Aurigny
Active Member
- Time of past OR future Camino
- Francés; Português Central; Português Interior; Primitivo; Português da Costa; Invierno; Gebennensis
It's not often at this point in the year that I get any free time, and still less common for me to know in advance that it's coming. A few months ago, though, I received the welcome news that my window of opportunity to take some annual leave might come earlier than usual. Pilgrimage-possibilities immediately began suggesting themselves to me, and inasmuch as the number of days available is, as always, limited, the Primitivo stood high on the list of potential routes. I'm still dreaming of a really long trip – the Via Gebennensis, at around 2,000 km, would fit the bill nicely – but the logistical difficulties are so formidable that that one will remain a bucket-list item for the foreseeable future. Right now, ten days or so is as much as I can scrounge together, and for my fourth Camino, going back to where it all began in 814 A.D. had a definite charm. If one makes reservations long enough in advance, moreover, flights to Spain in the shoulder-season are almost absurdly cheap, at least if one isn't all that fussy about where in the country one actually lands. My family, with visions dancing through their heads of a couple of weeks of uninterrupted Netflix and house-and-garden magazines during my absence, gave the idea an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Only one obstacle stood in my way, but that was, and may remain, a serious one. A year ago, as readers of that sub-forum will recall, I ventured out in a fit of ignorance-induced enthusiasm along the little-travelled Camino Português Interior. It was in many respects a memorable journey, and probably came closer to recreating, in however attenuated a form, the daily experience of our mediaeval predecessors than anything else in this vein that I've attempted thus far. That is to say, I spent a considerable proportion of each day wandering off in entirely the wrong direction through unmarked and heavily overgrown Iberian wilderness, and a goodly proportion of the remainder dodging, or at least warily skirting, the uncontrolled wildfires that were responsible for so tragically high a number of deaths in Portugal last summer and seemed to be popping up around me like so many mushrooms. All in all it was one of those trips that one is, in equal measure, glad to have accomplished and determined never to repeat. According to the Pilgrim's Office at SdC, 81 of us completed the CPI last year, and the only thing that surprises me about that number is that there were in fact so many of us.
The lasting legacy of that trip, however, was serious and persistent foot problems. My first two days in the mountains, covering almost 100 km over terrain that was often rocky and covered in scree, left me with damage from which, for the remainder of the trip, I was unable to recover. While the visually impressive evidence was to be seen on the right foot—a blister two inches across that didn't rupture until after I returned home, and a heel that oozed blood slowly but continuously throughout the second week—the real trouble was building up beneath the surface in the left. By the end of the pilgrimage, I had landed myself with an exceedingly nasty case of plantar fasciiitis, an all-too-obvious diagnosis that was duly confirmed by the podiatrist to whom I hobbled shortly after picking up my compostelle at SdC.
Well, nobody's fault but my own, and I knew it. Over the next several months I diligently performed the regimen of dreary rehabilitative exercises with which those similarly afflicted are familiar—that curious toe-clenching business that resembles Kegels for the feet; rolling a tennis ball or a bottle of frozen water around on one's heel; hauling the front of one's foot upwards with the aid of an industrial-sized rubber band, etc. Improvement was painfully slow, in both senses of the adjective, but by mid-November things seemed to have improved to the point that I was ready to measure my progress. One chilly Saturday afternoon I embarked on an unambitious test run: a 16-km loop along flat, paved surfaces. Nearly four hours later, darkness long since having fallen, I hobbled at a snail's pace through my front door, practically unable to put my left foot to the ground. It was impressed upon me that I was in considerably greater difficulty than I had supposed.
Numerous X-rays, scans and assorted professional proddings and pokings followed, together with a new set of exercises. In the end, with time running out, I prevailed upon my medical advisers to try the penultimate resort of fasciitis-sufferers—a series of cortisone injections directly into the heel. These aren't tremendous fun, but are not unbearable either. Although I experienced an acute cortisone reaction that in the short term left me even less mobile than previously, matters did appreciably improve thereafter. My orthopaedic consultancy, which spends most of its time working with high-level athletes but generously agreed to take my very banal case on board, fixed me up with a new pair of insanely expensive hiking shoes complete with still more expensive inserts precision-moulded to the contours of my feet. About three weeks ago, having taken hardly a single unnecessary step for the better part of a year, I ventured out once more for a more realistic road-test: 30 km non-stop, with a couple of stiffish hills en route.
The results weren't disastrous. I was conscious of my left heel after a couple of kilometres, and remained so for the rest of the way. But it wasn't sufficiently uncomfortable to slow my pace, and at the end—other than being reminded by my aching leg-muscles how disgustingly unfit I currently am—I was as much a going concern as at the beginning. Rather than tempt fate, I shut operations down at that point, and from that day until this one have done nothing more than continue the cycle of rest and rehabilitation.
Thus it is that I find myself at the starting point in Oviedo, a few hundred metres from the Cathedral and a brand-new credencial in my backpack. If I were to assign a grade to my foot, I'd say that I'm operating at present at about 80% of normal. Should things stay that way, despite my lack of road-fitness I'll have few concerns about finishing the trip. But I have no idea whether by the end of tomorrow—or any of the days to follow—I won't find myself bounced right back to square one. ("Go to rehab. Go directly to rehab. Do not pass SdC. Do not collect another compostelle," as a Catholic version of the Parker Bros. board game might put it.) Only time will tell. One thing is sure: in my worst imaginings I would never have dreamed that I could have banged my feet up so comprehensively, and with such persistent consequences, merely by walking on them.
Otherwise my morale is high. I've heard nothing but good things about the Primitivo, and even though I'm now the owner of a lightweight magnetic compass that, if I'd possessed it last year, would have saved my bacon more than once on the CPI, I doubt I'll have occasion to use it. Word has it that the waymarking along this route is excellent. I don't expect to run into too many fellow pilgrims at this time of year, but that too suits my mildly solitary mood. Having heard Mass this evening at the Cathedral and with a night's albergue accommodation safely obtained, I have nothing to do but to hunt down my first dinner of the trip and get an early night in preparation for a pre-dawn departure tomorrow morning.
Only one obstacle stood in my way, but that was, and may remain, a serious one. A year ago, as readers of that sub-forum will recall, I ventured out in a fit of ignorance-induced enthusiasm along the little-travelled Camino Português Interior. It was in many respects a memorable journey, and probably came closer to recreating, in however attenuated a form, the daily experience of our mediaeval predecessors than anything else in this vein that I've attempted thus far. That is to say, I spent a considerable proportion of each day wandering off in entirely the wrong direction through unmarked and heavily overgrown Iberian wilderness, and a goodly proportion of the remainder dodging, or at least warily skirting, the uncontrolled wildfires that were responsible for so tragically high a number of deaths in Portugal last summer and seemed to be popping up around me like so many mushrooms. All in all it was one of those trips that one is, in equal measure, glad to have accomplished and determined never to repeat. According to the Pilgrim's Office at SdC, 81 of us completed the CPI last year, and the only thing that surprises me about that number is that there were in fact so many of us.
The lasting legacy of that trip, however, was serious and persistent foot problems. My first two days in the mountains, covering almost 100 km over terrain that was often rocky and covered in scree, left me with damage from which, for the remainder of the trip, I was unable to recover. While the visually impressive evidence was to be seen on the right foot—a blister two inches across that didn't rupture until after I returned home, and a heel that oozed blood slowly but continuously throughout the second week—the real trouble was building up beneath the surface in the left. By the end of the pilgrimage, I had landed myself with an exceedingly nasty case of plantar fasciiitis, an all-too-obvious diagnosis that was duly confirmed by the podiatrist to whom I hobbled shortly after picking up my compostelle at SdC.
Well, nobody's fault but my own, and I knew it. Over the next several months I diligently performed the regimen of dreary rehabilitative exercises with which those similarly afflicted are familiar—that curious toe-clenching business that resembles Kegels for the feet; rolling a tennis ball or a bottle of frozen water around on one's heel; hauling the front of one's foot upwards with the aid of an industrial-sized rubber band, etc. Improvement was painfully slow, in both senses of the adjective, but by mid-November things seemed to have improved to the point that I was ready to measure my progress. One chilly Saturday afternoon I embarked on an unambitious test run: a 16-km loop along flat, paved surfaces. Nearly four hours later, darkness long since having fallen, I hobbled at a snail's pace through my front door, practically unable to put my left foot to the ground. It was impressed upon me that I was in considerably greater difficulty than I had supposed.
Numerous X-rays, scans and assorted professional proddings and pokings followed, together with a new set of exercises. In the end, with time running out, I prevailed upon my medical advisers to try the penultimate resort of fasciitis-sufferers—a series of cortisone injections directly into the heel. These aren't tremendous fun, but are not unbearable either. Although I experienced an acute cortisone reaction that in the short term left me even less mobile than previously, matters did appreciably improve thereafter. My orthopaedic consultancy, which spends most of its time working with high-level athletes but generously agreed to take my very banal case on board, fixed me up with a new pair of insanely expensive hiking shoes complete with still more expensive inserts precision-moulded to the contours of my feet. About three weeks ago, having taken hardly a single unnecessary step for the better part of a year, I ventured out once more for a more realistic road-test: 30 km non-stop, with a couple of stiffish hills en route.
The results weren't disastrous. I was conscious of my left heel after a couple of kilometres, and remained so for the rest of the way. But it wasn't sufficiently uncomfortable to slow my pace, and at the end—other than being reminded by my aching leg-muscles how disgustingly unfit I currently am—I was as much a going concern as at the beginning. Rather than tempt fate, I shut operations down at that point, and from that day until this one have done nothing more than continue the cycle of rest and rehabilitation.
Thus it is that I find myself at the starting point in Oviedo, a few hundred metres from the Cathedral and a brand-new credencial in my backpack. If I were to assign a grade to my foot, I'd say that I'm operating at present at about 80% of normal. Should things stay that way, despite my lack of road-fitness I'll have few concerns about finishing the trip. But I have no idea whether by the end of tomorrow—or any of the days to follow—I won't find myself bounced right back to square one. ("Go to rehab. Go directly to rehab. Do not pass SdC. Do not collect another compostelle," as a Catholic version of the Parker Bros. board game might put it.) Only time will tell. One thing is sure: in my worst imaginings I would never have dreamed that I could have banged my feet up so comprehensively, and with such persistent consequences, merely by walking on them.
Otherwise my morale is high. I've heard nothing but good things about the Primitivo, and even though I'm now the owner of a lightweight magnetic compass that, if I'd possessed it last year, would have saved my bacon more than once on the CPI, I doubt I'll have occasion to use it. Word has it that the waymarking along this route is excellent. I don't expect to run into too many fellow pilgrims at this time of year, but that too suits my mildly solitary mood. Having heard Mass this evening at the Cathedral and with a night's albergue accommodation safely obtained, I have nothing to do but to hunt down my first dinner of the trip and get an early night in preparation for a pre-dawn departure tomorrow morning.