Day 3, June 10th, 2023
My night ends at 6:30. I haven't slept this well in a long time. Most of my fellow sleepers are still in bed, so I pack everything up as quietly as possible while sitting on my mattress. If I am staying in a hostel ever again, I will have to come up with a different strategy.
At the bar I have a greasy piece of toast with an egg for breakfast. The Spanish always use their oil, I just don't get it. Then I spot Anne at the next table, the French woman from yesterday, but I don't go over to her. It seems to me she prefers to be alone. I am not really in the mood for conversation either. But it is funny how familiar faces suddenly reappear somewhere else. Later, Anne is walking behind me, and we do end up chatting. I am surprised by her good English, because the French are usually rather reserved when it comes to foreign languages. She explains that she loves the English language and that's why she speaks it so well. We walk together for a while, chatting about this and that, and Anne gives me a little lesson in meditation. Then she stays behind to take photos, and I continue on my way. I realise that I really do prefer walking alone. Conversations distract me from my surroundings and, of course, from my thoughts. I am sure I will feel differently about this at some point, but for now that's how it is. Anne probably feels the same way, I believe that was also the real reason why she stayed behind.
Today's route takes me through beautiful landscapes again, but also along paved roads which are hardly used. Some sections involve steps and smooth stone slabs. The latter are not exactly slippery, but can only be traversed in very small steps.
Michael
Then another steep descent before the village of Zuriain. Ahead of me walks a burly man in his mid-fifties who walks rather clumsy. He's wearing a large black hat and thick glasses, and he is flailing his walking sticks around awkwardly.
»Take it easy«, I say as I overtake him.
»It’s not easy«, he replies grumpily and then mutters some German word at the end.
»Oh, you are German«, I state loudly, which he confirms with an arrogant »Of course.« Yes. Of course he is German, and a very typical one at that.
»In Germany you would need a permit for a path like this!« he grumbles, completely overwhelmed by the stone steps and the muddy ruts in the ground on this descent.
»Like for almost everything else in Germany,« I remark cynically.
»And that's a good thing!« he says.
That chap is just what I needed. I wish the grouch a buen camino and now get out of here.
»How far is it to Zuriain?« he calls after me.
»I don't know,« I reply, »I'm just walking.«
And now, let me go.
How beautiful it is to walk along the Rio Arga in the forest. I sit down on the bank for a moment and enjoy the silence. All I hear are the birds and the lapping of the water, until more pilgrims arrive. I can hear them from afar, either from the clacking of their walking sticks on the ground or because they chatter incessantly.
After a bend on the path, a bridge crosses the river to the village of Zuriain. Right next to this bridge, beautifully situated, is an inn with a garden café where I stop for a break. I filmed this briefly here:
I buy a tortilla sandwich to go, get my pass stamped and treat myself to a cold coke. As I sit there enjoying my break, the German arrives and uninvitedly flops panting onto the bench opposite my table.
»Oh,« I say, not particularly pleased, »you here too…«
»So, what's on the menu?« the German asks, probably assuming that I welcome his company.
»The usual. Tortilla and Bocadillos.«
He gets up, goes to the counter and comes back with a tray, and as he puts it down, clumsy as he already seemed to me, he knocks over his coffee, and all runs onto the tray and down his trousers.
»Hot?« I ask, slightly gleeful.
»Yes, of course, very hot, what do you think?« he replies irritably and begins frantically dabbing his trousers.
»Wait,« I say, »I'll get you another coffee.«
I almost feel sorry for the poor soul because of the way he is. When I return to the table after yet another endless queue at the counter, the German is munching on his bocadillo and doesn't say a word when I put his coffee in front of him. Oh, you're welcome, I mutter to myself as he starts complaining about the path again. He needed a taxi yesterday, he says, the conditions are outrageous with so many people always walking this way, this really needs to be improved, and all that. I don't respond and just keep my thoughts to myself. The grouch, whose name by the way is Michael and who is from Frankfurt, then buys himself a second bocadillo and seems to want to stay a while longer. Fine, I have had enough for today. I bet he will take a taxi to the airport tomorrow at the latest, because the road is an absolute disgrace. And I can tell you right now, I won't see Michael again.
My upper bum muscle on the right side has been hurting since this morning. It stings with every step and is getting worse. It is probably from the unfamiliar weight of the backpack on my hips. Or maybe it comes from an awkward twist the day before yesterday when I was taking a panoramic photo in the Pyrenees. I felt a short sharp pain then, as if I had pulled a muscle. I have to sit down every now and then, and sometimes I think I can't walk any further, the pain is so intense. In any case I have to make it to the next village; if necessary, I can get a bed in a hostel there.
But when I arrive in Villava, I just want to run away. The place feels so eerie! It looks like the deepest recesses of the Eastern Bloc, I am not staying here under any circumstances. Maybe it is a sign, meant to be this way, so I grit my teeth and keep walking.
I am frustrated when I have to sit down on a wall again in the next village. The pain is now almost unbearable. There are still five kilometres to Pamplona, somehow I have to make it, even if I arrive on all fours. And in any case, I will have to take a rest day there, otherwise I can forget about the Camino de Santiago in a few days.
I hobble on. The infrastructure changes noticeably as I get closer to the city. The path now leads along busy roads, it is hot, dusty and noisy. I am moving at what feels like a snail's pace, so pilgrims who overtake me ask if I am okay and if I needed help.
Pamplona
After hours of agony, I spot a fortress. I am so close to my destination and I don't even know it. I expect to find a church or something like a castle courtyard behind the city walls, through which the path would then continue. Instead, the old town of Pamplona opens up before me. The moment I walk through the Frankish Gate, the Puerta Fráncia, I am right in the thick of things. I am surrounded by bars, shops, cafes and crowds of celebrating people. I hadn't expected this at all. It feels like the entire population of Navarre is milling about in the narrow streets of Pamplona's old town, and I am limping through the throng, not knowing where to even go. Camping here is obviously out of the question, so I head for the first large hostel I find. But there is a sign: »Sorry, we are full« One of their people suggests I should try the refuge Jesús y María they might still have room for me. The second one left, the first one right, and then I would be there, he says. I am praying silently that they do have a bed for me available, I just can't take any more.
Luck is on my side - I have got one of only five free beds left at Jesus and Mary's! I can stay for two nights as well, but I have to check out tomorrow morning and then come back at noon when the hostel reopens.
Jesús y María is a municipal hostel. The building was constructed in 1782 as a church and priestly school. Today a hundred bunk beds stand side-by-side in partitioned places on two floors. I get to sleep on the first floor today, and of course, I get the top bunk again, which is barely ten centimetres away from another bunk. I am really curious to see who my immediate neighbour will be. Above me, the vaulted ceiling is at least ten meters high. Every tiny sound echoes as is typical in a cathedral. A extraordinary place to sleep.
The shower is another challenge today. It is hard for me to get organised when there is only one hook in the cubicle to hang my clothes, toiletries, towel, and clean clothes. And since I am not able to think straight anymore, I accidentally forget to take off my bra and, on top of that - and I just can't understand it - to take off my hat! How did I take off my shirt while I was still wearing my floppy hat? I must have put it back on while I was trying to sort myself since I don't have enough hands. And now I am here in that shower wearing my bra and my floppy hat, pressed close to the wall because the water pressure is so weak that the jet doesn't reach any further.
I am not in a good mood today as I walk through the old town. I would like to find somewhere to relax with a beer and just be happy that I am here. I am also hungry, but I can't imagine to eat bocadillos and tortillas and tapas, or Pintxos, as they are called around here, anymore. I want something to eat that tastes good and fills me up.
My phone rings, it is Aki and Andrew. They met up on the trail and are now sixteen kilometres behind me in Larisson. They both want to walk more than sixteen kilometres tomorrow and therefore won't be staying in Pamplona. What a shame. I wish they were with me right now.
Finally I go to Burger King for a whopper and some chips, because that is the only food I can manage. I assume I will feel better afterward, but I don't. Everything hurts so much. Because of my strained Musculus gluteus maximus, let me clearly call it »arse«, and because of the resulting protective posture while walking, I now also have signs of blisters on my feet. And speaking of my feet, I should not forget to mention that they are also very swollen, with the soles of my feet being extremely painful, and the latter also applies to my calves and shoulders. Full Stop.
I limp back to the hostel and lie down on the bed. But first I have to climb up and I don't know how! Pain aside, every time I step up the ladder, the bed tilts slightly forward and slides around. I have to get down every now and then though, because up there is nothing where I can place my things. My rucksack is on down the floor. I am sure this will go wrong one time and I will knock the whole bunk bed over.
The doors at Jesus y Maria are locked at 10 p.m. Anyone who hasn't returned by then will have to spend the night outside. Just before ten my bunkmate arrives, the one who will be sleeping right next to me: a disgusting Italian man around fifty with a deep, growling voice. He reeks of cigarettes, alcohol, and everything else. Then he farts and laughs viciously with his three friends in the surrounding beds, who are no less unpleasant and noisy. I am shocked. These are not pilgrims, are they? I pretend to be asleep so I don't have to react. I don't even see the person below me. I only realise someone is there because the bed shakes severely with every movement. I think this is truly an extreme experience.
Distance: 24 km / Steps: 38631