Lorca to Villamayor de Monjardin: 18 km; 27,800 steps

Psalm 121
v. 8 The Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.

Coming and going. Just as I was dragging myself out of bed at 7 am little Calvin was born! He is just coming into the world and I seem heading ever more quickly down the hill and out the door–and our Lord is with us both. God is always watching, guiding, protecting. Calvin arrived in our Lord’s perfect timing, and God will bring both of us, and all of us who believe, through our lives in his perfect will to his heavenly kingdom.

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We were long past the last ones out at 8:50. Maurice was worried I couldn’t even make it to the next town, but I wore my sandals and the pain was bearable, though we’re getting low on Tylenol. My pack is heavier now with two pairs of shoes in it, each shoe weighing as much as both of my sandals. Right-left-right-left. It’s-not-too-bad. The path was lovely through bare fields and past an apartment building-sized stack of hay bales. Maurice kept inquiring about my foot. It hurt but it wasn’t disabling. At Villatuerta we found a bar by the fronton. I went inside and asked for a tortilla. They had no potatoes. Well, could I just have an omelet? Ah, un bocadillo. No, not a bocadillo, just an omelet. There seemed to be some discussion as to what would be in the omelet. Queso and jamon, I said (how hard could this be?). I went to sit outside while the owner, grimacing, lugged plate after plate of bocadillos and boxes of bottled water to a long table set up outside. “Por una fiesta?” we asked. He blathered something, saw our blank looks, and said, “Niños.” Soon he told me gruffly that my order was ready. I went inside to retrieve it. It was a bocadillo–an entire loaf of bread sliced lengthwise enclosing an omelet…with no jamon. It was expensive too, at e8.20. “Just eat it,” said Maurice. I ate the omelet and saved the bread for lunch. We got a stamp in our credencial at the church on our way out of town. Right-left-right-left. I-can-do-this.

With the previous night’s late arrival and getting the last beds, we were concerned that maybe we should have reservations, so we stopped at a hostel in Estella where the hospitalera was happy to call ahead to where we had decided we would stop. I asked about the church in town and she suggested we take the elevator up to the cloister. “It’s free,” she added. We walked down the long medieval street. The light was on an elegant building ahead and the door said “free entry” but it was not the elevator. Across the street was the church, at the top of dozens and dozens of steep steps. Further investigation soon revealed a little alleyway leading to a random elevator. A sign on the door said something in Spanish and its apparent equivalent in Euskara: Hondatuta. We could guess what they meant, as the elevator was locked and an elderly lady was trudging up the adjacent steps. “You can go,” Maurice said. “I’ll wait below the church with the packs.” So up the steps I floated (because that’s what it feels like when I take off the pack) pondering my great new word: Hondatuta. Hondatuta. The church was quite nice and provided a sello for my efforts, and the adjacent cloister was lovely, but I couldn’t dawdle because I had miles to go before I sleep. I floated down the steep front steps to Maurice, put on my pack and we were off again.

“Do you really think we should keep going?” Maurice asked as we walked up the hill out of town. An old man ahead of us turned around. “Peregrinos a Santiago?” he asked. “Si,” we answered. He said something and handed us two ripe figs. We thanked him profusely and walked on. I was ecstatic. I had been looking longingly at all the passing fig trees and watching people fingering the figs for ripeness, but they weren’t my figs. Now we had some! We poured water from my bottle onto the figs to wash them and I bit into one. It was soft, sweet and delicious; I slurped up every last bit. Maurice was less than enthusiastic. He took a couple bites, agreed it was OK, then gave the rest to me. “It’s a sign,” I said. “It’s definitely the right choice to keep going today.” Right-left-right-left. I-walk-by-faith.

We got to the famous wine fountain of the Irache monastery about 1:45. For centuries the generous monks there have provided free water and wine to passing pilgrims from spigots on a wall of their enclosure. It was a fun and refreshing stop, but after a sip of wine and a wave at the webcam, and stopping around the corner at the office of the modern winery facilities for a sello, we were on the road again. Right-left-right-left. It’s-not-so-bad.

We had nice weather, pleasant paths with only light stones and lovely views back the way we came as we pressed on to Villamayor de Monjardin. We passed a sheltered medieval spring with steps down to an unappealing pool at the bottom. Maurice turned on the music for the final push. “These are the gates to the kingdom….” We got to our albergue across from the church at 3:20, e30 for two bunks in a twelve-bed room with breakfast. It was a modern facility, with lockers and solid metal bunks high enough for the bottom person to sit up straight on the bed (though that did mean a tricky climb for the top bunkmate). The lovely tiled bathroom, with solid wooden doors leading to the spacious toilet and shower compartments (each with a window), was almost luxurious, though there was just one of each fixture for the twelve of us roomies. Maurice and I were stiff, sore and beat. We showered, hung laundry on the breezy little balcony, ate our lunch down in the kitchen at 4:00, had a chat with Chris and got groceries for the next day’s walk. Dinner was a wonderful pilgrim meal at the only bar in town (see previous post).

The people we meet around our age are slower than us (and maybe even more tired–who knows?) but they don’t stop for pictures like we do and they probably don’t putz around quite as much in towns. The older ladies (except for Sue of Sue and Dave from Baltimore who work part time as volunteer trail monitors at Glacier National Park) tend to send their packs ahead and just walk with a small daypack. Almost everyone gets out faster than we do in the morning, even when we get up at 5:45. Are they more organized, less fastidious, more experienced at this sort of thing? In the shower I am still figuring out how I am going to keep everything from getting wet (or touching something I assume is filthy) while the person in the next stall has had the shower on and off and (I can tell from the rustling) is getting dressed (of course, that is when there is more than one shower). With leaving late, stopping along the way, moving with stiffness to accomplish chores once we’ve arrived somewhere, there is little time to rest, plan, think or write–and mostly what I want to do is sleep. Despite all I’ve heard about the walk allowing great unbroken blocks of time to think, I can’t think. Pain and fatigue fill my senses. I am watching for rocks on the next step, fishing out my chapstick or kleenex, scribbling a nearly illegible note to self, trying to make my shoulders feel better, fiddling with something while trying not to drop my poles again, and still looking around to soak in the atmosphere. If only my heel didn’t hurt! Maybe then I would have more mental space.