Month: October 2018

It was very hard to start moving this morning. Inner life affects outer life. The atmosphere in that dorm was poison. None of us slept. The Brazilian zealot was banging around from about 5am. We got kicked out onto the wet streets of Astorga at 8 prompt as usual. The day was miserable – colder and wetter than ever. I had no intention of going anywhere for a while so I sat heavily in a chocolateria drinking coffee, mechanically eating some of the best truffles I’ve ever had,  struggling to get motivated.

It’s beautiful, Astorga, not least for the ubiquitous artisan chocolate. There’s an early Gaudi palace there and a gorgeous cathedral. It reeks of history. I didn’t give a fuck. I was just waiting until ten for the shop to open so I could buy some bloody damn gloves and a stupid bastard rainproof that actually protects from the rain grumble grumble grumble.

I couldn’t do it. I had to move or I was going to book an Airbnb, sack the day off completely and just lie complaining in my misery. “Better than getting a cold,” I was telling myself. So I just started walking, almost by habit.

Our minds are so powerful. My shoulder was hurting, I told myself. My feet were worse than usual. “Maybe I should stop and rest a day, or I’ll injure my back,” I said. Nope. One foot in front of the other. Through the rain. And before long it wasn’t so bad. Maybe it was even strangely beautiful. Yeah, actually it was beautiful. Oh look, deer! I’m lucky to be alive.

Astorga peeled away and little towns followed after. There was nothing wrong with my shoulder after all. My rainproof, on the other hand… my rainproof is atrocious. It’s a “jack in a pack” that I bought for Glastonbury Festival fifteen years ago. After a few hours of walking the inside is wetter than the outside because it doesn’t breathe at all. I reversed it halfway through the day. I hate it. But I think I’m going to put up with it because it’s only about ten days to Santiago now and I’ve got better things to spend my money on, like food. Or, it seems, random stones. A woman I didn’t know thanked me on the trail for converting negative energy from the fascist last night. Almost immediately thereafter, some grifter was trying to sell gemstones to pilgrims and he had a fire agate for a tenner. It seemed the right thing at the time. I barely broke my stride. He must’ve thought all his Christmases has come at once.

A friend of mine tipped me off about a good albergue in Rabanal, run by the confraternity of Saint James and staffed by British volunteers. I figured it was worth missioning to, as it’s at the base of the mountain and a good sleep will help launch me up and over into Galicia tomorrow. I arrived there completely soaking, having given up entirely on the rainproof and tied it around my waist just before a full downpour. Now I’m cocooned in my sleeping bag, under a blanket, and I could happily stay here all night. There’s a German woman in the bunk below me who doesn’t appear to be slavishly following any hateful ideologies. In twenty minutes time the hospitaliers are going to serve us all tea and biscuits. Being English is their USP – it’s the only English albergue on the Camino. They’re clearly going for it. I hope it’ll come in fine bone china with custard creams.

Sometimes you just have to get over yourself. That was today. Tomorrow I’m going over a mountain and I bet it won’t be half as hard as walking down a path was this morning.

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The day ended with everyone having a singsong with guitars. It was like being at university in the early seventies, if your feet hurt and you’d lost the acid.

The guy in the bunk below me is from Brazil. When I arrive in the dorm he is in full flow with a French woman about how the Brazilian election result is a good thing. His argument revolves around nearby Venezuela being socialist and people starving on the streets. He starts to include me in this conversation as I take my clothes off. “What do you think of when you think of Brazil?” and he throws a gesture and look to me. I immediately reply “Poverty, overcrowding and crime,” but he’s not listening. “Beaches,” he says, “Big hotels and fucking beaches and food but it’s not like that…” I am not equipped to comment, knowing next to nothing about Brazilian politics or Brazil but he is passionate here, and he’s not a very listeny person right now. His argument is inherited but it’s vehement – the fury of the convert. At one point he plays us an audio clip of someone else talking. The speaker we listen to repeatedly uses the phrase “I tell you.” His argument is incoherent but angry and mostly aiming to convince us that fascists aren’t fascists, we are using the wrong language, we should stop calling each other names and warm up the vats and get dissolving. He points at his phone. “That is what I think,” he says proudly about these nonspecific utterances made by someone that isn’t him. The more he shows me and the more he talks the more I am concerned by the simplicity of his thinking. He’s an ant. He’ll do what he’s told by the queen. “There is overcrowding and crime,” he informs us. I cut off. “I’m sure these guys will help with the overcrowding,” I assure him mildly, and go and have a shower.

Normally I am careful not to roll over too violently when I’m sleeping on the top bunk, out of respect for the person below me. I’ll sleep freely tonight.

I’m in Astorga.

I haven’t seen the town properly because I got here quite late and it gets dark earlier now. I’ll have a potter around tomorrow when it’s not Monday and things are open. Today was glorious but cold. The wind is relentless and icy. All the blood is tingling in my face. I had four layers under my windproof and was soaked when I took them off during that Brazilian harangue. I forget I’m on a Catholic pilgrimage sometimes. It was beautiful despite the wind. Big skies, maybe made more lovely by the fact they were defined by clouds.

I’m bumping up against many of the same people again and again now, and it’s pleasantly familiar.

Last night I ate with the odd guys. They were pleasant. I’m not in a pie. They’re odd towards me because I’m not doing it right in their eyes. They do this every year and it’s a social exercise for them. They do it to make friends. “Why have you taken so long to eat with us?” I don’t even know how to answer that. I just haven’t.

I get on with people even if I don’t see eye to eye with them on this route. I’m not here to make friends, even if Luisa was a breath of fresh air. I often reject unthoughtful behaviour, even if personally I think too much for my own good. Faith though – faith is an act of heroic thoughtlessness. I respect faith and people of faith for that reason – it’s hard, particularly in this environment.

The arguments against specificity in belief structure are eloquent, compelling, unbreakable and extremely boring. It’s why, in my pantheistic fervour, I practice a Buddhism that rejected idols and priesthoods and rebranded as a non-hierarchical lay-society. It fits me. It’s a rebel faith with a history that fits my priorities. And I can clean stones in the moon and dabble in shamanism without anyone telling me I’m a heretic. And you’re welcome to whatever faith structure you like when you’re around me. I’ll never tell you you’re wrong because nobody can because we are all right and wrong simultaneously.

My  concern with this stone cathedral faith is that it puts the answer outside of you. That’s all. I’ve met plenty of extremely thoughtful, intelligent and wide angle people with strong faith in this monolith. But there are also – by necessity – a lot of unthinking obedient ants. The guy in the pulpit talks to the guy in the sky. He tells you which ants are good and which are bad. None of them are us. Like the guy on the internet – “I tell you.” So off we chitter to do the bidding of the queen ant.

It’s the guy with the loudest voice, the guy with the best connections, the guy with the money or the position. It’s not you. Not in this faith. I’m to blame. I’m not worthy. Lord. Father. Senõr.

I’ve started to chant to the path now. Hoping I can resonate it a little bit kinder. I’ll try to web good energy to the guy below me tonight. It’s getting messy in the world. Even when I get the local London news someone has punched a woman on a train for speaking Spanish into her phone. If the assailant was here he’d be asking for chips, in English, in capital letters. It’s abject. But there’s nowhere to move to because the world is fucked. I remember the barman in Dubrovnik again, two weeks before the Brexit vote. “Ahh you’re English. Terrible international responsibility.”

Despite intentions, I ate shitloads of meat in Léon. Meat and coleslaw.

When I ordered an extra side of slaw he said “You already get slaw with your meat.” I said “Yes but I want to wash the cream off and pretend it’s fresh cabbage,” and burst out crying. The waiter immediately injected me with bull’s blood to cure my seditious tendencies towards vegetarianism. (Please refer to the legal catch-all that says this blog is fiction). 

I went to bed early and heavy. I’m tired now. Bad food, bad sleep. Germs. Last night in the ancient city of Léon everyone in the town gathered beneath my window to serenade me with drunken howling. What little sleep I managed came with anxious dreams. I have become convinced that my old nemesis the root canal is making overtures before going into full red hot hellfire and damnation mode again. Before I finally got it fixed by a specialist it would’ve killed me twice by blood poisoning if there were no antibiotics in the world, and I’ve been wondering when it was going to return. It’s on the list of the worst familiar things that might happen on this walk, right up there with norivirus which happened, so now I’m expecting it. I almost didn’t leave Léon this morning. “If it flares up like it feels it might then I’ll need to be in a city to get the antibiotics.” I thought. But then I figured that maybe it’s just me getting in the way of myself again.

So that’s my thought for today: “Yes but what if…”

Thank God I left Léon instead of waiting to see if the tooth started exploding. I had to. I’d have been an idiot not to walk because of a possibility. It’s Spain anyway so literally everything is closed until Tuesday. I’d just be dying on the steps of a shut clinic in Léon if it did flare up while people looked at me like I was mad for being sick on a Monday. “What you doing? It’s siesta?” But this is a pattern I observe in myself and others all the time. “Yes but what if…” It’s another insidious poison, like that dental abscess that probably burrowed pretty close to my brain all those years ago and will certainly make my skull into interesting viewing down the line. “It’ll only cost about £1000 if you go private”, said one well paid dentist in a dismissive tone. He couldn’t understand why I’d wait two years and have two courses of antibiotics waiting for an NHS dentist to do it. I tried to teach him the distance between the word “only” and my earning capacity at the time vs £1000. He couldn’t quite get it. As if 1k was something he accidentally tripped on every Friday. What if it were?

“I want to write a one man show about the things I’ve learnt and take it to Edinburgh.” “Yes but what if you run out of money?” “Best not write the show then.”

“I like that person. I’m going to ask them on a date.” “Yes but what if you can’t pick up the tab?” “Best not ask her on a date then.”

“I want to put a shower into my bathroom now I’ve actually got a bit of cash in the coffers.” “Yes but what if you need an emergency root canal and you’ve spent it all on a shower?” “Best not have the shower put in then.”

I’ve been paralysing action through something I frame as caution because I’ve been so used to below the scale low earning. It’s not caution though. It’s blockage.

I dislike people who display fear in their work in my profession. I like people who are willing to jump in with both feet and take an open risk. Therefore I need to live like I act. Even to live like I blog, now. I write this stuff every day. Sometimes it’s bland. But the constant inevitable process means that there are damonds. People jump me from time to time unexpectedly with messages about things that have landed for them. (Thanks – seriously.) Because different things land with different people. And creatives know how hard it is just to generate basic content. I make something every day no matter what. I was second guessing this for ages. But I’m calm now.

“Yes, but what if someone is upset or trolls me or fundamentally disagrees or tells me they almost sued me?”  “Fuck it. I’ll work that out if/when it happens.”

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Today was like walking in France again. Nobody but me. I surprised some deer. I flanked a big herd of sheep for ages, close enough to touch. I baaed along with them until I saw the farmer with 2 dogs and a shotgun and didn’t want to be mistaken.

The country was big, beautiful and empty, and nature was active and alert in this people free zone. Birds of prey stooped to my right. Light shot through clouds above me. Snow is coming. I am alone again, reluctant to pull back into my solitude, but knowing it’s the right choice. All I really want is a salad. But in the meantime, I’m learning things about myself.

I’m off to dinner soon with the creepy Danish guy. He is one of the most uncomfortable human beings I’ve met on this trip. So I’m going to break bread with him to see what he’s about because we’ve been flanking each other for days. His silent Russian friend snatched a stealthy photo of me when I was sitting alone  He hadn’t switched off the shutter noise thankfully so not a professional creep but the guys are seriously odd. I caught him snapping me and immediately sat with him. “Hi, we should get a photo together to send to our friends.” I said. He pretended not to understand. Because eeeeeek.

They might chop me up into a pie, these two  unusual men But I’m going to break bread with them.

“Last day Meseta,” Han says to me. It’s the first sentence (of sorts) that anyone has uttered to me all morning. Until then we’ve all just been involved with our own shit. I repeat it verbatim to him with added exclamation mark. We high five. Han and I have roughly coincided on this journey since Azqueta. He walks slower than me but I keep stopping to do stuff like chanting or coffee or feet and he rarely stops. I usually pass him three times in the day. He’s 65, South Korean, speaks little English but is extremely happy to try. We mix bowing with handshakes when we see each other. His bow is beautiful and so unusual and meant. I try to echo it. If one of us gets to the Albergue before the other, we always review it when the other arrives, and move on if it doesn’t get the seal of approval. Last night before lights out (10) he unexpectedly translated for me when I smiled and waved at the young Korean couple from the night before and said, whilst smiling and nodding, knowing they speak no English: “You’re going to talk all night again aren’t you?” They looked shocked when he translated but there was method in it. We all slept well last night. And they were still walking hand in hand today. Poppets.

But there we are, Han and I. Sitting in the morning in the Albergue, waiting for a rain shower to stop. It’s 8am and it’s dark outside. I’d usually have left by now although I’ve slowed down a bit since Carrión.

They kick you out early, these Albergues. It’s worth mentioning for anyone considering this. After a fitful night of heat feet and gurgles a hand snakes in through the door at 7am prompt and snaps on the light. Horrible strip lights as often as not. We all shake off our hellish dreams and attempt to carve out an inch of personal space in which to put our pants on.

Nobody is quick in the morning because all of us are hurting. But none of us have very much stuff, so we totter around groaning and shoving things instinctively into the right compartments like characters in some “Zombie Packing” game that probably already exists FTP for Iphone with microtransactions.

This rain that Han and I are hoping will stop – it heralds the beginning of a fun new game in RL called “Winter”.

When I started trudging it was September. Those blissful beautiful Pyrenean days. It’ll be November before long and we are about to go up to 1,400 metres. God knows what the weather’s like in Galicia, but here in Castille it’s windy and there’s suddenly a chill. I’ve had very little use out of my thermals but I’m about to. Snow really is coming. I’m less happy mooching around in my stripy espadrilles in this weather. Luisa and I parted ways because she wanted to go shopping for a wooly jumper. I’ll see her again I reckon. There’s only one path. Plus we shared numbers despite my inner hermit barking with laughter. She’s good company. And we are all going to get colder very very soon.

—

Coming down into Leon this afternoon was a lovely experience, partly because it meant the end of the Meseta and partly because it’s an attractive town to walk into.

I booked a cheap Airbnb so I’ve got a spare room pretty centrally located and run by a Catholic chap who is definitely straight and keeps a gorgeous flat with lots of beautiful pictures of topless Jesus, helping us remember how we love God. Despite having a lovely room in an interesting central location, the first thing I’ve done is to take all my clothes to the laundrette again. That’s the downside of packing light. Worth the effort though, despite the fact my shoulders are a bit better than they were a month ago. Once they’ve dried I’m going to try to do some cold-foot tourism and then oh God oh God, for a vegetable curry!! Fat chance.

I’ll take advantage of the fact I’m in a metropolis to find food that isn’t meat and meat with meat and if I can’t find that just something – anything – spicy with a vegetable on it. And no, ten year old Al, no. Potatoes are definitely not vegetables.

“I don’t know, mate. I’m starting to lose my motivation,” one guy said to me. He’s been going as long as I have. “I don’t know why I’m doing it anymore.”

“I’d romanticised it,” said another person. “Everybody just talks about the good bits when they come back. I hadn’t expected this.”

Expectations.

I’ve been walking with Luisa again, talking about expectations. Expectations in life. Expectations in love. The way we build things up to be one thing and then they look like something else and we can’t handle it. While we are talking we stop and unsling packs. The movement is unthought and mechanical. She sits and her boots and socks come off. “Another one,” she says neutrally as she sterilises a needle and sews a thread through a new blister on her sole. She leaves the thread in and bandages it.

If the thread is in, the blister can’t seal so it doesn’t hurt as much. Both of her soles are threaded now. “That’s much better,” she says now she has string sewn through a part of her body. She means it as well. And the packs are back on in a long practiced gesture, and we’re off. “I want to go on Camino?” “Why?” “I fancy getting so used to sticking needles in my own foot that I do it automatically.” Said nobody ever.

I wasn’t expecting much more than a long walk. I’ve read no literature on this and seen no films. I’ve spoken to a couple of people about it. The usual advice I get just covers packing. Outside of that “Do it or don’t do it.” To that I would add “Careful drinking the water on the Meseta.” I knew I’d have to talk to my shadow. I know I’m being chased by the devil.  Even the shit like that vomiting sickness – it was important for my journey. I need to be better at parenting myself. Considering I was feverish and spewious, I did a good job in that cold Filipino convent.

There’s time to think about loads on this walk, and to filter tons of my shit. 

I’ve found some company at the moment and it’s making sense to share this part of the journey with someone because we share some of the same internal shit. Plus it’s good to have a companion in the tail end of this plateau. We huddle together against it. This place fucks with your head, with distance and with time. We may go our separate ways again after Léon but after well over two weeks of self imposed solitary it’s good to bounce thoughts off someone who gets the way my mind works.

“I don’t like this town,” she says of Reliegos moments after I’ve had that instinct. “There’s something funny about it.” I agree. I later find out that it’s the most recent place in Spain to get hit by a meteor. ALIENS? Probably not. But yeah, our crazy instincts align, and she thinks and talks in terms of energy like I do. “That guy had a really dark energy,” she comments about a guy who I have also thought has a really dark energy. If she can make broad statements from intuition that align with my broad intuitions then I can bounce some of my crazy shit off her and see what colour she thinks it is. That’s fab. She’s fab.

People avoid the Meseta or rent a bike to ride to Léon but there’s a strange beauty in this death-like monotony, and it gives you time to think. The mountains we will climb soon are ominous looming silhouettes visible against the skyline. Beautiful and threatening.

Snow is coming, we are told darkly. There are very few other people walking here on this table. One thing I know is that I relish the peace and the space. I can choose who I communicate with. I’ve seen very few other pilgrims.

We are still well over 200km from Santiago. Soon shiny people with immaculate boots will start. For now I’m happy to force my painful feet in tandem with a few other stubborn souls. To swallow a few literal flies and sick out swarms and swarms of metaphorical ones.

Like the old lady that swallowed a fly, the meseta has upgraded from flies to spiders. The hay has recently been baled, and we are walking downwind of empty fields which once stood tall. Millions of spiders that used to live in the hay have lost their home. They’re ballooning, looking for pastures new. Humans are not the first creatures to learn to fly by artifice. The spiders had thousands of years on us. They make a little hang-glider of silk and blow until they hit something. They can get a long long way if they catch the right wind. They might hit a tree or a bush, or they might hit a wandering Al. Their webs are strong and persistent and sticky.

The good news is that they’ve eaten a lot of the flies. So now I’m getting webs all over me as I walk instead. Spiders are trailing around my hat, dangling off the visor before my eyes somehow avoiding my hand as I attempt to detach them. They’re using me as a free ride or working out if I’m a good tree to live on forever.

If you have a phobia of insects, do this walk. There’s nothing like exposure to help with these irrational phobias. But it’s ridiculous when I start to think about it.

Here we are on this ancient route, this ancient rite. Here we are, millions of pilgrims over centuries, walking towards ourselves. These big skies, these high mountains, these long days walking on tired feet with sickening bodies. Here we all are and “The thing I’m most worried about is bed bugs”. “The flies keep getting in my mouth.” What is it about the tiny things? The King, sitting on his throne of gold, loved by all and yet somehow he just can’t scratch the itch in the small of his back… It’s the beginning of a story that ends with a scratched back and a destroyed Kingdom.

I’m on this Camino, I have the means and the time to do this trail, my body is capable, my mind is strengthening. All around me are fascinating people from all nations walking the same route. I’ve climbed every mountain, forded every stream, followed every river. And yet today I almost made myself sick from heat because I didn’t want to fill my water from a fuente. And why? Because I’m worried about something that is so small that it’s impossible to even fucking see it. A virus. That I’ve already had now anyway. Like maybe there’ll be another one? No. Bums!! I’m just looking for reasons to make myself uncomfortable.

This is what we do all the time. We forget the shape of our happiness because we’re looking at the smudge. When I received Gohonzon as a Nichiren Buddhist they coincidentally gave me a scroll that has a tiny smudge on it. When I chant to it my eyes are more frequently on the smudge than on any other part of the scroll. That’s me. My mind. My predilections. We get put up in a suite at the Ritz and go nuts because there’s no hairdryer. Someone gives us a free steak and we send it back because it’s overdone. Or we live in a beautiful place, get the chance to do beautiful work with beautiful people but feel incomplete because we’ve never auditioned for any of the regional theatres let alone a place like the RSC or the National. Bums! Oh why can’t I get an audition with so and so and x and y I say, knowing already that I’m going to do a beautiful show in a month with people I love. “I’ve got a smudge on my scroll.” When I get back to London I’m getting the damn thing changed at Taplow Court because if you don’t like something, change it or shut the fuck up.

I’ve walked with Luisa today. First time I walked with someone for about 20 days, but the meseta is stark. We’ve both been sick recently and we are neither of us as recovered as we are pretending. Company is good. We met last night and she mentioned she had wanted to get a tarot reading in Estella but it was closed. Perfect perfect opportunity to reduce the unnecessary item count to 0. Moments later there’s me triumphantly brandishing my cards and Luisa completely taking it in her stride. That sort of thing literally happens all the time on this route. Thousands of years of hopes and dreams and prayers and resonance to the universe. Even the meseta, this hard place, carries a magic. We both carry amulet stones which we washed in the full moon. Another hippy on the Camino! Who would’ve thought it? Nice to have some company.

I’m back on the meseta. All around me people I’ve met are getting sick. “It’s definitely not the fountains,” say lots of people on the forums. “It’s you filthy humans with your filthy ways. Spanish water is fine.” And yet it always seems to happen in this area at this time. I blame the clams. They’re trying to take over. But seriously, these fountains…

I’ve seen people give their dogs drink from them. They joyfully lick all around the tap. “Get the water boy!” Then some pilgrim fills their flask. I doubt it’s dog slobber though. If it’s the fountains I suspect they’re loosely treated groundwater and not treated as effectively as the tapwater here. It could be a norivirus that just happens to always hit this area at this time, as first respondents on the forums will be quick and aggressive to attest. But personally, and call it superstition, don’t drink from the fountains on the meseta. Better safe than sorry, eh?

The meseta is a stark and extensive high altitude plateau that runs most of the way from Burgos to Leon. I’ll be walking this road a few more days yet. There is very little to either side. Just fields or scrub. The flies are persistent. I am not the only pilgrim to have found a way to cover my face entirely while walking. I look like I’m about to kill you, but it’s that or spit out a fly out every few seconds.

As I sit here in my sarong, I have my hand over my wine glass because the fuckers are literally all over me. And I’m having to make myself okay with that because it’s that or sit inside on a lovely evening. They go with the territory.

They call this “The mind section”. It’s hard, hot and not known to be beautiful. It’s a high altitude plateau swimming with flies and sickness. A lot of people skip it for that reason. They get a bus from Burgos to Leon, and who’s to blame them. I’m up for it though. I’ve got shit to do.

After a blissful day of rest yesterday I walked for the first time since France without compeed or bandages. After I stopped I did not end up flat out on a bottom bunk in the Albergue as many have. My body has got this now. Nick is nothing but a hard bit of skin. He is unchanged today. I know my limbs are functioning well. I’m fit. Physically I feel like I’ve come out of a cocoon. I feel so much more connected with my body and my breath than I did a month ago. So now I can smash out the miles on my own terms and look at the inside of my head as I go. There’s a lot going on in that head. Once that part of the cocoon is broken then some sort of mad wonderful butterfly can emerge and startle you all. But first it’s a few more days of flies and heat as I come to terms with all the conflicting voices and influences, and tease out what is really important to this bundle of flesh, while trying not to eat too many flies or catch another hideous vomiting nightmare disease of death. In a convent.

Whatever happens to me it can’t be as bad as what happened to the sister in the convent who helped me move rooms. The Filipino sisters of Santa Maria de Belén are a very devout, robust and practical order. They are the stick flavour of nun, not the carrot flavour. But she happened to be on the corridor while I was having a particularly glorious noisy bout, simultaneously, through both ends. I could reach the sink sitting down thank God. Once it was done I collapsed where I was, exhausted and unusually silent. The silence worried her. She came to check on me. The cubicle door was open. I fear she saw more than she bargained for. The poor thing is likely still flagellating herself. Once she’s done with the hair shirts she’ll at least have a good story.

“The Camino brings what you need.” That’s what they say. So I’m trying to work out for what reason I needed to be turned into a double ended human water pump/hosepipe system for 9 hours.

I thought it was the clams. It stands to reason. It’ll be another 15 days walk before I see the sea and they were cooked in a rush by microwave. There were so many closed clams in the soup that I abandoned it as potentially unsafe 4 spoonfuls in. Too late. 40 minutes later, just as I get back to the convent, very familiar symptoms start. I know where this is going. Last time it was moules mariniéres in Jersey. The time before, God help me, spicy green curry mussels at Belgo. Nothing can ever be that bad. I get parenting myself immediately before symptoms get too pressing.

I try to look for the nuns. I need to move or I’ll keep everyone else awake all night. Also my room is a long way from the bathroom. That won’t do. They think I’m complaining about the bed at first. Eventually mid conversation I have to excuse myself to give them an auditory demonstration. Then she immediately moves me to a room opposite a little bathroom with a sink inside. Perfect. A fever is starting, and the convent is unheated. It’s cold. My temperature is all over the place.

At one point there’s a solid hour or two of constant horrorshow exorcism style madness. Where does all the water come from? My feet and legs are tired anyway after the longest walk I’ve had for a while. At one point I keel over slowly like a toppled Ent on the way from my room and pass out just for a moment. I wake thankfully still clean and relatively undamaged, but with no idea who I am or where. It comes back quickly because it has to. My fever is higher than I thought, I comment to myself, probably out loud. I don’t really remember fever the other times I’ve had shellfish poisoning. “Screw you, clams,” I mumble a few times through mounting delirium.

I’m in a waking fever dream where I just have to get over the hill to Roncesvalles to get away from the clams. They’re in the fog. Every time I try to drink my body rejects the water, but logically I know I need water badly so I keep trying. I wash my face and hands and arms in the sink. Maybe some water will get in through the skin I think, but it makes me cold. I was just hot. Now I’m shivering. The clams are waiting.

The hours tick by, uncomfortable and repetitive and endless. Piggypillow comes into play as I feverishly clutch his stupid friendly pink trotters. “We’ll show those stupid clams,” he whispers.

Piggypillow providing companionship in adversity brings the unnecessary object count down to just 1. Good old piggy pillow. 

I’m tired so I’m hugging him to help me stay lying on my side rather than my back. Things are happening too quickly for safe sleep. “Oh Al, yeah he drowned in spew in a Filipino convent in Spain.” Nope. Not thanks to piggypillow.

At 4.30am I successfully drink 3 mouthfuls of water and keep it down. That feels like a huge victory. At 5.30 I manage half a flask of water with no repercussions. “That showed those clams, piggypillow.” I pass out on my side for an hour and a half. Then I get up for breakfast and because we have to leave at 8. Bread. Banana. A slow cup of camomile tea that one of the nuns gets specially. It all stays down.

Donal, another pilgrim, is grabbing breakfast too. “You were puking last night weren’t you?” he asks. “Yes I was. And more. All night. Bad clams.” “No mate it’s a disease. Happened to me two days ago. Something about this area and the change of seasons. Take a day of rest, and you’ll be right as rain.” I’m resistant. I’ve already decided it’s the clams. “Seriously,” he continues. “I even phoned the restaurant I’d eaten at so they didn’t do it to anyone else. Then I met an old guy – he’d had to go to hospital. I mean I know how these rumours spread on the Camino, but apparently the doctor said to the old guy that it happens every year at this time in this area. Take some rest.”

So now I’m not sure. I’m maybe contagious, maybe not. I still want to blame the clams. Too much of a coincidence surely. Those damn bivalves…

I throw on my pack and walk to the monastery nearby. All the pilgrims are checking out as I’m checking in. I’ve booked a room of my own for a day down. I’m just waiting for them to sort the room when one of the pilgrims says to another “I’m not walking today. I had terrible food poisoning all night last night.” “Where did you eat?” I ask her immediately. “I didn’t eat last night. I was already too sick. It must’ve been something at lunch.” I tell her about Donal. Everybody goes and washes their hands.

So logically it’s norivirus. Seems the clams might have been innocent parties here all along. Stupid Clams. I’ll have to work hard to forgive their little clammy faces. If you’ve invested a lot of blame on something it’s hard to unpick that blame. But I get the sense the clams might have been innocent here. Piggypillow still hates them.

Now I’m in a private room in a monastery. It’s heated. Glory. I’ve mostly slept. I ate some bread and three raw garlic cloves – kept them down. Normal service is resuming. I’m still parenting myself. I keep stopping myself from getting up and exploring the town. But I’m here to get better. So that’s what I’ll do. The cloister is beautiful though. Ten second timer plus idiot.

I’m staying in a convent in a town called Carrión. Pronounced “Carry On.” I’m sleeping in a nun’s cell. The convent is dedicated to the Virgin of Belén. “Carry On Convent”. I fully expect to be calling the mother superior “matron.” She will be played by Barbara Windsor in a skimpy surplice. I’ll be disguised as a monk for some reason and she’ll tell me I have a dirty habit. “Ooh I know,” I’ll reply and Sid James will cackle. Then I’ll keep saying “Bell-End” instead of “Belén”, Kenneth Williams will drop his trousers, we’ll all start running in and out of a corridor full of doors. In 100 years time it’ll still be playing at 4 in the morning on Dave.

I’m sure the picture above my bed was looking directly forward until I wrote that paragraph. For those if you unfamiliar with Carry On films, now you know all there is to know.

Oh but It’s been a long day on my own.

I’ve been back into France rules. Carry a lunch. Walk until you can’t walk anymore. Then do another 6km walking. Then find a bed and hope you can eat before you fall over  It’s been good and flat and pretty and I’ve pulled two official stages in a day. It’s late now though and I’m feeling it. I think it’s a dinner of cheese and chorizo from my pack because everything in this town is shut on a Monday. I won’t get any food out of the nuns and there’s a curfew at the convent pretty soon.

I walked down a portion of the Canal de Castillo. It goes for 200km in total and took 70 years to engineer before being rendered obsolete almost immediately by a railway “built by the English”. They haven’t bothered maintaining the weirs so it drops more than 14 metres. So essentially now it’s lots of little canal sections at different heights. There was one boat on the bit I walked, guarded by an attack dog on a short leash.

Then an impossible multi weir waterfall.

I imagined careening down it in a narrow boat.

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I’m crossing through Palencia now, and again it feels like a different country. The grape vines have died away entirely. Whatever crop they have is here is being sprayed obsessively right now. I was downwind of a load of tractors puking all manner of chemicals on the fields. The wind was fierce. I swear one guy was deliberately gassing me. I had my scarf over my face, running with my pack to get out of his cloud and he turned his tractor to flank me. That was the low point of the day, but if there are any bedbugs in the convent they’ll be dead before I’m asleep for sure. Problem is I might be too. So much for fresh country air. At least his crop won’t have ergot…

Today also involved lots of adobe houses, some whole towns made of mud.

Piles of crosses. Inevitable ancient stone churches, all of which would in isolation elicit gasps of wonder, but right now it’s like walking down Brick Lane going “Wow, a curry house!”.

It is more and more apparent how this ancient route drives the economy here. Every little village has a place that opens at 6am for coffee. Everyone wants you to stay with them if it’s after 1pm, and they’ll follow you down the street. Old men sit in cars by the side of rivers waving stamps and shouting as you pass. We all have passports to be pilgrims, you see. They allow us entry to the cheap albergues. To get your Compostela you need to have a good string of stamps proving you have walked the route. I just get one in my sleeping place and occasionally if I like a place and the stamp is free I’ll get one. It’s advisable to get 2 per day in the last 100km as lots of people just get the bus. But some pilgrims are collectors and want to catch ’em all. Anyone with a cork and some ink can charge a euro for a stamp and hang out somewhere pretty as if they made the place. Then, even if they only get half of the Korean supergroup, they’ll still make €35 for ten minutes work – and chances are they’ll get closer to €70 from that lot. I saw 8 of those guys shell out two euros each for a stamp to some lads selling instant coffee out the back of a van near Roncesvalles.

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And I ended up eating in the only place in town that was open on a Monday, and ding went the microwave and out came the clam soup and I knew I shouldn’t have touched it but I ate half of it because i was hungry. And now both orifices busy for hours and I’m getting a bit feverish in my little nun’s cell with the blessed Virgin above my head as night falls. All the progress I made today… Ugh. Literally down the loo.

I hope my constitution can process this properly. I don’t want to lose too much time. Let’s see where it goes. Strapping into the rollercoaster…

Ergot is a parasitic fungus on crops, mostly poisonous to humans. It particularly likes rye. If a farmer didn’t want to lose his profits he might sell his crop anyway, ergot and all, and  hurt a lot of people either through greed or ignorance. If the miller didn’t know what to look for it would end up being baked into rye bread and eaten across the village. Which would be messy. It does have medicinal properties in context. A bit of ergot, well measured, can help with menstrual bleeding. Any ancient midwife worth her salt would have some of it handy for bad births etc. It is this effect that caused Hoffman to start isolating compounds from it eventually leading to his discovery of LSD for the same purpose.

So, kids, what do we get if we munch ergot? A spot of serotonin. Lovely. Uncontrollable spasms with the serotonin. Jolt giggle jolt giggle. Hallucinations. That’s the LSD bit. And they are usually affected by the prevalent myth of the area. Nowadays it’ll be “Minions! They want me to be their leader,” or “Dementors, they want to take me to Azkhaban.” Back then it was Jolt giggle jolt giggle “ahhahahaaa the devil is here he wants to have sex with me!” Spasm spasm giggle. So if you haven’t been burnt by then, or hanged like they did in Salem, or had heart failure which can be a thing too then it gets even more fun. Tingly burning skin. “St Anthony’s Fire.” You’ve been bad. God is punishing you with the fire. This is the same symptom that helps with excessive menstrual bleeding. It leads pretty quickly to gangrene. But over years it also led to a solution, via monks with knives. “Your skin is burning? You need to go to the monks of St Anthony.”

In the middle ages if you had “St Anthony’s Fire” you would walk or donkey it from France, where Rye Bread is prevalent, to the monastery of St Anton – that I passed through today. They preferred wheat in Spain. Symptoms would improve on the path, praise the lord. Holy magicalness? Or leaving the source of the problem? Either way, by the time you arrived at the monastery you’d be symptom free. No more party time with werewolves and Judas Iscariot. Just gangrene. You don’t just get better from gangrene. Which is where the monks come in.

Monks are practical people. Supply and demand. And they wrote things down and shared them which barely anyone else was doing back then because they didn’t know how. This particular monastery was on the crusades route home so lots of injuries were coming by. The monks of St Anthony knew more about blood circulation and amputation than anyone else back then. You’d get a stick in your mouth, no anaesthetic, but likely they’d get you very drunk first. Then it’s time for some dude in a cowl with a bone saw, a tourniquet with a tao cross on it, and a load of monks holding you down and singing about God. Screamy screamy saw saw ave maria aaargh sick pass out. If you were still alive half an hour later you’d be gangrene free, considerably lighter and with a grisly souvenir of your journey. A foot, or a hand or an arm, cast in stone. They would offer your amputated foot to the flames probably as it would be stinking, but first they might cast it in clay as a nice memento of your fun trip to Spain.

The monastery is all but abandoned now.

The roof is long gone. The order left in the 1700’s so it is mostly a ruin.

It’s home to a pleasant auberge with no electricity. I would love to have stayed here and had dinner by candlelight, but it was too early in my day. I had hours of hard hot walking to come.

I found myself wondering what metaphorical poisoned rye bread I am leaving behind as I walk. What am I going to have painfully amputated when I arrive? Hopefully something metaphorical. I don’t wanna lose a foot. Nick can do his worst. It’s more likely to be a habit.

One thing I’m sure of – I’m glad I am not one of those ancient gangrenous people. The flies here are unbelievable. They’d have been eaten alive. I totally understand the cliché of Australians with cork hats now. They like getting in your face these buggers. They even get eye side of my specs. They’re always trying to get into my mouth. Right now as I sit here they’re crawling on my face and my legs and my arms and I’m just having to be zen about it like I learnt with the mosquitos in The Amazon and let them do their fly thing. It’s all just transitory discomfort. Especially compared with losing a limb with no anaesthetic because you ate bad bread.