Puente la Reina - Estella - Los Arcos - Logrono

 Puente la Reina

I sent the last entry assuming that nothing else would happen after I went back to the hostel, but I have my first experience of some evangelicals on the road - a young American man with a vaguely surfer vibe who recounts to another pilgrim, at length, the ways in which he is shaping his life to be closer to Jesus. It was different in Lourdes. In Lourdes I enjoyed the peacefulness and the weight of history in the place. There was a dignity to it. This is a hard listen though (as I tap away like a coward on my bunk, pretending not to be eavesdropping). He’s wearing not just a t-shirt with a portrait of the Virgin Mary on - is it completely unreasonable to describe it as merch? - but a chain with multiple additional ones. 

Why does this get my back up? I know I’m in the wrong here. I shouldn’t have such a visceral reaction to an American talking about how to feel closer to Jesus (I typed out and deleted the world “drawl” which felt inflammatory but there’s something in the accent which raises my hackles). I’m not even going to hide behind the fact he might be a homophobe, or a misogynist, although he absolutely might be those things too. He could be a new age Free Christian who is all about the love bro, and I would still find overt expressions of faith a little sinister. Though I never felt this way about muslim friends, colleagues or students praying. 

By the end of this pilgrimage you hope I’ll have developed some less vague opinions on the nature of faith. And you know - I’m on their territory. They don’t come to Games Workshop and start talking shit about my hobbies. 

Here’s a question: why haven't slugs learned to stop crossing roads? Much of the day is spent on dirt paths on which slugs and snails have either expired or are otherwise hurtling (by their standards) to the vegetation on the other side before they run the risk of being cremated. What do they want? Where are they going?

Ants too. They’re always up to something. They’re at least more sun resistant but I am constantly stepping over narrow streams of them crossing from one side to the other. They’re colossal too. I don’t doubt that they could cause me substantial upset if I was stupid enough to put my foot in them. Grotesquely oversized heads and mandibles. If you’re picturing me typing these notes on my phone from the side of the path, thistles tickling my back, the early morning sun easing into the heat of the day, you would be correct. Look at them go. 

An Italian man in Cirauqui smokes a cigarette with his coffee. A local who looks a little like Tony Soprano greets a baby like an old friend. The church bells ring and everywhere is the cheeping of the sparrows. I don't have enough money for my orange juice but the lady gives it to me anyway. I chase the last pieces of pulp around the bottom of the glass with my finger. 

Is 6km a long way? Your sense of distance becomes warped. Of course it's a long way, especially with a big bag. But it's still only a quarter. Mustn't dilly dally. I caught up with a whole bunch of people so my pace must be pretty good. I hate worrying about getting a bed, and I don’t like being aware of how fast other people are going (or not). It’s their business, except it’s my business if they reach a bed before me. These are the kind of tedious mental conversations you have in these situations. A constantly cycling set of calculations, distances, average speed, how long is too long to stop for lunch?

Tony Soprano speaks fluent baby. He seems to be having a full blown conversation. Either that or the Spanish adult-baby lexicon is far more advanced than the narrow British suite of bloos and blahs. I don’t even know if he’s ordered a drink yet. He’s too busy with the baby. Perhaps they are in business together. 

Some hours later: part of the way up to Lorca is a collapsed highway, running parallel to a new one built over the top. Torn asphalt slopes and then disappears into the undergrowth. Wildflowers and willow trees fringe the path but none have managed yet to punch through the middle. A tiny little stall for pilgrims has been set out with water (good) and then various little baskets of cheap and stale looking crisps (very kind but I’m okay thankyou). It is a donativo. I have no money but there’s plenty of water. There are also some olives which look like they’ve been scraped from the bottom of the compost bin. It’s the thought that counts.

There are Jehovah’s Witnesses out and about on the trail. I suppose this is their hunting ground. Hundreds of Christian, Christian-adjacent or simply troubled people trudging past on a path to find meaning. I’m not tempted but I they must have a better hit rate than usual. 

Thinking about the Seminary American back in Puenta la Reina: I suppose the thing is, if you truly (and possibly involuntarily) do believe in not just the Christian God and the divinity of Jesus but all the accompanying dogma about heaven, hell, immortal souls and suchlike, it’d be more unreasonable not to dedicate your life to it. It seems natural to me to be a little all-or-nothing about it if you believe in the stakes. But then an atheist’s view isn’t worth much.

I make it to the municipal albergue in Estella in good time, despite worrying about the time. It never fills up in fact, and I sleep without anyone bunking above me. This is amazing news. The municipals are cheap and they aren’t bookable but they are also very municipal - I feel like being on a school trip. My room has at least 36 beds and I have to queue for a long time to pay my €8 (that’s right) fee. They’re also for pilgrims only, which is for the best. Early curfew and most people are out by about 6:30. Mine is heaving with young Americans, who must be a church or a college group (or both, though I don’t think they’re the seminary boys). I find out that one of them is called Brantley. We laugh at American names but I think it’s nice they’re inventing their own ones now. 

Estella

I must be knackered and my earplugs do the business because I sleep through everybody leaving the next morning. It’s a little sinister. I wake up to not just an empty dorm but the bed all made - the hospitaleros must have been in while I slept. I panic that I’m too close to check-out time but it is only 7:10 - outrageously late by pilgrim standards all the same. 

I check the route and see that I have two options - the main route, with several stops for food, water and coffee, and a much more scenic but awkward, isolated one, halfway up a mountain. My legs feel like they’re made of baked clay so I choose the main route. 

Up ahead on the path two stunning hoopoes fight - I didn’t get a picture so go and look them up. They seem like two halves of a bird have been stitched together - a zebra striped back half and then a tan head with an incredible fan display on their heads, tipped with black. These fans are out as big as they’ll go as they fight. It’s hard to pick a winner.

About ten minutes further on and a flash of colour on the ground catches my eye.  I see a moth in the middle of the road. This is a stupid place for a moth to be (I initially assume it is dead) so I nudge a finger under its face and it climbs compliantly on to the end of it. This is how you pick up moths. It has white spots on dark, velvety black forewings, bright yellow underwings, and a crimson body. It is a Cream Spot Tiger Moth. Some other pilgrims pass and I don’t know the Spanish for moth, so I hold it out and point at it. They nod encouragingly. 

The path is surprisingly empty of people. I walk for a long time through steep sandy tracks across a patch of woodland, climbing higher and higher. I break out into daylight again and the view knocks me flat. A whole panorama of the valley, studded with mountains, hills, valleys, the late morning sun climbing across them. On the far side an imposing ridge runs parallel to my path. 

If the view is this good, I think, I can’t imagine what it’s like on the alternative route. I keep walking, waiting to hit the village I was meant to be having coffee, but it never arrives. Oh well. Distance is deceptive. It’ll probably be around the next bend. 

A nice thing about walking is that you end up immersing yourself much more deeply in a region, not just a city. I am not just in Pamplona. I am in Navarra, and Navarra is stunning. Not quite as green and cool as the more northerly parts of the Spanish Basque country but neither is it the baking plains of further south. It is still ruggedly mountainous as we leave the base of the Pyrenees, and you will often see the cream-coloured stone of castles and monasteries overlooking the valleys which are thick with vineyards, hops, fields of wheat, and orchards. 

I’m starting to get very ready for my breakfast pastry now, so I haul out my phone to work out where the fuck I am. Obviously - obviously - I have managed to take the awkward alternative route. No wonder it is so glorious. It might be the most beautiful leg of the journey yet. I drink some water, eat a handful of peanuts, and crack on. A colossal glossy blue-black beetle saunters across the path. I give it a little poke - there’s no point in seeing an insect if you don’t get to poke it - and it spins around and waves its arse at me threateningly. I don’t think it’s a bombardier beetle, and they really are biological artillery, but I decide better safe than sorry and stand aside while it makes it to the other verge.  

Luquin is the next village. A friendly, sand-coloured not-quite-kitten greets me at the entrance, an ambassador waiting to clasp hands with a foreign dignitary. The café (thank god, there is a café) is full of people who walked the route on purpose - clever them - cooing over the views. I run into the Americans again and end up walking with a couple for the majority of the way. They’re only 19 and 21. Occasionally they’ll reference a TikTok meme but we are none of us free of sin. Caleb puts his headphones in and powers ahead at one point, leaving Stella, who is walking more slowly because she has terrible blisters. I lend her my stick and we talk about the Beatles and John Bonham.

This is by a distance the longest conversation I have had in…it surely can’t be a month, but it is. I’ve almost forgotten the sound of my own voice. Before I set out I wondered whether my solitariness would be revealed as an affectation - ah, shit, I actually hate being alone! - but no, self-knowledge wins out on this one. I’ve been fine. I look forward to having another nice chat this time next month. 

Los Arcos

A wedding is underway in Los Arcos, and the central square is full of well-dressed Spaniards and a chihuahua in a little tuxedo. I go to take a photo but it chooses that moment to strain out a turd which must have made up about a third of its bodyweight. There is widespread cheering and whooping from the assembled pilgrims and guests as the bride arrives.

The seminary boys are here (I learn from Stella that there’s a whole set of them). I wrote a whole cruel little observational scene while watching them with a beer but it seems undignified to keep it in, and I don’t want to turn into a horrible grotty little R Crumb sicko watching the world go by and despising it. 

They say they’re drinking cranberry juice. I write that down with my nasty little pen (phone keyboard). It turns out it's a joke. A little seminary joke. “Yeah it's cranberry juice. They have a weird word for it here”. It's actually quite funny. They're all very cool and easygoing in a distinctly American way. It’s sangria. I’m on the sangria too by this stage. It’s so hot that every table has been moved into the shade. A dog drinks from a water fountain with the assistance of a child. Do the seminary boys think babies are born stained with sin? 

Bourbon, bluegrass and the bible. That's what this guy's t-shirt says. Underneath it says “The Hillbilly Theists”. I look up the name and it's a Catholic school. They're Catholics. Of course they drink. Cranberry juice indeed. Idiot. 

Do the Hillbilly Theists think abortion is permitted when it will save the life of the mother?

I miss what one of them says at the start but I know what he says after: he's going to war. Maybe the military paid for the Seminary. Achingly American. This is the most weatherbeaten one. He looks the most military, there's no doubt. Leanly muscled arms in a vest. He already has the Helmand Tan. He'll fit right in.

I head back to the albergue for “dinner”, which is leftover salad which I eat on my top bunk with a cocktail stick I found in somebody else’s olives, plastic mattress squeaking under my sweaty legs. I share with two cheerful Frenchmen (only one of whom has any English and kindly lends me his charger) and one even more cheerful Dutchman, Derek, who has walked all the way from Holland. So many pilgrims I meet have come such extraordinary distances. Bordeaux, Holland, Le Puy. These ironclad seniors. They aren't fast but they are relentless. I hope I can manage the same at their age. 

The next day I find myself preoccupied once again with paths, and the crossing thereof. Beetles are always crossing them. Some of them all but sprint, others make more leisurely progress. Millipedes too, tiny baby toads, the odd caterpillar, constant streams of ants. Very frequently there seems to be an ongoing war between different ant clans. The two streams cross and they bite and grab at each other. The main cause of death seems to be beheading. The ants also feast on the insects which are crushed by pilgrim feet, or the immolated slugs and snails who lost the solar lottery. 

I wonder for a while whether there is something about paths which make them topographically attractive to insects, but the most likely answer is simply that this is happening everywhere, all the time. Every square foot of the land here is fizzing with activity. Hidden ant wars are conducted beneath the undergrowth as far as the eye stretches. Beetles are always going somewhere. The path just happens to be the only point where we come across it happening. 

I stop reading Austerlitz, but for appropriate reasons. The dreamlike, recursive texture of it keeps lulling me, and my eyes start to skip over, reading without understanding, just like at the moment of falling asleep. A book about fading memories, preoccupied with the things we build and the things we lose. Drifting away seems like a way of giving up which is true to the book. 

In Torres del Rio an American wants to tell a waitress to smile but lacks the Spanish, so uses his fingers to pull up his lips in an awful Joker rictus. Outstandingly unpleasant. Harassment transcends language. Something amuses him outside and he fires off a high pitched giggle as well. But here I am spying and recording it once again, so who is the real villain?

I arrive in Logroño for the evening with my horrible little pen and write some more awful things down. But they're for next time.