Day 7: Los Arcos – Logroño
Distance: 29.3 km
When we woke up in Los Arcos, we had no idea we would meet another Dutchman who would steal our hearts. Unlike the older, grumpier Dutchman we had been coming across, this Dutchman was younger, much taller, and even more gregarious. He was quite the personality. At breakfast, he and his companions were regaling the albergue with a story about the extremely drunk Irish girls they had met the night before. He was an excellent storyteller. Although we were sure we would never meet this Dutchman again, our paths would cross a few more times throughout the Camino.
We finally left storytime with the Dutchman to begin walking and found the day split in half between a pleasant path to a wild city and a dirty path to a milder, larger city. At around the 20 km mark, we arrived in the town of Viana. It’s a popular stopping point for those who do not want to walk the long stretch to Logroño.
As we entered the city we could hear extremely loud popping sounds, like a gunshot. We were unsure of what it was, but we knew we didn’t want to be anywhere near it. Too bad. The Camino path rolls right down the center of town and into the madness. It was the Saturday before Easter and it was a big day for the 18 year olds in the town.
As the story goes, the 18 year olds will soon graduate and move into the adult world, military or something else that involves responsibility. But on that particular Saturday they run around the city shooting off fireworks, blowing whistles, and getting as drunk as possible. But they didn’t drink and shoot fireworks in one designated section. They roamed around the city and took the party with them.Their mode of party transportation – grocery carts. Someone pushed a grocery cart full of fireworks and another pushed a grocery cart full of liquor. It was quite the sight. We think they were also raising money for charity, but it could have also been more money for booze and/or fireworks.
We sat for a moment to enjoy the mayhem and some ice cream then continued on our way. We should have stayed longer. The next several kilometers just past Viana were awful. Hot, dirty, truly awful. We discussed the different ways in which we would probably be robbed or mugged by teenagers on that section of the way. Alas, we made it to Logroño in one piece.
At this point I (Clay) should tell you that my father had been texting me everyday, probably to ensure we were not dead in a gutter in rural Spain. He started by asking where we were each day and I would respond with the city we were headed to or had stopped in for the night. If the city name was too long to type, I sent a picture.
He then commenced to look up everything he could find about the city and tell us what we needed to see and do.
“Did you get a picture of the castle?”
“What about the church? So and so died there.”
“You should go here for dinner.”
“Stay in this hotel.”
In Logroño, I gave in. For dinner, we headed out to find a restaurant my father suggested. It made great sense… Trust a man whose idea of Spanish food is a taco with a Spanish dinner suggestion. We had dinner at the suggested restaurant – Burgerheim. It was a burger shop that took inspiration from art museums around the world. I think we had the Mondrian and the Picasso burgers. Interesting note: You could choose the meat for your burger at this restaurant. We chose beef, but they had pony. If we had been feeling better we would have tried it.
Our food ended up being very good. It turns out, trusting your dad’s restaurant advice from halfway around the world is a great idea.
Day 8: Logrono – Najera
Distance: 30.4 km
A tale of two days
The walk this day was wonderful. We met, walked, and talked to a lot of people on this day that were integral to our Camino experience. The morning of Easter Sunday began with a quiet walk through the vacant city of Logrono. It was calm and covered in trash. I picked up a plastic rose and gave it to Elizabeth for her backpack. I’m such a romantic.
We began the morning walking with a couple of Danes. We walked with them for about 6-8 km before taking a break. At this point we met our young Canadian. A most humorous woman from Newfoundland.
I’d like to think she took a shine to us because I am one of the few people who know where Newfoundland is located on the globe and because I can pronounce it correctly. You don’t say found in the word, you should say Newfndland, ignoring the vowels. Although, she probably just liked us because of our bag of Doritos.
When we took another break, we ran into our Australian friend again. We believe this is the best thing about the Camino. You can run into all types of people at all point on the Camino at any time of the day.
From there we walked a little further to the option. Many days on the Camino have offshoot routes allowing you to find neat and interesting buildings or cities just off the main trail. These paths eventually run their way back into the main path, only taking an extra 2-3 km.
This detour was the Arte de Kilometer, or Art Kilometer. As we were staring at the sign trying to determine the merits of the extra km, a young woman was sitting underneath the signs taking a much needed break. She listened to Elizabeth and I banter back and forth, with the conversation heavily laden in sarcasm, about what could this kilometer possibly hold. After a few minutes of talking, I asked the annoyed bystander if she knew anything about the art, if it was worth it, if she was going, and if she wanted any chocolate covered peanuts.
She looked at us with a smiling, annoyed face, shrugged her shoulders and said she didn’t know. And that she did not want any peanuts. Not satisfied with the first answer, and the realization that she spoke English (so she understand our entire ridiculous discussion), I pressed her to commit to a decision and tell us what we should do. She did not acquiesce.
So away we went, headed down the Arte de Kilometer. We discussed how stupid we must have sounded to that stranger. As we entered the town in which we were detouring to, we encountered no art, but something much better. Almost all the people we had been walking with or seen frequently over the course of the last week. The grumpy old Dutchman, the energetic Danish man, the Aussie, our new Canadian friend, lots of Germans.
It was like a mini homecoming. Not knowing anyone halfway around the world can be a lonely thing, but seeing familiar faces makes everything seem much easier and keeps you relaxed. We sat down for a bit and enjoyed the company of the strange collective of individuals from around the world.
We headed out before anyone else, since our pace tended to be a bit more glacial than others. And who did we encounter, our Art bystander. She was struggling and limping, suffering from extremely battered feet. We offer her more peanuts, she declined. She did ask about the Art Kilometer and we told her we saw no art and she was better off taking the short route.
We continued to enjoy the walk until we arrived in Najera. We could not find an albergue to stay in. The first we stopped in only had a private room at $50 bucks. We had been paying $10-15 a night, sleeping in the large rooms, and didn’t want to spend that kind of money on a single night. Elizabeth began to walk around the city and realized that all the other albergues in our guide book were closed or out of business. So we sat down on a bench stewing and angry, wondering what the hell we were gonna do. Elizabeth was mad, which rarely happens, so I volunteered to walk around the city until I found the municipal albergue, our last hope. I began wandering the streets, completely lost, looking for any sign.
Then the happy Dane showed up yet again. I jogged over to him. He said he and his group were headed to the municipal, it was right around the corner and we should join them. He was the kind of person who always popped up when you needed your spirits lifted or needed anything. There at the right time, with the answer or an ear, or a kind word. I found Elizabeth, hoping I had salvaged the day, and we made our way to the albergue.
Turns out the day was going to get worse. As we checked into the albergue, Elizabeth asked about mass times in the city. In a town of 8500, they had three churches within a few hundred meters of where we were staying, typical Spain. Except it was now 5 PM and all the masses for the day were over. Elizabeth missed Easter Sunday in a country that treats the holiday like a religious Super Bowl. What continued to make it worse was that we had been tracking Semana Santa (Holy Week) across Spain. They began setting up in cities at the beginning of March and had advertisements about it the entire time. We had to walk around stages and closed roads in Sevilla. We saw processions practicing in Segovia.
So not only did Elizabeth miss mass, she missed the biggest, bestest, most celebrated Mass of they year. I have attempted to come up with a proper analogy to explain a similar situation and have failed.
We had gotten up in the morning in a town full of churches, walked through other towns filled with churches, all having mass while we were walking, and finished in a town filled with churches. Yet, we could not make it to a single mass that day.
Elizabeth cried for a while and we went out for gyros for dinner. We sat alone in a gyro shop in Najera Spain on Easter Sunday. Conversation was limited. We went to bed after dinner.
And that completes Semana Santa for the Cornelius family. To this day, Elizabeth says this day is her most AND least favorite on the Camino.
Day 9: Nájera – Santa Domingo de la Calzada
Distance 22.8 km
The day Elizabeth tried to kill Clay is how I would describe today. It was a walk with not much to see or do or visit.
It began with me losing my cellphone. After each of us checked our sleeping area multiple times and unpacked my backpack twice to make sure I didn’t do something stupid, we determined that someone picked it up on accident or stole it. Either way, we were about to be the last people to leave the albergue. I was angry at my stupidity and Elizabeth was annoyed at my stupidity. Our last ditch effort was having an albergue volunteer, with international calling, try to reach the person who had mistakenly picked up the phone. It worked. We heard the phone, vibrating… in Elizabeth’s backpack. She accidentally packed the cellphone in her sleeping bag and shoved it down in her backpack. Not a great start, right.
After about 6 km we ran into our first town. Just before the town a golf course appeared. We decided to stop in for a bite to eat and I thought I could find my Father something from the pro shop.
As I entered and began meandering, a young woman began to follow me around the 12×12 foot room. As I tried to figure out if the store had any men’s clothing, the employee approached me. “Sir,” she says, “this is a golf shop. We don’t have anything for pilgrims.” I looked at her, a bit confused and then I realized she thinks I’m some poor, stupid pilgrim trying to find outdoor gear in a room full of overpriced ladies polos and golf gloves.
I could not find any mens polo’s, hats, or golf balls with the club logo, so we had a bite to eat and left. With not many other places to stop on this day, we trudged along with few breaks. Finally we were within 2 km to our destination and I needed a break. Elizabeth was having none of it. I explained I needed five minutes to sit and regroup. I was exhausted, not feeling well, and would have liked to rest.
She reiterated that we were only about 15 minutes away from where we were staying and I should suck it up. We were almost there.
With 1 km to go, I stopped. I told her I needed some time and I didn’t care how much further it was. There was always a place to stay, all the stores were closed for siesta (or Easter Monday) and there was no sense in trying to kill me to arrive in a town for which there is nothing to do ten minutes sooner.
She allowed me to rest. All I could think was that she had turned into a sadistic taskmaster hellbent on making me suffer. She became the Russian from Rocky, “I must break you.”
I was in worse shape when we arrived. Too ill and weak to cook, we argued over dinner ideas and settled on frozen pizza since our albergue had an oven (a rarity). We went to bed unhappy and exhausted, debating if the walk was a good idea.
Day 10: Santa Domingo de la Calzada – Belorado
Distance: 23.9 km
It was not a good idea.
I got worse. I slept through the night but woke up in the morning covered in sweat and feeling like death. My legs and feet were fine of course, but the rest of me was crumbling.
For breakfast we enjoyed leftover pizza, while being watched by the Sardinian who refused our peanuts a few days before. As an Italian, she was judging our breakfast choice as we squeezed bbq sauce over our chicken pizza. Of course, she was eating Oreos. On the Camino, anything goes foodstuff wise. Beer in the morning, cookies all day, chocolate bars everywhere. We even witnessed a guy uncork a bottle of wine in the morning so that he could drink it while walking.
We left at the last possible moment as a terrible volunteer was walking around ringing a bell in everyone’s face who was still struggling to exit the albergue.
I was immediately exhausted. We had not been drinking enough water, eating well enough, or sleeping with any consistency.
The weather was also not cooperating. The wind was howling, so much so that we put on our ponchos to protect ourselves from the wind. I threw on my hood to protect my ears from the constant rush and loud noise formed by the gusts. At one point, Elizabeth was leaning into the wind and it was preventing her from falling over.
I had to stop in every city we walked through, each time debating if this was as far as I could go, struggling to drag myself off the ground long enough to walk another 3-4 km.
About halfway through the walk, I gave up. I shook my fists at the sky, cursed the wind, threw my trekking poles into its whirls, shed my pack, and fell down in a field. I could not take anymore. I could not handle another step.
After a while, maybe 30-45 seconds, I regrouped and regained my composure. I explained to Elizabeth that I needed a nap, obviously, and had no desire to see, talk, or sleep next to anyone else the rest of the day. I was peopled out. I needed to be alone.
We managed to pass a few groups, notably the Italians, who tended to be at the back of the pack, stopping in every town to have a beer, drinking merrily along the way. As we arrived in another small town, we found a spot to rest in the shade of the first building in the town and laid down . We watched every group pass by us as we drifted off to sleep.
When we awoke 15-20 minutes later, we knew we were behind everyone else. We grabbed our stuff, turned the corner and to our surprise saw a group of 5-10 backpacks. We had been laying in the shade of a bar/cafe/restaurant where the Italians sat, finishing up another round of beers and bocadillos. We felt silly about stopping where we did when there was a perfectly fine place to stop and rest with food and drink on the other side of the wall. This became a theme for our Camino experience, walk a few feet further and it will probably pay off.
We eventually made it to Belorado. To give ourselves a chance to regroup from the tiring day, we stayed in a Pension, which is basically a B&B for pilgrims. It was a completely different experience than staying in an albergue. We were not herded in. We were not made to get out our passports immediately and then pay. It was like staying in a real place. The owner said to take our time, go relax, have a shower, take a nap, and when we crossed paths again, we could discuss all the particulars.
This saved our Camino, especially for me. Our own private place away from the other pilgrims. Our own bathroom to shower in. Robes to wear. We might as well have been at the Ritz. They did our laundry and provided us with information about the next couple of days walking.
It was exactly what we needed when we needed it.
Day 11: Belorado – Ages
Distance: 30.3 km
We awoke refreshed and ready to join the huddled masses again. We were served a lovely large breakfast, one we didn’t have to fix ourselves. We had been warned the night before about the threat of snow, a persistent concern during spring, but it turned out to be a perfect day. The weather was amazing and the walking was not too difficult. The day was all uphill, but a gentle slope. A stretch of 8 km breezed by as I talked to a young Danish kid.
We felt so good we decided to ignore our guide book and continue an extra 3 km to the next town, Ages. There were still whispers of the threat of snow and we wanted to get ahead of it if possible.
We arrived before many others and found our albergue to be lonely. All the other people we met on the way stayed at other places that night. Luckily, the grumpy Dutchman appeared out of thin air at dinner time. He was walking around the city checking in on anyone he recognized.
As he walked in, he began to talk to the albergue hospitalero, the person in charge of the albergue, in Spanish. We knew he could speak English in addition to Dutch, but we didn’t know he knew Spanish too. When we questioned him about it, he rattled off a list of other languages he could speak (6-7 European languages), but noticeably absent was French. He said he refused to learn French as he did not care for the French people and their way of life.
It was yet another reminder of our inadequacies as Americans abroad. We know no other languages. Everyone we met that was not Anglo-Saxon, knew at least two languages, most often English as their second language. Had it not been for other people working hard to learn another language, we might have been left to only talk to the Canadian and Aussie.
We closed the night playing a few card games with an Irish group of eight. They taught us a game or two and we taught them a couple of games. We all laughed and spoke English although some phrases and the occasional number had to be translated or said more slowly so the other nationality could figure out the other’s English.
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