April 22, 2013, Viana to Navarrete.

We were well on our way out of Viana before the first rays of sun lit the western side of the village. At 23km this would be a Christine’s longest day, particularly challenging since she was carrying her pack.

Not far down the trail we said goodbye to the mountainous region of Navarra and hello to the autonomous region of La Rioja. Sandwiched between Navarra and the plains of the Meseta (think western Kansas), this region has been famous for producing excellent wines for centuries.

Shortly after crossing the “border” into La Rioja we encountered an older woman standing in the doorway of her humble cottage. Short, sturdy, and weatherworn, with a smile that radiated a rich inner kindness, she motioned for us to enter.

This was Maria, daughter of the modern Camino’s famous Felisa (1910-2002) who for most of her adult life “stood guard”, just as Maria was continuing to do, greeting pilgrims entering La Rioja. Felisa, and now Maria, laid out a small plate with figs and offered water. Speaking virtually no English she accepted donations. However, this was no money making venture. The kindness Felisa and Maria showed was driven solely by love for those walking the Camino.

The “Felisa Stamp” in a Pilgrim’s credencial was highly sought by knowledgeable Peregrinos. In Spanish it reads, “Figs, Water, and Love.” All of these things freely offered by Felisa and Maria, nothing expected in return.

We entered Logrono, a modern city of 130,000, and capital of the La Rioja region.

Like most of Spain’s population centers, whether large or small, it featured a remarkable church that dates back hundreds of years. Catedral de Santa Maria de la Redonda was built on the foundation of an earlier 12^th Century Romanesque Church. The current edifice dates to the 15^th Century.

The altar and apse (surround) are stunning. The church also prides itself on being the owner of a small original painting by Michelangelo, “Christ on the Cross”. The small but priceless painting is kept secured in its own vault. When open for viewing a few coins are needed to illuminate the work.

Continuing out of Logrono on our way to Navarrete we passed the ruins of the 12^th Century Monastery of San Juan de Acre which was founded to offer care to passing Peregrinos.

The huge Don Jacobo Winery looms large in the distance behind the ruins. Many years ago the Monastery’s ornate stone archway was relocated to the Municipal Cemetery situated just west of the city where it now serves as that facility’s entrance.

13km later we entered Navarrete (pop. 2,200). Though a fraction of the size of Logrono, Navarrete’s 16^th Century Church of the Assumption is even more opulent than Logrono’s Cathedral.

One wonders at the wealth and time dedicated to this architectural competition that dates back hundreds of years.

Christine and I joined a number of our new Camino friends for drinks and pleasant conversation in the inviting central plaza. Over the course of the days and weeks to follow we developed deep personal connections with a number of these good people. Among them are (left to right) New Zealander Jennifer Dillner, Christine Lecher a German living in the Canary Islands,…

Gaby Pfauth of Germany, and Henk Kaspers of the Netherlands (far right).

We treasure their continuing friendships to this day.

It was a long day for Christine and me. She had outdone herself by hiking 23km with pack, and my feet were a painful mess.

For the first time we embraced the luxury of a real hotel room with private bath. We had earned it.

Peace Everyone, and Buen Camino. Pete

PS. Sadly, Maria passed away on March 15, 2021. The Camino has lost one of its Angels. In 2009 a film crew from Scotland produced this brief video about a day in this good woman’s life: Maria Tedora Medivalia Rodriguez (1933-2021).

Written at Villamayor de Monjardin, Spain, April 20, 2013.

Yesterday morning in Estella as the Peregrinos in our Albergue began to stir for the dawn departure onto the Camino, I became aware of the voice of frustration. The words were German, but the exasperation behind those words needed no translation.  I regret that I never learned his name, but the young man from Germany and I had exchanged greetings on a number of occasions. He spoke a little English, and I a little German. He is a big man… actually, a VERY big man. At more than 6′ 6″ tall, and well over 300 pounds he reminded me of a downsized version of Andre The Giant. For this note I will refer to him as “Andre”.

Andre sat at the edge of his bed in a losing effort to zip the leg onto his convertible pants. His frustration was many faceted as his fingers were too large, the zipper pull too small, and his knee too swollen. The pain in his knee and his frustration were clearly visible in the horizontal set of his brow, eyes, and lips. Christine moved to his aid and in short order had secured the miscreant pant leg.

Andre’s look of frustration quickly transformed to one of relief as he smiled at my wife and said, “Danke, Mutter!” (Thanks, Mother). Continuing in German he went on to say that he was leaving the Camino for home. Pointing to his knee (which I had observed to bear the scars of surgery), the pain in his eyes migrated from physical to emotional.

Our Albergue dorm room was shared by 15 other Peregrinos who were in various stages of pre-departure preparation. Motion stopped as Andre’s sadness spread through the room. This became personal for each of us.

Throughout the day Andre’s departure from the Camino was on the lips of the Pilgrims and weighed heavily on our hearts. I know that there have been and will be others to prematurely leave the Camino, but actually seeing the moment of despair is different. I hope for Andre that the Camino continues in his heart, just as he is remembered in ours.

Love to you all. Have fun, Do good, and Be safe. Buen Camino.

Pete (and Chris)

April 19, 2013. Estella to Villamayor de Monjardin

There was a threat of rain in the early morning clouds. Covering my pack and having my rain poncho at the ready seemed prudent as I set off for the day.

The recommended stage that day was 21km to Los Arcos with services available in between only at Villamayor de Monjardin (pop. 150), 10km distant. Christine had not been feeling well and was fighting an annoying cough that threatened to deepen. We decided that she would taxi to Villamayor and secure our beds for the night at one of the small village’s two albergues.

On my way out of Estella I stopped at a charming courtyard café where I and many other pilgrims found coffee and breakfast.

The threat of rain hung in the air most of that morning but never materialized. The alternating light and shadow of the passing clouds played beautifully over the verdant spring countryside. It was a good day for a less strenuous hike and my early arrival in Villamayor was assured.

About 2km down the road I came to the Bodegas Irache and its famous wine fountain. Over the years the winery has generously furnished passing pilgrims with two taps in a burnished stainless steel facade mounted on the side of the winery. One tap fresh water, and remarkably the other providing delicious red wine at no cost.

Pilgrims lined up at the wine tap, early morning be damned. I swear that the water tap had cobwebs. Here was a place that pilgrims could congregate and toast their good fortune. I was among them. One could fill a water bottle to the brim with the deep purple stuff (I mixed half water and half wine in mine). However, the accepted tradition was to take a drink using one’s scallop shell as a shallow wine cup, much as pilgrims have done since the Middle Ages.

Here I became acquainted with Lene Frydenlund of Denmark, and Roberto Del Pino Guzman, originally from Spain but decades a citizen of the United Kingdom. We have maintained contact with both over the years.

I learned later that day that Roberto had met Christine at the albergue in Pamplona. She gave him instructions on how to operate the front loading wash machines there.

I spent that morning walking to Villamayor with Roberto and his friend John. Our conversation quickly went deep into the mysteries of life, love, faith, and fate. With Roberto I found a kindred spirit. Were we not separated by an ocean I believe we would have been best friends.

Other than the scenery, there was little between Estella and Villamayor save a few hundred yards from our destination we came upon the Fuente de los Moros (Fountain of the Moors).

It is a curious name since the fountain, constructed in the 1100’s after the expulsion of the Moors, was built as a welcoming rest stop for passing pilgrims. Here a pilgrim could cool off, wash, and replenish their water.

I arrived in town with a number of other pilgrims long before either albergue allowed entrance. Where was Christine? At the sound of my voice the door to the Albergue Santa Cruz opened and there she stood alongside of the facility’s smiling matron.

Christine explained: She had arrived early by taxi and went to the door of the albergue to place us on their list for beds that night. The woman who answered the door spoke little English, but accommodated Christine’s request. Chris noticed that the woman was fully occupied with the task of washing a mountain of bed linens and towels for the 28 bed albergue. Christine managed to communicate her willingness to help. The woman, first surprised and then beaming with gratitude, turned to her husband who was seated at a table reading his newspaper. Pointing at him and the then at Chris she made an exclamation that Christine believes translated to “See!!!”. The man returned to his paper. The women spent the next hours side by side sharing smiles and toil.

Christine neither asked for nor expected a reward. However, once the laundry was finished the woman took her by the hand to a door on the second floor. She unlocked to door and ushering Chris into the small room, managing to communicate that Chris and I would be granted the private room for the night. Still bunkbeds but glorious privacy and with our own private bath and shower no less!

After the albergue had granted pilgrims entrance we secured our things inside. All of us then adjourned to the nearby restaurant/bar just up the hill.

Outside the bar was a small courtyard overlooking the town. It featured the bronze bust of King Sancho I (860-925) who reigned over the Kingdom of Pamplona from 905 to his death in 925.

The bust cast eyes upward to castle ruins that loomed 700 feet above the town.

Castillo de San Esteban (Castle of St. Stephen) held prominence over the entire region since the time of the Romans who laid the fortification’s original foundations. Given the commanding presence of the mountain upon which it stood it is likely that it had been a place of tribal defense since the time of ancient paleo inhabitants.

Sancho successfully captured the castle from the Moors in the 10^th Century, they in turn had captured it from the Visigoths, who had taken it from the Romans. Successions spanning millennia.

Inside of the bar we were confronted with one man’s tribute to Elvis Presley and life on America’s Route 66. The walls were covered with memorabilia. The bar owner spoke excellent English and quickly served our beverages. I asked him about the castle… Can one tour it? “Yes when its open”. Now? “Yes, if you have the key to open it”. A key? “Yes, locks open best that way”. I was becoming aware that the gentleman was having some fun at my expense. Snickers from the other pilgrims confirmed this.

How does one get the key? “Well, you must ask for it.” (Me growing frustrated) And who do you ask? “Me, of course!” YOU HAVE THE KEY TO THE CASTLE? “Didn’t I just say that?” (grrrr!) Well then, may I borrow your key? “Certainly, provided that you bring it back”. With that he reached behind the bar and retrieved a ring with a large brass key. How do I get to the castle? “Walking works”. Yes, but which way? “If you keep walking uphill you will get to the castle. (Pilgrims are now on the verge of outright laughter). Finally he relented and directed me to a small avenue behind the bar. “Follow it, it is a steep 2km to the top and enjoy the view.”

45 minutes later I stood alone at the gate to the abandoned castle, keys in hand. Locks do work best with a proper key and this one was no exception. I entered.

The castle walls are largely intact, but most of the castle’s keep and interior stonework had been looted in the 1600’s to build a nearby hermitage. It was reputed that the remains of Sancho were entombed and hidden somewhere within the castle walls. I stood with Sancho’s ghost.

Sancho and I were not alone. I provided eyes for the spirits of long forgotten paleo tribal leaders, dead Roman generals, ancient Visigoth chiefs, invisible Moors, and Sancho, all of whom had gazed upon the surrounding plains as I now did.

It was eerie and invigorating. I took my pictures, embraced silence that was broken only by the wind whistling through the fortifications… (were those voices?), and finally with regret I made my way back to the village below.

We gloried in yet another communal dinner with our new friends that included Deb, along with Kalina and Ramona, pilgrims from Germany. There was no laughter, only rapt attention as I spun my tale of the castle above.

Peace Everyone, and Buen Camino. Pete 

Written April 19, 2013 at Villamayor de Monjardin, Spain.

Twice yesterday Peregrinos have commented to me that in moments of solitude they have found focus upon recollections of childhood. So it has been for me. The rhythmic cadence of my footfalls has been like an ancient drumbeat, calling up the spirit of my child-self.

He and I have enjoyed a pretty good relationship over the years. I have vivid recollections that even include being pushed in a stroller. I had a good childhood, and my relationship with my child-self has (hopefully) helped me to be a better father and better grandfather.

As I look into my past I am reminded of the times that I gazed into my future. As a child of 5 or 6 I once took my father’s tape measure, and a pair of his shoes. Standing upon a chair I measured myself to about 6 feet tall. I looked down at the shoes in order to imagine the distance to my feet as a “grown up”. I never made it to 6 feet, but 5′ 10″ has not been so very different.

There were times in grade school that I jotted notes to my adult-self: how tall I was, what I thought I might become, what my favorite TV programs were. Ours has been a dialogue that spans decades.

For my father who died in 2009 the relationship with his child-self was quite different. He related an incident from his childhood that occurred when he was about 5 years old. His uncle had died and as was the custom his open casket vigil was held in the home. The family, my father included, spent the night with the deceased uncle. The next day the burial included a ceremonial casting of flowers into the grave. As the youngest child, my father had the duty to stand close above the open grave and throw the flowers upon the descending coffin. Dad, afraid, would not approach the grave. His father forced him to the edge of the pit just as the grief stricken aunt leapt atop the casket crying to be buried with her husband.

My father was not one to display his emotions. However over the years he was given to sudden bouts of anguish at funerals. It didn’t matter if he were close to the deceased or a stranger, dad would be overcome by uncontrollable sobbing. Just as suddenly as the weeping had come upon him it would end and Dad seemed to have no awareness whatsoever of his transient distress.

I suspect that my father’s inner child was imprisoned forever that day at his uncle’s grave or worse yet, died with him.

For some of us on the Camino, our pilgrimage presents the opportunity to reacquaint with our inner child. I wish that my father could have found “The Way” to liberate his.

Love to you all. Have fun, Do good, and Be safe. Buen Camino.

Pete (and Christine)