Portrait of a pilgrim

Obanos, Camino Frances, June 4th

We all walk together, on that way, more or less in the same direction. Who are they, all these people? Usually I leave my writers pen at home when I'm walking the Camino. That's for later. I made an exception the other day for Inez. Because the sun was shining and she was sitting there so quietly, drawing. 

For Inez,

Leuven

The city became smaller and smaller

for Inez Katja Paul van D.

Those bright eyes

and the flowerhat

wanted to see the world

fluttering about a bit

but…where to?

A direction

became the Camino

where everyone wants the same

and you can share that joy

joy of life; to live

Knowing what you want

past your mother

Maybe

your father

could walk along a bit

- towards the bisshop’s city -

but: in the rear

Amicalmente, Simon

Decisions

Walking into Viana. A vivid little town, and the air was filled with swallows. The old church reigned the town centre. Although not run-down, it had the atmosphere of a ruin. High on the tower weird iron cages. I imagined the Inquisition showing prisoners there, before throwing them out to warn other sinners.

We sat on a square next to the church. Coffee. Wifi. Chats. Until the albergue was about to open. I had a short talk with a friendly man, walking out of the parish albergue. We went to the other albergue.

Long line of people. Moving the line wasn't easy. Some grumpy people. Sort of tension in the air. A joke that wasn't a joke. Suddenly I said: it doesn't feel good here. Just expressing what we all felt: the whole group had a sudden shake of relief. Everybody nodded: 'Lets go to the parish.' So all eight of us packed our bags and left the row.
Wow, I felt so strong, and proud of what we did. Of course there was room for us in the parish albergue. And such a warm welcome. Like lost children.

impressions: Riego de Ambrós

I'm sitting on a bench at the outskirts of the village, with a fantastic view on the Montes de León. Behind the hills the promising mountains of Galicia are visible already. Seven o'clock.

Two little dirty dogs appear. Of course they'll sit right in front of me to spoil my evening lunch, begging for a bite.

And then an old lady shuffles on the road. She's totally upset. Suddenly a stranger on her evening bench. A bit further she sits on a low wall. Pretending not to see me. Doesn't respond to my half-Spanish invitation, the bench is long enough. After ten minutes she gets up, takes a look at where the cows are on the hill, and shuffles away again. Tomorrow her bench will be free again.

Me and my sheep

Sheep. Schaap. Oveja.
Me and my sheep. I met them everywhere in Spain. And talked to a shepherd but we didn't understand each other. Aje.
Maybe it's because of the shepherd stick I walked with. It was made in the Netherlands, especialy for shepherds. The wood is juniper bush, which is quite rare these days.



collegue

this is the one time I really had to use my stick, to get rid of this lazy, dribbling dog

who wanted my lunch. His ancestors bit wolves...

the no-english-speaking-shepherd!

a shepherd in Uzbekistan
q'oy is sheep in u.



I found juniper bush! Juniperus communis is said to contain mythical forces. In the old days a good walking stick was made of juniper bush. It is said you can walk longer with it than with an oak or beech stick. Sheep are friends of the juniper bush. On the heather fields they eat other kinds of young trees, that are more tender, so the juniper bush can grow with less competition.

I missed my sheep so much I bought one coming home

Ah, there is so much to say about sheep. Schaap in Dutch, or in old Dutch scap, old English scep or sceap. So the spelling used to be more related than nowadays. The origin of the word is unknown. But our language is filled with it. I'll stick to the Dutch: een verloren schaap (a lost sheep, from the bible); het zwarte schaap (black sheep of the family); lots of sayings to, songs, lullabies.  Schaapachtig (looking like a sheep). It is, alas, not all positive...

impressions: Boadilla del Camino

In a small agrarian village this once was the main road.

Great happening in 1917: a new bridge over the creek!

 

Imagine how it has been- the alcalde or mayor, just finished milking his cows, comes forward in his best suit -one missing knot-  the music is playing, the whole village has come out to see this memorable moment. Perhaps his daughter was allowed to cut the ribbon stretched over the bridge, colourful flags on it. At the moment of cutting the ribbon the music stops, and the alcalde speaks some historic words about the future. The wine bottles are opened and they toast on the bridge. Music, dance! And then the first horses may cross the bridge!

Impressions on the road: Itero de la Vega

Church bells. Funeral. The village walks behind the blue Mercedes. How fine that, for once, you may lie in such a beautiful car. In front is the family, silent, in grief. Directly behind  them, the neighbours, silent too. A woman comes from her front door, hastily, drawing her children with her. And the whole procession wanders - the last people smoking a cigarette, talking a bit, a silent laugh. Just be present.
Everything rattles in the septemberwind with already a touch of faraway autumn in it. The sound of the churchbell blows to every far corner of the village. This is the countryside- you wouldn't even hear the bells in a city. Tribute for a life- a well sounding half an hour- is it enough?