- Year of past OR future Camino
- Several and counting...
I'm separating this, but I'll link to it from my Live from the Camino thread.
Two bits of background.
First, I'm a city person at heart. From Liverpool. I love the sound of the bin lorry as much as the dawn chorus. I live in a very rural part of Ireland. It's like parts of the Camino, but with less bars and less Internet. And more rain. I live with >200 cows. I don't like them though they may not know this. It may be that cows like me. Last year, near to Santiago, as I sat outside a bar,with 80 others, a passing cow left the pack and picked me alone out for several big licks. Maybe I smell of cows.
Second, I've been learning Spanish very intently since February. I go to a class once a week. Where I live (see above) there are no hispanohablantes. For conversation practice I talk to myself while running or while driving. At length. I talk out loud. There is no one to hear. I'm past being embarrassed if anyone does hear me. As I walk along in Spain I've continued practising. Remember after five days I haven't set eyes on any other pilgrim.
I also practice pronunciation as I walk along. I say jara/jarra. Jara, I learned from Ray y Rosa, is broom (the plant), jarra is a pint (of beer), I learned with my nephew a couple of years ago in Astorga. I say pero/perro - I guess everyone knows that one. And I say todo/toro. To me they sound very alike. I'm trying to make them sound different. (Todo - all; toro - bull).
So on Sunday morning after a brisk, er...invigorating, knackering climb to Puerto Fuenfria, and a rest, and 20 mins real-life conversation practice with a young climbing lady from Bilbao, I was off. (In my defence I would add that my strategy for learning Spanish is working well.)
After 10 solid kms downhill I decided it was time for a break. I saw a shaded big concrete 'bunker' in a bit of a clearing in woodland and sat on it. I had a banana, some water and a barro energetico.
I felt at peace. I closed my eyes for a moment and listened to deafening birdsong and the distant tinkle of cowbells. I was having a moment. Suddenly I felt warm breath on my face. Very nice. I opened my eyes and looked up.
'Holy Mother!' as they say where I live. There was a bull, about 6 inches from my face. Not 6 feet, 6 inches. Not a cow. A bull. He didn't have a bell, but he lacked nothing else. One of my fields of expertise is human anatomy, but I have friends who are vets. This was a bull, not a bullock, nor a cow.
I really didn't know what to do. I did nothing but look into his large inscrutable eyes. He looked back.
By an astonishing coincidence the most unsympathetic man in Spain passed by on a mountain bike at this point. Older even than me. In Lycra. Past his personal Lycra sell by date, I felt. "¡Mire! ¡Un toro!" He roared with a cheery wave as he sped by.
I looked at the bull and the bull looked at me.
I run a lot around country roads and have twice met a bull on the road which does frighten me a bit. We have a farm manager where I live. Two years ago one of our prime bulls attacked him. The bull had great genes. Next day he was shot! Bulls are serious. The fact that a cow, of which we have >200 could 'sit on me to death' doesn't detract from the menace of bulls.
I looked at the bull and the bull looked at me.
Did I mention he had horns?
Slowly, after what seemed like a lifetime, he turned and moved on. In all honesty I was not paralyzed with fear, or overly shaken. But I was a bit more than uncomfortable.
I have mentioned before, discussing Baztan route, that I'm realistic about the finite risk of taking little-travelled routes. Strictly I have no dependants. If I fell off the road on the Baztan route and broke my leg, with no mobile coverage, I may not be found. I'm not a one for sawing off my arm with a penknife (though I have the training), however fashionable. I wouldn't eat my foot to stay alive. At the bottom of my pack there is a bar of superior chocolate. Quite separate from the barros energeticos. Without being overly morbid, it could make a nice last meal.
When the bull moved off on Sunday morning I ate half to celebrate, as I watched him set off in pursuit of his be-belled harem. I was fine.
I carried on and took off on a whim, off piste, to get to Valsaín. A beautiful restaurant in the little Plaza Major. Linen tablecloths. 120 seats. Estamos completo said the sign. Only 4 people eating? Ah! Spanish Mother's Day. I had the same experience in Campiello exactly a year ago. The lovely maitre d' saw my dusty, bedraggled, hot state and ushered me into the empty, closed comedor. An Argentinian restaurant. We discussed what I'd have. 'Pido' (I think) he recommended. 'You can't get it in a butchers.' Cow's diaphragm. Cooked as rare as can be. Metaphorically, to die for. I like to think it came from a close relation of my bull. It was stunningly good. Todo. Toro.
No animals were treated cruelly in this entirely true account.
Some days later there was an unrelated ovine incident.
Two bits of background.
First, I'm a city person at heart. From Liverpool. I love the sound of the bin lorry as much as the dawn chorus. I live in a very rural part of Ireland. It's like parts of the Camino, but with less bars and less Internet. And more rain. I live with >200 cows. I don't like them though they may not know this. It may be that cows like me. Last year, near to Santiago, as I sat outside a bar,with 80 others, a passing cow left the pack and picked me alone out for several big licks. Maybe I smell of cows.
Second, I've been learning Spanish very intently since February. I go to a class once a week. Where I live (see above) there are no hispanohablantes. For conversation practice I talk to myself while running or while driving. At length. I talk out loud. There is no one to hear. I'm past being embarrassed if anyone does hear me. As I walk along in Spain I've continued practising. Remember after five days I haven't set eyes on any other pilgrim.
I also practice pronunciation as I walk along. I say jara/jarra. Jara, I learned from Ray y Rosa, is broom (the plant), jarra is a pint (of beer), I learned with my nephew a couple of years ago in Astorga. I say pero/perro - I guess everyone knows that one. And I say todo/toro. To me they sound very alike. I'm trying to make them sound different. (Todo - all; toro - bull).
So on Sunday morning after a brisk, er...invigorating, knackering climb to Puerto Fuenfria, and a rest, and 20 mins real-life conversation practice with a young climbing lady from Bilbao, I was off. (In my defence I would add that my strategy for learning Spanish is working well.)
After 10 solid kms downhill I decided it was time for a break. I saw a shaded big concrete 'bunker' in a bit of a clearing in woodland and sat on it. I had a banana, some water and a barro energetico.
I felt at peace. I closed my eyes for a moment and listened to deafening birdsong and the distant tinkle of cowbells. I was having a moment. Suddenly I felt warm breath on my face. Very nice. I opened my eyes and looked up.
'Holy Mother!' as they say where I live. There was a bull, about 6 inches from my face. Not 6 feet, 6 inches. Not a cow. A bull. He didn't have a bell, but he lacked nothing else. One of my fields of expertise is human anatomy, but I have friends who are vets. This was a bull, not a bullock, nor a cow.
I really didn't know what to do. I did nothing but look into his large inscrutable eyes. He looked back.
By an astonishing coincidence the most unsympathetic man in Spain passed by on a mountain bike at this point. Older even than me. In Lycra. Past his personal Lycra sell by date, I felt. "¡Mire! ¡Un toro!" He roared with a cheery wave as he sped by.
I looked at the bull and the bull looked at me.
I run a lot around country roads and have twice met a bull on the road which does frighten me a bit. We have a farm manager where I live. Two years ago one of our prime bulls attacked him. The bull had great genes. Next day he was shot! Bulls are serious. The fact that a cow, of which we have >200 could 'sit on me to death' doesn't detract from the menace of bulls.
I looked at the bull and the bull looked at me.
Did I mention he had horns?
Slowly, after what seemed like a lifetime, he turned and moved on. In all honesty I was not paralyzed with fear, or overly shaken. But I was a bit more than uncomfortable.
I have mentioned before, discussing Baztan route, that I'm realistic about the finite risk of taking little-travelled routes. Strictly I have no dependants. If I fell off the road on the Baztan route and broke my leg, with no mobile coverage, I may not be found. I'm not a one for sawing off my arm with a penknife (though I have the training), however fashionable. I wouldn't eat my foot to stay alive. At the bottom of my pack there is a bar of superior chocolate. Quite separate from the barros energeticos. Without being overly morbid, it could make a nice last meal.
When the bull moved off on Sunday morning I ate half to celebrate, as I watched him set off in pursuit of his be-belled harem. I was fine.
I carried on and took off on a whim, off piste, to get to Valsaín. A beautiful restaurant in the little Plaza Major. Linen tablecloths. 120 seats. Estamos completo said the sign. Only 4 people eating? Ah! Spanish Mother's Day. I had the same experience in Campiello exactly a year ago. The lovely maitre d' saw my dusty, bedraggled, hot state and ushered me into the empty, closed comedor. An Argentinian restaurant. We discussed what I'd have. 'Pido' (I think) he recommended. 'You can't get it in a butchers.' Cow's diaphragm. Cooked as rare as can be. Metaphorically, to die for. I like to think it came from a close relation of my bull. It was stunningly good. Todo. Toro.
No animals were treated cruelly in this entirely true account.
Some days later there was an unrelated ovine incident.
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