A dark side of the history of the Basque people in Spain (and south of France) was ETA, a terrorist group formed during Franco’s rule with the aim of establishing an independent Basque homeland. They were active when we lived in Madrid including several car bombs targeting the Guardia Civil. I walked by the Defense High Command building every morning on my way to work so I was on the lookout for any suspicious vehicles. I remember hearing an explosion one morning in 1985, learning later that an American in Madrid on business was killed while jogging and a dozen or so Guardia Civil were injured. I remember because it happened right after JP was born.
Joseph at the Hotel Akeretta put on a nice breakfast and I got a late start to the last leg I will do of the Camino Frances. It was a gentle hike and more than well-marked. I had to stop by the train station to change a ticket (one of the wheels that came off and had to be replaced) and walked through the old town of Pamplona to get there. With train business complete, I had a bus adventure to get me from Pamplona to Berrioplano where I will spend tonight. I found the bus stop was not far from the train station but was having a bit of trouble finding the right bus. It was either #16 or #17 and each of them had several permutations. Finally, a nice young lady helped me figure it out. The bus driver told me how to get from the bus stop to my hotel.
A late start – about 8:00 am. But I had a shower and a shave, a big breakfast, and re-packed my backpack, which I will be carrying until I reach the final stage of my journey. The photo does not quite capture it, but the twisting moss-covered plants look like some alien creatures in a forest menagerie. I could even see them slowly twisting and breathing. (Don’t worry, they were tame and content to stay within their sylvan border). Your mind relaxes on the Camino, allowing it to see magical sights like these along the way. Occasionally along the Camino you come across a cairn or memorial that marks the death of someone. This one really seemed to get to me: Fin del Camino, Rosanna di Verona, 2006. Who was Rosanna? How old was she? Was she a peregrina? Did she have a happy childhood? I could not stop thinking about her, and then about some of my friends who have died. It was not with sadness but with great curiosity. Fin del Camino. We all reach that destination sometime. Coffee in Burlada, the town just before Pamplona. This is the end of the Camino Frances for me. Tomorrow I start the Camino Viejo. So I thought about the people I met in the last few days: On the train, Alice, a young Australian who did not like her job and David, retired teacher who had some ashes of his mother to spread; the Ukrainian lady in St Jean; on the road, Matthew, 44 years old, does work stays, working for room and board, like picking olives in Greece or tending honey bees in Japan; Tim the 33 year-old old Dutchman who cannot understand how we Americans can get so worked up over politics that it breaks up families; Ana, who invited me to her home in the Azores; Lena, a Swedish half-marathoner who walked the Camino on the same dates as Lisa and me in 2023; the Christian lad who lamented that so many young people forsook organized religion for TikTok; Al, aka Nubie, from Lake Elsinore who wants to help people walk all seven continents; Mark and his wife who are building a home around the corner from my sister in CandidSa, Bali; and many others, including Cedric, Joseph and the Dutch volunteers housing the homeless pilgrims. The Hotel Luxe “El Toro”. Home for tonight. The clerk at the desk comes from the village I hike to tomorrow. He showed me the path to take so that I stay clear of asphalt.
Tomorrow should be lots of natural beauty and much fewer pilgrims. That’s good. This Camino is designed for solitude and contemplation. If I get too lonely, I will swing back down to the Frances!
El Peregrino 