Graves are set under wood panels covering the entire floor surface of St. Nicolas Church

(Pamplona, Spain)

Psalm 23
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

“The Lord is my shepherd; I have everything I need,” says another translation. We do. As I write I am thankful to be in our little hostel room, protected from the pouring rain outside which is cooling the day. What we have brought with us is very little, yet now, spread out on the bed as Maurice is organizing his belongings, it seems an abundance. Every night we sleep in the green pastures of hostel mattresses and every day we drink deeply of Navarra’s springs. We breathe out the cares of life as we try to keep to right paths, calling on the name of Jesus. So far our shadows of death have been more mountain than valley, yet we get over them safely, leaning on the staff of the Shepherd. And the tables he has set before us!–roast chicken, homemade soup, gateau Basque, pintxos, garlic and olive oil, our cups running over with local red wine. I know God’s goodness and mercy follow us, surround us, lead us; though at the moment I ache all over and I cannot quite see even to tomorrow afternoon, I trust our Lord to keep leading us every day, graciously bringing us to the tomb of his disciple James, and finally one day to the delights of his holy house forever.

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We slept a bit later than usual, then wandered downstairs to DIY toast and some tiny leftover pork steaks we accepted from another hostel guest, a 72-year-old lady from Washington state about to be transported to SJPDP to start her Camino. She said her pack weighs 27 pounds. Really? I couldn’t tell if she was serious. The peculiar young man from the patio last night, the kind of guy you’d see in a horror movie living in the house at the end of the road with his dead mother, was milling about. Hugo was there with cheerful greetings and helpful answers for everyone.

I could not wear my shoes. My right forefoot does not fit into my shoe any more. With Hugo’s advice we set off to look for new shoes, which I got right down the street at an outdoor shop that said “shoes for actives” over the door. They are German shoes by Meindl, men’s size 9–lightweight, waterproof and, with new technology, breathable even through the sole, said Marta the sales associate. But did they give my toes more room? After walking around and around the tiny shop and up and down its stairs to the storage area, I decided yes. Lord, may it be so! They were not on sale, and I got no member points for buying them. Ka-ching!

The next dilemma was that one of my 100-gram flipflops had fallen apart this morning. I wanted to superglue it, but Maurice said, “How many things that we’ve superglued have ever stayed together?” Hugo directed us to a Chinese shop, sort of like a dollar store, and there in unpacked boxes right at the front were stacks of flipflops. I found a molded lightweight pair, size 42. “They’re light, but not as light as my other ones,” I told Maurice. “And how long did your other ones last?” he responded. I grudgingly bought them. Only three euros.

We ate some fruit and went out to see the town. Metal plates set in some of the winding streets of the old town marked where posts are placed for fences to separate the San Fermin crowds from the corridor of running bulls and barmy runners. We went into the fine Navarra museum mostly because our credencials got us in for free; its lack of air conditioning can’t be good for the art. Several blocks over, the cathedral’s plain facade hid wonders inside beyond the usual: an elegant 14th-century cloister, a spare but lovely exhibit touching lightly on milestones of Western history, a warren of little rooms off the bell tower and a display located between the inner and outer south roofs. Placards helpfully explained everything in two languages, Spanish and Euskara. A nap, a repeat of pintxos at the bar around the corner, quiet time in our room for my nocturnal lucubrations, and we called it a day.

Mary taking a selfie of her and Jesus (14th century)