Yes, I know it will be super hot. But the summer window is the only one I've got. I walked the Francés last summer, then went to Sevilla for a week so I am familiar with how hot the south can be.
Is there anywhere that will tell me how many peregrinos are on the way at that time of year?
Thanks amigos.
Here is the extract from my book regarding eating salt. It is the route from Monasterio to Fuente de Cantos:
"Where’ve you been?” said Alan.
“Huh,” I said.
“You were miles away.”
“Oh. Yeah. I was just thinking.”
“About?”
“Nothing.”
“OK don’t tell me,” he said. “Sun’s up. It looks like we’ve crossed the border.”
I stared at the bleak, empty wilderness around us. At first, I was confused. What a lonely place. Where was everyone? Then I remembered the blog. The one Alan had mentioned this morning. Back in London, when I read it first, I had pictured the vultures circling the sky as they waited to feed on my body. But the vultures, even if they had once been there, had flown. There was nothing left alive in this limitless, homogeneous land. Nothing but parched ochre, an infinity of scorched sand and gravel beneath a stark, distant sky. This was desertification. The end of life looked like the ends of the earth and the end of a world we once knew.
Alan cried out in pain.
“What’s up?” I said.
These stones keep stabbing my feet. They’re killing me.
My heart echoed his painful cries. I felt so alone, even with Alan beside me. Although the path ahead was clear, it was empty. Every sign of life had gone, even my ghosts had deserted me.
Alan wanted some sensible proof that life still existed. He looked at the guidebook. From somewhere outside myself, I hear him speak.
“It says there’s a river around here somewhere.”
I stared into the bleak future. I could see forever.
“That’s rubbish,” I said.
“Alright. I didn’t say it. The guide book did.”
“All that’s here is this pile of rocks.”
Now I had spoken, I realised how much I needed to hear my voice. So I spoke superfluously. I made a joke about a yellow arrow painted on one of the rocks.
“That arrow’s a bit pointless,” I said.
My unnecessary remark fell on its face, flapped and died. It was just more irritation, just another stone in our shoes.
As we settled down into despair, we heard a sound behind us, a strong tapping sound. Krischen appeared to us. Seeing him was like finding the river. If he was with us, we were not alone.
“Hello,” he said, his bright, intelligent voice sang out.
We had met Krischen and Daven the evening before. Krischen was a cherub, born on the same day as Jamie. Krischen was twenty-one and a theology student, a scholar on a mission. This was his fourth Camino. He carried a huge wooden staff, and an equally huge Bible, under his arm, close to his heart.
“Hi,” we said in unified gratitude. And then, so we could linger in the life he offered, “Where’s Daven? Aren’t you two travelling together?”
“No. I only met him yesterday. He was still in bed when I left.”
Krischen talked for a few moments and then with a Buen Camino, he was gone.
He didn’t appear to struggle under the weight of his huge Bible and his huge rucksack. With wings on his heels he crossed the desert sands and disappeared again, leaving us to rub the dust from our eyes in wonder. Though he was gone, his ‘Buen Camino’, the pilgrim’s blessing, and his warm smile lingered.
We found a smidgeon of shade, a tree and a few stones that had once been part of a wall. We had been walking for hours so we decided it was time for breakfast. Our snack, some peanuts and a can of sardines each, was interrupted by Daven, who grinned like the Cheshire cat when he saw us.
“Buen Camino,” he said.
Daven was young as well, in his mid, to late thirties. His blond hair waved from his face and his forget-me-not eyes, framed with long lashes, made him the picture of innocence too. But there was something in his devil-may-care smile that haunted me. His eyes scanned us as we ate. I could feel his disapproval in the merest flicker of a frown which momentarily darkened his bright young features and quickened my pulse. He opened his mouth to say something, but seemed to change his mind. He closed it then opened it again.
“Only seven or eight kilometres left,” he said, sauntering off.
I thought I was annoyed with him.
‘He gets up late,’ I fumed, and then he saunters past, staring at us as though there’s something wrong with us.’
Then I realised I wasn’t annoyed with him at all. He was merely a convenient scapegoat. It was me I was annoyed with. Why couldn’t I walk any faster? He’d only just got up. He’d already passed us. We’d been going for hours. Why couldn’t we keep up with him?
As we walked my thirst ignited. I drunk some water. Then I drunk some more, and then I finished it all. No amount of water could quash my raw, flaming, throat.
“Please, can I have some of your water Al?” I said. “I’ve drunk all mine but I am so thirsty.”
“I’ve drunk all my water too and I’m gagging.”
“We need Krischen,” I said, trying to be witty.
“Huh?”
“With that great big staff he could have done like St. Thomas a Beckettdid on his pilgrimage.”
“What did St. Thomas a Beckett do?”
“Struck the ground and caused a spring to rise, a holy well.”
The desert sand annoyed Alan. He threw my wit back into my face.
“Yeah. Or you could ask God. He gave you a bottle the other day.”
That was the end of the conversation. How dare Alan torment me? I knew it was true even if he didn’t want to believe it. We walked on in strained silence. Then I saw another sign. Two signs in fact.
One said we had walked one hundred and fourteen kilometres from Seville. The other one said we still had eight hundred and eighty-nine kilometres to go. My rucksack kicked me. How could it possibly be that many? I felt as though I’d walked to Santiago, and back, already. My feet were burning, my legs were burning and my throat, well that was on fire. I’d be lucky if I made the next eight hundred and eighty-nine metres.
At the edge of town, as we were gasping our last, we saw three old men sitting on a bench. They reminded me of the three wise monkeys. Perhaps they were. Breaking their customary vow of silence, they chattered away to each other, squealing with excitement as we approached. They looked at us and laughed. Then they looked away and laughed. They kept alternating between looking up and looking away until, when we drew near them, one spoke.
“
Peregrinos?”
We nodded because we our throats were too dry to speak.
“
Locos!”
Again they screeched with laughter.
I tried to laugh too, but I couldn’t swallow the lump in my throat.
They were right. We
were crazy.
****
Fortunately the
Albergue sold cold beers and, what is more, it was a very nice place to stay.
Jabea, the hospitalero met us at the door of the
Albergue.
“Lauro, Aldo and Elena left you some food in the fridge,” he said. “They made dinner last night, and they had some left. There are also two oranges they decided they couldn’t squeeze into their rucksacks. They asked me to say Adios and Buen Camino to you.”
“Thank you Jabea,” I said.
The fridge was a huge, rectangular one, which opened from the top. It was stainless steel, concrete-grey. I slid the lid open and peered inside. It was empty apart from the pan in the bottom and the two oranges standing beside it. I lifted the pan out and removed the lid, short pasta tubes mixed together with ham and tomato sauce, peppers and peas. I was starving and it looked wonderful, so wonderful that I pinched a fingerful from the pan.
“Oi,” said Alan. “That was left for me too. Heat it before you eat it. And get a fork.”
I love food. I like to eat lots. As a kid, I never had enough to eat. Not until I went to live with Auntie. That’s one thing she was good for. She gave me more food than I ever had at home. And we didn’t have to eat it on our laps. We ate it properly, at the table. I loved eating at the table. Auntie spread it with a pretty white cloth embroidered with colourful flowers and a butterfly or two. And I had butter in my own little dish. Butter was unheard of at home. We had bread, but, all that was spread on it was disgusting Echo margarine, sometimes dusted with sugar to help the taste go down, or perhaps dripping. Auntie was different. For breakfast she loaded her table with boiled eggs and bread and jam and a little brown teapot which wore a knitted jumper. I had never seen one before.
“It’s to keep the tea cosy Jacqueline,” she said. “I don’t want my tea getting cold.”
Her evening meals were magic. From her green enamelled pots she conjured up stews and pies and hot savoury puddings that steamed into the air leaving wonderful smells.
“What’s for dinner tonight Auntie?” I hungered to know.
“Wait and see.”
So as the stove burned and the kettle whistled, I sat and waited, my belly fired with anticipation. I ate like a hungry hog. Auntie, on the other hand, although she loaded the table, ate like a bird. And, as I ate, she twittered,
“Slow down, Jacqueline. Stop slopping. You’ll get even fatter than you are already.”
I didn’t listen. Instead I stuffed her voice down with creamy, dreamy mashed potatoes, steak and kidney puddings and fish on Fridays. I was making the most of it, confident in the knowledge that when my Mum came back I wouldn’t be able to eat like that. Then there wouldn’t be enough to go round. Then there would be others to consider.
“Would you like to share our pasta?” I said to Daven as he wandered by.
“No, Danke, I’ve had food” he said. “But Jackie…”
“Yeah.”
“I wanted to say, that, well, you shouldn’t eat like that when you’re walking in the hot sun…”
“I beg your pardon.”
My ire was icy. The temperature dropped.
“That salty food you eat. It’s not good for you in the hot sun.”
The temperature rose rapidly, and the stifling heat burned me up.
Salt. Of course. That was it. I felt so stupid. My fork missed my mouth as the penne dropped. It left a sorry trail of tomato sauce. The colour matched my face.
