Camino de Santiago Day 11: Belorado to Agés
Hangovers, and questions on the spiritual implications of falling off the wagon, like so many of your honest Catholic countrymen before you - yourself included
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I’m dying.
And it’s hot.
The one day I leave without breakfast – I wanted to deprive myself just to say I could do it, and I figured I’d get something in a few kilometres – was the one day I needed it.
And every village I’d pass would be shut – no premises open, nothing to be had to eat or drink
At one point Simona from Italy takes pity on me and gives me a sponge cake she had in her bag. I feel pathetically grateful, especially cos she points out to me that I drank too much last night.
It’s three full hours til I get to a place for lunch. And must eat it in the sun, a deserved fate.
I buy Simona a sponge cake to return the favour and she’s mortified. Well then you can just give it to the next pilgrim in need, I guess.
Whose fault is this? I blame the other guy, with his gregarious and sociable enthusiasm, his salubrious energy and his self-proclaimed fondness for a drop and a good time.
But I answered the question.
“Yes, I am Irish” There’s no escaping the fact.
The road opens you up and makes you confront who you are
And you were only dying to blow off some steam,
To let your hair down,
To relax into the trip.
No matter where you go, there you are. And you can’t deny that you’re not fond of a bit of craic. All this straight-laced seriousness is not becoming of you. Even if you claim to be on a serious spiritual mission. To want to walk closer to yourself. To understand the importance of solitude and detachment from other people and maintaining your sovereignty of spirit.
But,
The Camino doesn’t give what you want
It gives you what you need
But the Camino provides, nonetheless.
Or so they say.
“Provides ample opportunities for refreshments”, is it?
Maybe you just needed ten pints and a kick up the hole.
To loosen up a bit – your shoulders are a bit tense from carrying all that weight
Over the years I’ve often had truthful messages delivered by people who barely know me and speak just enough English to convey the message. Like messengers appearing in dreams, and then gone again. Who was that? Every now and then you meet someone – often just a passing interaction – who tells you what you really are. Or so I assume. Maybe it’s just a cultural thing, such bluntness. Or maybe they’re wrong.
In any case, I’ve been told by various very casual acquaintances – or passersby – in accents ranging from Vietnamese to Japanese to Spanish to French – that I look too serious, and that I shouldn’t take myself so seriously.
I would have thought it’s the last thing someone with an Irish accent would tell me. Though I was accused of having a philosophical conversation yesterday evening, over there in the corner, as the sun went down along with another round of beers
Maybe it’s a cultural thing.
But anyway, no need to beat yourself up too hard. It’s only a night on the piss, a shkelp of pints. Those Italians told you this morning – “you were drunk last night” – fuck, they know.
My cover of the mysterious silent type has been lifted. Why so serious?
I blame the other fella.
Though he didn’t drink them for you, did he?
You were only loving it.
My hangover lifts as I walk through the forest, a lengthy stretch of about 12km to San Juan de Ortega. There’s no shops or restaurants or villages, I’m worried I may die.
Funnily enough though the walk is pleasant and I enjoy every minute of it. Don’t write a day off too early, and don’t that what comes down can’t go back up.
Halfway through I come across a man with a van, and a wife – he’s set up a little table in the forest, in a little area littered with carved benches and tree stumps and totem poles. He has a table of fruit, tea, coffee and snacks – donativo, a common practice on the Camino: just donate what you can. He gives free watermelon to everyone walking by. He asks where I’m from. I figure it’s safe enough to tell him:
“Irelanda”
“Ah” he replies, without pausing for breath,
“A nation of alcoholics!”
So it goes.
He follows it up just as quick with
“Just like the Spanish!”
But not quick enough. He’s dead right. We really are, aren’t we?
A nation of alcoholics, wherever we go.
And the Camino provides.
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The first time it happened I wondered if I’d ruined the magic somewhat.
This wasn’t supposed to be about indulging. Is it possible to have a spiritual experience, or go on a journey, if you’re indulging in your most base impulses? If you treat yourself to a crisp, cold caña at the end of a hot day’s walk (or at the three quarter mark)? If you fall off the wagon every now and then, in good company? Sure they give you free wine at dinner, it’s cheaper than water for christ’s sake!
And didn’t Jesus turn water into wine himself.
How do you explain that one?
There’s a fair few people you meet on the road. Camino snobs. They seem to relish telling everyone how they’re doing the Camino, usually in a way that that assumes an air of greater authenticity than the average modern pilgrim. No guidebook. No deadline. No itinerary. Just go with the flow. “Oh this place really speaks to me, I’ll stop here.” “Slow down – what’s the rush?!” “I don’t book anywhere I just let the Camino provide”
And so on, and so forth.
They’re the sort of people you meet backpacking in some poverty-stricken part of the world who talk about how seeing “all these poor people did wonders for my empathy, ya know?”
Who prefer (to tell everyone that they prefer) “the smaller towns and villages to the big cities”, even though back home they wouldn’t be caught dead in a rural town or village, and brand all the locals there hicks.
“Why are you using your phone on the Camino. We’re in nature. We’re here to switch off from the world.”
Ara, ‘switch off’. I wish I could switch you off.
No guidebook, no deadline, no itinerary.
No sense of humour.
Sure just relax.
Have an oul drink there. Judge not lest ye be judged, as they say.
Have a cup of coffee. Smoke a cigarette. Stay in an albergue with a pool – wouldn’t it be great if they’d a hot tub?
Chill out and enjoy yourself.
I wasn’t immune to it myself, to be honest. I’d judge people for how they were going about things. You wouldn’t catch me dead sending on my backpack. Or using those bloody walking sticks. And definitely zipping the ends of my trousers onto my shorts!
Some people found their group, their kindred spirits early along the way. And were willing to do whatever it took to stay with them – even catching a bus to make up the ground if they’d gone on ahead. Breaking their attachments to home only to make new ones as soon as they got there. You wouldn’t catch me doing that. You wouldn’t catch me dead in a bus either!
Which way, modern pilgrim?
To take this all too seriously, or not seriously at all?
It’s never going to be perfect, your journey.
It’s a marathon not a sprint. There’s plenty of time to make mistakes, and to fix them. To take the evening off. To put the feet up on the bed and spend an hour buried your phone. Sometimes you’re just not in the mood for the world, or yourself.
To be a different person than a week ago, if that’s even what you want. Or just to say ‘piss off’ and do it whatever way you want.
The main thing is that you get there.
Sure we’ll just have another drink then, will we?
If you’ve done the Camino, are thinking of doing it, or are just interested in discussing the Camino or travel in general - then please leave a comment. I’d love to hear from you.