My Camino Hell: Part One
By David Whittam
Some
things seem like such a good idea at the time, before the reality kicks in.
Last
weekend, I found myself in an unusual situation. Most Saturdays and Sundays, I
spend my time slumped in front of the television, watching hours of repeats of Four
In A Bed or old ITC serials on ITV4.
On
Sunday though, I was in an shop that sells clothing for people who profess to
actually liking sport, looking for a pair of trousers that zipped off at the
knee to become shorts, and getting increasingly frustrated that there weren't
any short enough for my stubby little legs.
The
reason for me being in such a situation is because I'm doing something so
staggeringly out of character, it's akin to seeing George Osborne caring about
the poor.
I'm
going on a walking holiday.
Yes. I
know.
It all
started a couple of years ago when my girlfriend, who has Spanish parents,
mentioned El Camino de Santiago - or The Way of St James - a medieval
pilgrimage trail that starts in France, wanders over the Pyrenees, through
northern Spain, ending in the cathedral city of Santiago. It's a walk that
takes about 30 days, walking between 20 kilometres and 30 kilometres a day.
"It's
supposed to be lovely," she said. "We could do that one day."
"Yeah,
we could," I responded blithely, secretly wondering if the bloke on Don't
Tell The Bride was really going to spend so much on a stag do.
I
didn't hear anything about it for a while and assumed my girlfriend had
forgotten about it. We'd pop over to Spain occasionally to visit her relatives
in Galicia, and sometimes go to Santiago, where we'd see bedraggled 'pilgrims'
entering the city, looking knackered but happy. Probably ecstatic at the
thought they could spend the next day watching eight hours of Ven A Cenar
Conmigo (I'm reliably informed that's what Come Dine With Me would
be called in Spain), rather than walking another 30 kilometres.
It was
a while later that my girlfriend and I watched the slightly mawkish film The
Way. It's not the best movie ever made, or the worst (that's still Highlander
II: The Quickening, the only film that I have considered throwing a brick
through my television for, just to make it stop - the simple logic of just
using the off button having been forced from my brain by dint of its sheer
awfulness).
Anyway,
The Way, directed by Emilio Estevez and starring Martin Sheen, is a film
about, yes, you guessed it, the Camino. And with that, my girlfriend's fervour
was reignited. Actual plans were drawn up, investigations made, books bought.
And all through it, I just nodded along, part of me thinking that it would
never actually happen.
On a
trip back up to Manchester to see my mum in autumn last year, we ended up going
to the cinema to see The Way as well, and I mentioned to my mum that my
girlfriend and I had rough plans in place to do the Camino.
Then I
did something even more out of character.
I
invited my mum to come with us.
And she
said yes.
Now, I
get on with my mum better than I ever have, but I haven't been on holiday with
her for about 20 years and after about a week in her company find myself
reverting back my 14-year-old self. And now I was planning on walking with her
for miles and miles. One of us is bound to snap sooner or later.
At this
point, I couldn't back out, both my girlfriend and my mum were enthused. It was
really happening.
For
Christmas, one of my presents was a pack of blister plasters. It had gone
completely beyond a joke.
Flights
were then booked, as was the hotel for the first night - the only saving grace
was I couldn't get a full month off work, so we're only going to be walking for
12 days.
I've
bought a rucksack, a sleeping bag, wicking tshirts (what the fuck is wicking?),
walking poles, an emergency blanket, a head torch and various other items that
I only ever thought would be on my shopping list if I knew the zombie
apocalypse was coming.
I'm
prepared, if not mentally and physically, then at least with all the right
gear.
I've
called this blog 'My Camino Hell' for two reasons. The first, and the most
likely, is that it's going to be awful. I'll be grumpy and moaning about sore
feet. My back will ache from carrying a rucksack. I wont have any episodes of Danger
Man to watch.
The
other reason is I'm worried I'll be converted. Not to Catholicism, obviously,
I'm a staunch atheist - but that I'll become one of those people. You know, the
ones who actually enjoy walking holidays. The type of person who thinks nothing
of scaling Kilimanjaro for a laugh.
So, I'm
off to get my Euros and a neat short haircut and I fly out to France later this
week and on the first day walking I'll be scaling the Pyrenees. Wish me luck,
I'll need it.
And if
I don't die, I'll back in a few weeks to give you My Camino Hell: Part Two -
The Quickening.
My Camino Hell: Part Two
Well,
I've been back from Spain for a week and half, sitting on this blog while I
gathered my thoughts and weighed up the experience I just put myself through.
Unfortunately, my thoughts all amount to pretty much one thing - I walked over
a FUCKING MOUNTAIN.
Apologies
for the swearing mum, but you heard much worse from me whenever we turned a
corner and found ourselves at the bottom of another bloody hill.
So,
what did I make of the Camino de Santiago? Did I hate it utterly? Did I love
walking 20 kilometres a day, while carrying a stupidly heavy rucksack?
The answer
falls somewhere inbetween. For 12 days I was going to be a 'pilgrim', a name I
was initially uncomfortable with as I'm not religious in any way, shape or
form. I soon got over my discomfort though, as most of the people I met along
the way weren't religious either and just in it for the challenge.
The
first day, the walk from St Jean Pied de Port to Roncesvalles was both one of
the best and worst days of my life. St Jean is about 180 metres above sea level
and the top of the Pyrenees mountain we were walking over was 1460 metres high.
For someone who lives in London, where it is pretty much all flat, walking up
this was going to be the hardest thing I've ever done, with the exception of
sitting through an episode of The Only Way Is Essex.
However,
going up the mountain was nothing compared to coming down the fucking thing.
Don't get me wrong, going up wasn't easy, it was really warm - so hot I got
sunburn on my arm, despite wearing factor 30 suncream - was incredibly steep in
some places and whenever we thought we'd reached the top, we'd see another
stretch leading inexorably upwards.
But
coming down was much worse. Imagine driving a car with no shock absorbers,
where every meter there's another sleeping policeman in the road. That's what
my knees felt like. Every bone-shuddering step was agony. Thank god for whoever
invented walking poles, as they helped me drag my carcass up the mountain and
then they were being used as makeshift crutches as I hobbled down. This
resulted in my knees being strapped up for the rest of the walk and every
downhill stretch was painful.
But
that's enough moaning, after the hideous first day, which made me vow to never
ever climb a mountain again, the rest of the walk was actually pretty good. The
scenery was beautiful, the weather was generally okay - apart from the odd spot
of rain or hailstones - and I even got used to sleeping in bunkbeds at the
albergues we stayed in. One thing that saddened me immensely though was the
number of crosses we saw, marking the places where people had died on the
Camino - most of them had walked in the heat of summer and they varied in age.
It made me realise what I was doing was not just a walk, it could be dangerous
if you pushed yourself too hard.
Albergues
are the pilgrim-only hostels along the way and my favourite was in a place
called Trinidad de Arre. We stopped here after only walking about 16 kilometres
because we wanted a short five kilometre walk the next day, so we could spend
the day in Pamplona and I'm glad we did. The albergue is located in a 12th
century monastery, run by four elderly Marist brothers and has a beautiful
walled garden, which was the perfect way to spend an afternoon, chatting with
other pilgrims and drinking red wine. At one point, one of the brothers popped
up at a window upstairs, playing an accordion. It really felt like a little
slice of heaven and, after a couple of tough days of walking, while my body got
used to the first exercise it had done in years, I could have stayed there
forever.
Talking
with other pilgrims was also another highlight. I met some truly lovely people
and hopefully some of them will read this and get in touch. There was Ken the
Canadian, who also had his knees strapped up and was generally a bad influence
on the rest of us with his seemingly endless bottles of wine - and who found
the phrase 'bumming a fag' absolutely hilarious. There was David, who spent
half of his life in the UK, helping sort out failing schools, and the other
half in Burma, deprogramming child soldiers. Laura the Amazonian (over six feet
tall and managing the Camino with only one lung) was an angel, providing my mum
with teabags and a blanket when we staying in a freezing albergue that was
little more than a shed. There was also Deryn, who works just down the road
from where I live, teaching English to child refugees, who always had a smile
for everyone, and who we oddly bumped into in a park in Madrid as we were on
our way to the airport back home.
These
were people we bumped into now and again, some would walk further on some days
and stay in other hostels, then walk less the next day so we'd catch up with
them. Nothing was planned, which made meeting up with them again such a joy and
pleasure. We met people from all over the world - America, Canada, Holland,
France, Spain, Israel, South Africa - the list goes on. There was Sam from
Ireland who kept us entertained with a fine singing voice and, shamefully, a
lovely German couple I managed to force out of a room with my snoring. At 2am
they'd had enough and got their carry mats and slept on the floor outside the
room. Every time I met them after that I had had to apologise (although
apparently my mum's snoring was just as bad).
Which
brings me nicely onto my mum. One of my main worries on this trip was that I
would fall out with her. It would be the longest I've spent with her since I
was 21. To start with, she was in 'coach trip' mode, wanting to know exactly
how far things were, what was there, what time we'd get to places and had an
endless set of questions. She eventually relaxed into the spirit of the trip,
which was to see how far we actually got and make decisions on the hoof. And I
think she enjoyed it more because of that. It was actually lovely to spend so
much time with her and I hope she feels the same. Having said that, on the
first day, when I was struggling down the mountain, she did stride off ahead,
manage to get lost, ended up walking about three kilometres more than she
needed to and had to hitch a lift back to the alburgue. She may be clever but
she can still be an idiot sometimes - something I obviously inherited.
We
eventually got as far as Belorado on this leg of the trip, which meant we
walked about 220 kilometres in total - about 20 kilometres a day. The next day
we took a bus to Burgos, stayed overnight and then went to Madrid for our
flight home. Exhausted but happy.
The big
question at the end of it was, would we go back and do more? I think all of us
agreed - a most definite yes. The plan now is to go back later this year for a
week of walking, then back again early next year to hopefully finish it off.
There's still 580 kilometres or so to get to Santiago and apparently you get a
certificate at the end, and I'm a sucker for a certificate. Remind to pack less
in my rucksack next time though.
Follow
David Whittam (34-year-old manchild, obsessed with Doctor Who, Buffy the
Vampire Slayer, videogames and comics) on Twitter: www.twitter.com/davidwhittam