a pincho, an evening past time much favoured by the locals.  Calle del Laurel, known as “the Path of the Elephants” and Calle San Juan are typical streets situated near the cathedral of Santa Maria la Redonda in the old Market Square that are lined with these restaurants and tapas bars that offer their own specialities.

Logrono is just the right size for walking everywhere in the city with narrow medieval streets but also green 

parkland and nature reserves down by the river.

Parks and nature reserves entwined in and surrounding Logrono

I was so happy to be spending a day or so here and immerse myself in Spain so to speak. 

When you do the camino, it puts you in a bit of a rarefied climate. It is very esoteric in that all the talk and way of life is that of walking, blisters, aches and pains, places to stay, cathedrals, pilgrims. The camino can be like the Vatican in certain aspects, a state within a state. In Logrono I disconnected with the camino, albeit reluctantly and immersed myself in Spain. 

I stayed for one last night in the municipal albergue. Immediately when you walked in there was a charming, enclosed paved garden with a tiny square pool in the centre. On my part it was still not quite hot enough to plunge my camino trodden feet into though others did not agree judging by the array of boots and sandals left haphazardly around.  I felt sad as I emerged the next morning to change to my other accommodation for staying one more day in Logrono before going to Bilbao. The albergue opened directly onto the cobbled street that is the camino passing through Logrono. I had slung my now obsolete boots over my shoulder and I yearned to follow the other pilgrims/walkers traipsing doggedly on up the narrow street, a watery sun trying to penetrate down between the tall buildings and warm the morning. 

Ending my camino for the present in Logrono

As usual in new places I was lured to the green spaces and strolled along the river side paths and parks that lined the river bank. I was enchanted with large storks that flew back and forth from an island further down theriver. They seemed to be using the city architecture as their crèche. Everywhere I looked I could see that storks had built large rickety looking nests atop of bridges, tall buildings and chimney stacks. It was almost like a miracle to see how they had integrated into the city landscape and made it their own. 

Around tea time I sat in a café near the Market Square in front of the cathedral watching people bustle in and out of Mass. I decided to try “chocolat con churros”. This is a quintessential hot chocolate Spanish treat and there is both eating and drinking in it! The chocolate is rich and pudding like but yet liquid enough to drink – heavenly, molten sweet lava into which I dipped the “churro” – light pastry type ridged biscuit fingers – crisp on the outside and tender on the inside. 

And then that evening, wandering around near the old Market Square through the narrow cobbled streets under the cathedral. Those streets where I could flit from bar to bar sampling a pincho with a glass of Rioja at each one. Milling and mixing in the jostling crowd enjoying the convivial atmosphere – groups of Spanish strolling around for the evening, So tasty - morsels of flaky fish grilled and succulent, shiny round scallops, foresty, buttery mushrooms and my last – an intriguing hot bread roll that seemed complete on the outside and then you break it open to find it filled with various savoury delicacies. They are known as pulgas which is also the Spanish word for flea!

Here in Logrono was indeed an apt place for the moment to hang up my boots and postpone my journey along the camino until another time. There was still another two thirds to do and I had the rest of my life to do it in. But although spring was flourishing mightily in northern Spain, for me it was a case of “….and now with treble soft a redbreast whistles from a garden croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies”. Logrono held an air of autumnal finality for me with that slight sadness creeping in of an ending that one is not quite ready to turn into another beginning. 

Strong at the Broken Places: Part 1. Los Arcos to Viana

In 2016 I walked part of the Camino de Santiago in northern Spain from St Jean Pied de Port in France to Logrono in Rioja province, Spain.

During my second and final week I arrived to the village of Los Arcos in Navarre province. For such a small, simple village it proved to be a delightful surprise and turned out to be one of the best places I had stayed in so far. As I began walking into the village after my musings by the barn on the outskirts that marked the final step of the first half of my trip, I immediately came upon an albergue on the corner of a street. It looked homely and earthy with lots of plants and a pleasant balcony.  Austrians ran it and it seemed very eco-friendly. I was struck by the air of warmth and friendliness as I entered the porch. The main living room was large and comfy with various nooks if you wanted to separate from the milling crowd so to speak. Although simple as is the way with the albergues, everything worked effectively – for example the water was piping hot and plentiful, the showers structured where you could hang everything without it becoming wet and the rooms not too crammed. 

Although small and very rural, Los Arcos had signs that it was more than met the eye. One of these was the huge cathedral in the square. It was the equivalent of having   Westminster cathedral in one of Ireland’s villages such as Dromahair, near where I live. The churches along the camino were  amazing and it was great to multi task by sitting in a service, getting a feel of local religious customs and culture (there was always some sort of ritual around a devotion to a particular local saint) and looking around at the jaw dropping architecture and décor. It seemed that the nearer you got to Santiago de Compostela, where it was thought the saint St James was buried, the bigger the churches.  Los Arcos had been settled since Roman times and was strategically located on a raised part of a flood plain of the River Odron. It was fought over by the kings of Navarre, Aragon and Castile throughout most of the Middle Ages. The land about it was very fertile due to the flood plains and produced a lot of grain, grapes and vegetables. The square was very evocative in a Mediterranean holiday sort of way with a cluster of bars and cafes. After attending a service at the cathedral I enjoyed sitting in the square eating calamari (squid) and potato bravado. I fell to talking to a group of American pilgrims under a moon two thirds full overhead, lighting the vast expanse of the square with swifts swooping and darting like boomerangs high above us.  

Viana was the next rather larger town on the way where I planned to stop, the last before Logrono my final stop. The trip was becoming autumnal in my mind  in that though the end or winter was still  not upon me, there was an air of finality creeping in – a smidgeon of  melancholy interrupting the remaining excitement of seeing  new places , landscape and people still awaiting to be discovered. The walking was quite flat that day and I could see Viana away in the distance looking disturbingly smoggy and industrialised. This seemed to increase as I drew closer and I was not looking forward to searching around for lodgings in a large busy town. I had got used to the tranquil, soft landscape with the green/ grey hues of vine and olive trees interspersed with the breath-taking reds of poppies through the fields and along waysides and hedgerows.

Poppies,poppies,poppies!

And so I entered Viana with trepidation. It looked very dingy and industrialised on the way into the town from the camino. However as we walked up the hill towards the cathedral that towered up above the rest of the town, the street suddenly became cobbled and hey presto I was entering the picturesque medieval part of the town. I had already realised early in the camino that this was a feature of most of the towns I had encountered so far on the camino. Also the municipal albergues tended to be in these old areas which was useful and avoided having to spend ages trekking around trying to find it.  The albergue was at the top of the hill at the other end of town.

The albergue in Viana

It was set beside an old ruined church with a grassy knoll dotted with majestic horse chestnut trees. The setting was magnificent in that there was a vista of a view towards Rioja province which we were now entering and away in the misty distance, Logrono, the capital. It was also a sunny hot day quintessentially reminiscent of Mediterranean holidays taken in the past. The afternoon hummed with the heat and I wanted to book quickly into the albergue and then get out and soak up the sunflower yellow afternoon. Although the weather had been temperate during the camino, it had not been particularly sunny and warm as we were still in early/mid May. This was the first day where the sun had seemed to beat down a little on my back as I was walking. As the camino goes from east to west, the sun is always at your back until after midday which is useful for the hot summer months .If you leave early you can generally finish up walking by 2pm at the latest just as the sun is directly above you in the sky and can then take on a somewhat relentless aspect. So I wanted to make the most of this day.

As I checked in I fell into conversation with a man in his sixties who turned out to be from Sligo, near me. It was good to touch base with familiar place names and as it turned out familiar people. He know my cousin’s wife and her mother and father who had passed away in the last few years. I had also known her parents well and as we were waiting in the cool stone lobby queuing to check in, I felt my eyes fill up with tears as we talked about them. That is the way with the camino. It is not just a physical journey and sometimes the swirl of emotions and gentle spiritual release of attending Mass swam to the surface as was happening now, while talking to someone who knew those I had dearly regarded. He too seemed emotional as we talked about them as if the camino had also jostled things up to the surface for him too. One of the American women I had met en route back in Estella also pitched up and we all agreed to meet for dinner later. 

I left mundane tasks like having a shower, doing laundry and re arranging my paltry baggage, flung all in a locker and headed out. I gravitated towards the grassy knoll and the breath-taking view like most other people.

View from Viana over Rioja province in hazy afternoon sunshine

The area was surrounded by a stone wall that was part of the ruined church in the background. There were seats carved into  the wall creating charming nooks and crannies to hide away in. This late in the afternoon they had been warmed by the sun. Overhead swifts swooped and spun like boomerangs, chasing insects, the task of which was turning these birds whose feet never touch the ground during their lifetime into aerodynamic miracles. I sat into one of the seats with my book and gazed periodically out across Rioja province spread out beyond, hazy and indistinct as it would be until I started my walk into it the following day. For now I was delighted with this serendipitous discovery of such an idyllic setting when I had been so disheartened at the prospect of spending the night in a busy industrial town.  

And so it was that I spent the afternoon reading, writing postcards , dozing and marvelling at the swifts. I  alternated between the sun warmed nooks set into the ancient wall overlooking the vista or cooling off on the grass under the shady, sweeping chestnut trees , their candle shaped pink flowers an apt backdrop for the old ruined church.

Later that evening I met the others for dinner and we ate at very good value outside a restaurant on a narrow cobbled street under the auspices of the grand cathedral. It was the best meal that I had so far – simple tomato and olive pasta to start and then hake stuffed with red peppers followed by ice cream – well an ice lolly. At the end of the day this was not Italy and so far ice cream did not seem to be a speciality of northern Spain. And after all, it was a pilgrims menu – less than €10 for 3 courses. It was a memorable afternoon and evening - one of those holiday memories that always stay with you, warm sun, that feeling of languor where an evening stretches pleasantly ahead, meeting other people and of course good food and the best of red wines – a few glasses of Rioja in deference to the province we were about to enter the next day.