Via de la Plata Camino – Day 18 (Villaneuva de Campéan to Zamora). Sunday 8 April 2018. 18 kms.
I have lost all my notes for this week and there are a lot of photos for 8th April so there are few words.
It was early morning when I set off.I was not the first to leave along the Roman road.
The sun rose on my right. It lit up the lush fields on my left as if it was a different time of day there.
This gorgeous light speaks for itself.Right in the middle of nowhere. Nowhere else to do a pee.Just look at the detail!Mini ant mountains all over the path.A traditional skyline on the Via de la Plata camino, Spain.
Calendula (marigolds) and roses in full flower in San Marcial. Red and white cycle path signs reminiscent of the Grande Randonnee in France.
Bird foot prints in the clay. There are also dog (or wolf?) ones on all the paths although I only saw one hound running for miles unattended.
Coming into the city of Zamora (‘The pearl of the 12th century’) along the River Duero, close to the border with Portugal in north-west Spain.
Fragrant Mimosa.
The rainbow colours of the local rock, yesterday seen as pebbles on the path, today making up these walls.Puente de Piedra (Bridge of Stone).
Zamora architecture.
The charming Plaza de San Cipriano, Zamora, Spain.
Zamora Castle, 11th century, Spain.Courtyard at the Cathedral, Zamora, Spain.Zamora Cathedral, Spain.Iglesia de los Remedios, viewed between the columns surrounding the Cathedral, Zamora, Spain.
The albergue.
When I arrived it was fine, sunny weather, and there was a notice on the door explaining that it would not open for 3 hours.The Albergue de Peregrinos is beside San Cipriano Catholic Church where we left our stuff with the nervous woman while we went off to explore.
Later there was a queue of us waiting at the allotted time and, unexpectedly, it hailed hard. There was only a tiny ledge for everyone to huddle under and not enough space for the luggage, so in five minutes the rucksacks, boots, everything was soaked.
The hospitalera was most hospitable (sorry!). She was a fountain of knowledge having worked there for a long time and she was clearly in her dream job – loving chatting and finding out where we were all from. She had great English and knew what we needed. There is a fantastic kitchen and Marie Noelle had been before us, messaging me to say that she had cooked meals for the Seuil men – one vegan for E and the other with meat for the growing lad. I was very lucky that they shared it with me – a veritable feast.
Rams head fountain, Plaza de Viriato, Zamora, Spain.Interlocking trees, Plaza de Viriato, Zamora, Spain.Great graf.Museo Etnografico, Zamora, Spain.Detail from the larger than life-size wall painting Saint Christopher and the Infant Christ, which caught my eye in the Cathedral, Zamora, Spain.Solid silver altar de plata in the Cathedral, Zamora, Spain.Museo Etnografico, Zamora, Spain.
Baltasar Lobo (artist 1910-1993 buried in the Cimetiere du Montparnasse, Paris, France)
His work is in a dedicated gallery (free entry) beside the Castle and also scattered around the grounds nearby.
He was particularly interested in the pregnant form and relationship between mother and child.San Pedro de la Nave with the Cathedral in the background. Zamora, Spain.
I highly recommend Zamora as a tourist destination.
Via de la Plata Camino – Day 17 (Mérida to Ourense). Saturday 7 April 2018. 13 kms.
The 7th April was a day of varied landscapes – some of the previous day’s wide open fields but also smaller agricultural plots, some houses, the ‘iron road’ etc. I was going at a faster pace, partly because it was cold but also as I knew it was a much shorter day. Going to Zamora in one leg was too long, so I was dividing it into two.
After last night’s heavy rain, it was dull but, hooray, dry! I passed out of the village, took a left over the bridge and straight into the country with no road – another big plus. Cocks were crowing and I spotted them at the front door.
A bit blurry because of the zoom. The good thing about hens is that they go up at both ends like two upside down commas joined together
Weirdly there was a digital town clock striking 9am, just as loud as normal bells but with an electronic tone, reminding me of the early days of mobile phones when TV programmes made jokes about huge handsets with ringtones sounding out across the country.
It was right at the fork despite no yellow arrow and I was walking by the railway. The next right was signed. I wondered, why one and not the other?
Walking beside the railway today. Sodden ground made the going slow.
I reflected on last night’s round-the-table conversations: how some people do the whole camino all at one go, others walk one weekend at a time; some start here, some there; and I have been meeting so many folk with injuries.
Plant of the day: once again I do not know the name. It has round burgundy / black pods or fruits that I have not seen before. They were hanging on dead trees and when I trod on one which had fallen on the path, it was full of diarrhoea-coloured mush which looked like wet plaster board.
Who would have thought Spain could be quite so cloyingly muddy with wet sand! There was that cuckoo again – Marie Noelle used to tell me it means she will be rich.
The water in the massive puddles is neon orange – so much brighter than in the photo. In the background are the chemical spraying machines like grounded corpses of fighter planes.
My nose runs and pilgrims behind me sneeze. I notice that cows do stand very, very still sometimes!
I muse: people I know walked here yesterday; or the day before; even 3 years ago. I can follow in their footsteps until it rains, wiping out all trace.
This guy in front was walking with Chaplin knees and his feet turned right out to the sides, indicating that his hips were tight.
The yellow arrows used by the Friends of the Camino to show us the way are not really the best colour given that there are a surprisingly large number of the same hue: yellow lichen beside the arrows on the gate posts, yellow triangles on pylons, and motorway relfectors found at ground level at the edges of the roads where we have to walk. They are all found in the very places we look for the indicators.
Vines at their dead-looking stage, black and twisted, organised in rows. The man I spoke to said they were ‘centenarios‘. Really old, then.
There is a great racket and then I see a flock of sheep being let out of the pen beside a farm, trotting into the field in single file with their new earrings, complaining bitterly.
Looking up I see it is going to become hilly again. The rabbits are too quick for my camera and there are definitely more flowers now, thank goodness. Beautiful purple / pink rocks are embedded in the white / yellow path amongst all the other colours of the irregularly shaped stones.
Cyclops!
I arrived at 11.45am and was second into the hostel. I stopped at the bar for the key and had a quick coffee (every now and then I enjoy a tiny decaff with sugar – something I never have at home).
There was a long road getting into the town, with a ruined monastery on the right which I meant to go back and take photos of in better weather but forgot.The sign is also in Arabic – a reminder that the folk who started at Almeria or Malaga on the Camino Mozarabe joined the Via de la Plata at Mérida rather than starting at Seville. They are now beside us on the way to Compostella.
There are a number of albergues in Villanueva de Campéan, all apparently as low grade as the others, private ones costing the same as the municipal where I slept. I entered the sleeping area through the kitchen which had a microwave but no fridge and was dirty. Not only does the outside door open directly onto the kitchen, but there is a great gap above the wall between that and the dormitory so the cold and noise travels easily between the two and the street, as does the cigarette smoke. Luckily there were loads of us so we were cosy.
Villanueva de Campéan, Spain.
One by one we all settled in the bar for the rest of the day, and what a great band of cosmopolitan trekkers we were. I managed to write three blogs, trying to catch up, and then decided to continue when I got home. It was simply too loud and hilarious (the locals were playing cards and everyone was watching the football). Lots of red wine and menu del dia‘s were consumed and the atmosphere was most convivial.
The two guys from Seuil, the shoulders of the younger looking better after his Shiatsu (which he requested two days before) I thought! There is Carlos behind, with the beard – someone I was to come into contact with every day for the rest of my time in Spain.
In The Pilgrimage to Santiago, Edwin Mullins writes about the history of sending ‘sinners’ on the camino as far back as the 13th century: ‘…there is the case of the parish priest near Chichester [England] who would regularly fornicate, repent, then fornicate again, until in 1283 the Archbishop of Canterbury felt obliged to send him to Santiago as a penitent the first year, to Rome the second and to Cologne the third. What is not on record is whether the cure was successful or whether he thereafter weighted his repentance with the names of three foreign cities in which he had also fornicated.’
Via de la Plata Camino – Day 16 (Mérida to Ourense). Friday 6 April 2018. 20 kms.
I am walking in Castilla y Léon and this part is very flat with a deal of road. The albergue in Calzada de Valdunciel is on the opposite side of the town, making it very simple and quick to find the way out in the dark.
‘Lodging facilities were generally provided outside the city walls to enable travellers to come and go after the gates of the town were shut at night’. The Pilgrimage to Santiago, Edwin Mullins.
The long straight path was not overly attractive but as the sun rose, everything changed colour, even the barbed wire fence took on a precious shine.
I came across a small forest of teasal, all turned towards the sun. They stood tall and prickly in the light, old and brown but glowing at the same time. I have never seen so many of them at once. Perhaps because I knew I would be walking past a prison later in the day, they reminded me of inmates pressed against the boundary fence (there was not enough light to take a photo).
Plant of the day: the red catkin one – after searching the internet it could be Black Cottonwood
Opposite the sun, in the same cobalt sky, was less than half a lint moon, a wafer-thin gauze of a slither. Where the warmth had not reached it, the grass was still stiff with the haw frost.
I followed the footprints of the people who had gone before me until a significant detour due to flooding. I was under a motorway bridge and the warning signs were easy to see except they were back-to-front, so first I took the left fork, met with the un-passable path and retraced my steps. Then it was not easy- arrows everywhere – and it was counter-intuitive winding back and over where I had already been. It seems that this diversion has been there a long time.
I ask myself, what is the person like who leaves these prints?
Soon it was lovely and warm. Straight, straight on, cars rushing past and I somehow missed Huelmos, the only pueblo between setting off and my destination. Shame about the sore feet. This type of stage often seems much further than it actually is, but I revelled in the wild flowers: the same selection from last week. I had hardly seen any since then and I wondered if the wheat spraying was responsible for the lack of them.
A typical, simple, Spanish local church.
This time the accomodation, a private hostel, was just off the first road I came to on entering El Cubo, sort of round the back and next to what looked like a derelict area. It had a spacious garden surrounding it and those strips of plastic hanging in front of the front door.
Albergue Torre de Sabre, Calle Traversís de la Ermita, El Cubo, Spain.
As there was no answer I phoned and the owner appeared very quickly, offering me a welcome beer. The books say people are welcome to pop in for a drink and a seat – a nice idea that I had not come across before. As I sun-bathed, I remembered that I had forgotten to leave a donation at the Salamanca donativo hostel and resolved to ‘pass it forward’, as the cyclist from Malta who came briefly by for a coke and to fix his bike, suggested.
Later I went into the village to buy my tea and next day’s breakfast. Two women sitting on a bench outside their house pointed me in the right direction. I am now familiar with shops which are in apparently residential dwellings. In Edinburgh it is the opposite – many of the old shops have been made into homes. White doves flew up from the church.
See the St James scallop shells decorating the base of the cross – eternal symbol of the camino.
Being private, there was no pilgrim’s kitchen but the retired owners allowed us to sit at the table alongside the others who were eating the supper provided. There were six of us including a young couple who are walking the camino, weekend by weekend, travelling by car from home on Friday nights, to the start of each stage, walking for two days, and then returning to their vehicle on the Sunday night for work the next day. It was a really enjoyable meal and the wine flowed freely – a delicious local white for the starter, red for the main – which I was (happily) encouraged to sample.
I was still meeting up with the duo from Seuil regularly. They always cater for themselves, being on a strict (almost impossible) budget, and the youngest is an avid footballer (he played for Rennes when he was younger) so despite walking every day, he goes out for football practice every evening – E, his ‘accompanying adult’, is consequently improving his moves!
A plain, modern house with attractive decorative tiles.
They also washed our clothes for two euros, and there was plenty of hanging space in the garden. Unfortunately, having bought almost all of my stuff in before the storm except my double-layer socks which dry very slowly, I left them out all night. I padded out in bare feet through the puddles in the early hours when I remembered, but it was too late for them to dry for wearing that day.
I had a rather luxurious night: although I was in a shared room and had arrived first, picking the less expensive bunk, the whole establishment was full by 8pm and I was moved to a double bed – presumably because I was the matriach!!
The final day of my pilgrimage to Mariazell along the Via Sacra, Austria. Day 9, 13th October 2017.
The Sebastian Church, Via Sacra, Austria.
A pilgrimage is traditionally called a “Wallfahrt” in Austria. I left Mitterbach in an angry mood as a result of something I had witnessed and I had never been so clear that walking allows for time to understand and then let that feeling go.
A map to be found along the way – Mariazeller Land, Austria.
Watching the way things really are, and learning from that, is advice I often hear in my profession. It is hard! I have been trying while I trek, to notice what is actually happening in the world and not what I think in advance or want it to be. What I want is to be happy and good, but if I am not, then I try to be clear about that, to see things honestly.
The Sebastian Church on the Via Sacra in its natural, mountainous setting, Austria.
I observed someone teaching and realised that my belief is that you do not teach by telling, much less by telling off or ordering, but by example. Making statements about the way you want things to be is not only didactic but useless, unless you just want to control and are prepared to force it. No-one learns like that.
The beauty I was walking through was balm to my soul. Just look at the sunlight catching the autumn leaves of those new trees!
It was a short walk that day, just two hours and 80 metres of climbing. Thus, it allowed me to stop and see ‘the rosary wayside shrines’ (as the leaflet called them) with their mini flower gardens – the rather ugly Stations of the Cross. There were also pine forests and piles of logs, the cutting of which had made some sky space for the light to reach the saplings.
Something about hearing a man speak in that way to a woman he is close to sparked off a very strong reaction in me. It was very unpleasant to witness such treatment, and hard to find the balance between speaking out and respecting the fact that I was a guest and completely outside the relationship. Of course, reflecting on the undertone of their exchanges and my reaction to it, helped me understand more about myself and why I find it so hard to keep quiet. Would that we could all have a voice to speak out against such lack of respect without fear of retribution.
The were were large signs explaining the names of the flowers and herbs which had been planted. Here, Mutterkraut or chamomile.I loved the sentiment between these two.
For the first time I came across other hikers on the trail coming in the opposite direction – two unfriendly young women, one jolly red-faced, and panting with her rucksack. Then numerous dog walkers, such that I had to make way for people coming up towards me. It was also loud with the sounds of planes and vehicles from the valley in the distance – quite a contrast to the surrounding peace and the serenity which had once more settled in my mind.
I had one moment of practical difficulty when faced with an electric fence and I flattened myself on the ground to slide underneath. Apparently the threat of electrocution was preferable to going back down the hill to see if I had mistaken my way, only to discover I had been in fact been right and must come back up again!
When I came out into the the open I found myself at the top of a ski slope with multiple games and activities available.It seems the mountain is a business.The chair lifts cut through the landscape and were vastly less attractive than the natural environment. There was even an airstrip.
All roads lead to Mariazell – at least there is a path from all Austrian provinces that leads to the famous pilgrimage site of Mariazell in Styria – in the same way there are caminos all over Spain which lead to Santiago de Compostella. Indeed, it has been described as ‘the quintessential Habsburg place of pilgrimage’ (from this website).
There is a grey paved path down the mountain offering amazing views of the valley and spires below.
Mariazell was first mentioned in 1266, and in 1907 its church was elevated to a “basilica minor” by Pope Pius X.
Here is the fairy tale cathedral at Mariazell, dedicated to the ‘Magna Mater Austriae’ (the Virgin Mary, ‘kind mother’ and patron saint of Austria).
My pilgrimage ended, I had arrived in the sunshine. It was so busy with tourists, school groups and coach loads shopping at the stalls around the entrance to the cathedral.
The highly decorated and glittering interior. The Basilica Mariä Geburt, Mariazell, Austria.A side altar with a globe at its centre. The Basilica Mariä Geburt, Mariazell, Austria.
When I found the tourist information I was most impressed by the helpful woman there – what a difference from the one in Vienna who had never even heard of the Via Sacra! She made good suggestions, apologised for her colleague, booked me a hostel and printed out bus times. What a star.
I only stayed 2 hours, stocking up on supplies and walking around the back streets to the bus station, chatting with other passengers who were waiting in the hot weather. I would have liked to go on Die Himmelstreppe railway from Mariazell to St Polton (www.mariazellerbahn.at) but it would have been back the way I had come and I wanted to go forwards.
So, I took the bus towards Graz, which went up higher, I guessed, than I had walked. The slopes were all rocky and it got discernibly colder. In fact, yes, these were proper serious mountains: a half bowl of them like a massive satellite dish tilted towards us that may have been the Hochschwab (we stopped at Seewiesen).
I lounged – how relaxing it is to decide where to go, buy a ticket and then be driven!
The mountains of Styria with the reflections of the bus window. Austria.
There were spectacular waterfalls, lakes of dark turquoise, alps with snowy peaks, and more pine forests than you can shake a baton at. We drove past wooden dwellings, livestock on fertile slopes, and logs of course, by the pile – all set against an azure sky.
A tortoiseshell cat sat in the middle of the grass. The bus buzzed each time it prepared to stop. I relished my mini bottle of prosecco as we roller-coasted through the countryside. A tree seemed to be sinking under its apple-weight; there were lots of day-walkers and people with poles.
We passed through Aflenz Kurort, a very attractive place with a book shop, and then I changed buses at Bruck an der Mur. I could have got a train to Graz from Kapfenberg (which is big enough to have a casino, get a tattoo or buy a new car, and where you can also visit a London pub with a red phone box outside!) but it was further to walk from bus to train station the kind lady told me, and I demurred.
Downhill we trundled, into the shade, and past disused, dusty buildings much like the relics of the textile industry near Hebden Bridge in west Yorkshire. A woman got on, smelling very strongly of perfume and flopped into her chair panting from the effort of making it. She picked her nose, wiped the sweat off her lower lip then checked her phone which had a screen saver of her handsome boy.
The bus picked up speed after its sedate earlier pace. Past a field of upstanding maize we went, and then another half cut, where the chickens were pecking away at the stubble. An outdoor croquet game was well attended. Tractors left wakes of sombre grass and there were the same posters for the various political candidates which I now knew by heart. I really did not like the threatening tone: it’s now or never – jetzt oder nie, nor the anti-Muslim ones.
Shop window in Graz – lederhosen. Austria.
The nice lady whose head was covered in a black and white scarf, part of her traditional costume, told me the names of the places we stopped at so I could follow on the map, and then said goodbye with a smile. I wondered if my leg joints would support me when I stood up after 1.5 hours!
There was a joking man who said I was from the dram country (In Scotland we talk about having a wee dram, a small measure, of whiskey) and, you only make small dogs! I am always impressed when folk can jest in a foreign language.
Bruck had a big station full of backpackers, but I did not get off.
Heading towards Graz, Austria.
Finally I boarded a hi-tec train with lots of youths on it, and announcements in English as well as German. It was heading to Leibnitz after Graz, and thence to Ljubljana in Slovenia, 190 kms further on. I fancy going there…
Day 8, 12th October 2017. A detour: Der Hubertussee – wohlfuhl wege (feel-good ways or paths).
These places are sublime.
Yesterday I walked from Lower Austria into Styria and I was all prepared to carry on to Mariazell, the final leg of the Via Sacra pilgrimage, but my kind hosts persuaded me to stay longer. Thus, close as I was, I took a walk around the luminous Lake Hubertussee, along the river Walster and many of its arterial tributaries, through the surrounding forests and back to Mitterbach.
I had woken at 6.30am and done some writing before fresh-air T’ai chi in their garden by the River Erlauf.
Be not afraid of going slowly, be afraid only of standing still
Chinese proverb thanks rob_shiatsu.
When we were all ready, I was driven to Lake Hubertussee where two partook of a sugary breakfast, and Gudrun and I shared cheese and red pepper on rye bread. Amor, the toddler, played while we sat in the sun.
This lake is beautiful from every angle. A place to sit and contemplate. I was not the only one to appreciate it – there were many hikers that morning.
I walked away from the ‘family’ group around 11am, past the statue of the Imperial Kaiser Franz Joseph hunting. He was Emperor of Austria and King of Hungary (amongst other titles). I guess he must have come here for sport, but it is such a special place it is hard for me to imagine that.
There was the moon again, in the day sky, like one of those off-white, grapefruit jellies.
The road wound under a tunnel in the rock next to the Carl Ulrich von Bulow war memorial (1914).
I spotted the Hubertskapelle (chapel), every sight more magnificent than the last. I thought it had a golden window but it was the gilded autumn leaves in the sun through the gap. Weed and sky-white cloud hung under the surface of the lake; gentle air caressed my arms.
Walking gives me the time to question things and here it was the ethics I have been raised with in the light of the unorthodox relationships I had encountered during my travels. Being an outsider and therefore able to witness the repercussions of them, I needed time to muse on the difference between opening to what might be possible thereby bringing new experiences, a way of challenging the norm; and at the same time asking myself whether it is possible to avoid being taken advantage of. I thought about ‘truth’, when or where it is important to tell it; if it is always necessary to do so; and if yes, to whom?
Then I became aware of the geese honking, taking my attention away from my thoughts and back into my surroundings. I continued, mindfully.
I passed the gentle St Margareta a few times as I was searching for the way, standing as she was, between the lake and the river.
At the top, of course, I took the path down again, alongside the river which was diverted through attractive grey stone walls, channelling the water where man wanted it to go, and into yet another wonderful lake downstream.
There were brown-planked houses with simple pointed roofs which matched the pines, poised for take-off on the mountainsides opposite; virgin-white water cascaded between mossy cushions and knobbles of silver escarpment; sparkling orange, autumn foliage illuminated it all – it mesmerised me.
Once away from the lake one can walk and walk this trail and not see a soul, and it is to be relished.
There are lots of signs at some junctions (the red and white signs with numbers indicated the cycle routes), but then again there are places soon afterwards with none. Which way should I turn? My phone (Google) maps were OK, but in the middle of the countryside there is rarely coverage. I discovered that the best way to know when there was a signal was to leave my data and sound on. That way when I happened to walk into a zone, some message pinged in which alerted me to check the location. Otherwise, it did not drain my allowance or disturb my peace because it was so very rare.
Occasionally, unexpectedly, a village, no, not really that big, a collection of houses, appeared out of nowhere and helped me find myself on my GPS.
I think this was Filzwieser. Or Faldental. It is all ‘She’ll be coming round the mt when she comes’, territory!
It was a mighty, majestic landscape of grey crags, dark brooding firs, and flaming beech atop: stimulating sights. I went slowly, I sat and watched the grasshoppers, stretching out this gorgeousness because I did not want it to end. The sun connected the sky and the earth, and created pin-prick stars for a moment on the water, and then they were gone as I rounded the corner into the shade. It was all so sensual and I felt alive to every sound, smell and feeling.
I get filled up with space when I come here.
Karine POLWART from ‘Wind’.
I had a rest and meditation here with the sound of water trickling.
I went up and over and round a small mountain and had a bit of an epiphany at the summit. It was that sort of a day. It seemed to be the summation of this Via Sacra pilgrimage. I had very clearly set out my aim in advance: to help others while I travel, and I realised that I must then trust that all the encounters I have are beneficial to those I meet as well as to me, even if I do not understand how or why; that the time we spend together is enough for them and me.
I wrote down what I could use on a leaflet to give out as I make pilgrimages: ‘I am an experienced bodyworker. I am walking from place to place offering a moment of touch. You do not take your clothes off to receive and we do not need to be in private. If you are tired or in pain, sit down and I will give you some support. There is no fee or charge. I can be what your energy needs to know itself better. For the time we are together.’
And I reflected that to do this I have to arrive in a calm state – I have to have some energy left after the walk, which is another reason why I must pace myself. It is important that I treat myself like that, that I experience the joy of the ‘camino’, take time and rest in nature, so that people can tell I am trustworthy (in therapy speke, I am being congruent) and believe that I can help them. And that is it. It was all clear, there, in that magical place.
I got back to Mitterbach around 4pm as the sun came out again. I was full up.
I gave some Shiatsu, of course, while I was staying in Mitterbach, by way of exchange for my bed and board. I also joined in Spanish and creative dance classes, and I shared some baby Shiatsu with two of Paula’s clients while she sat in and watched.
‘If you take seven steps to help one patient, it is the same as circumambulating all the Buddhas. If you give medicine one time to one patient, it is the same as having made charity to all sentient beings. When you fulfill the wishes of one patient, it is equal to having made offerings to all the worthwhile objects.’ Thanks to Max P.
Walking without a donkey 