THE FIFTH DAY

“I will walk all the way and take advantage of no wheeled thing.”

____Hilaire Belloc, The Path to Rome






Puente la Reina


Over the río Arga

D
Stone Cross

On the Way: On the Camino Francés
In the early morning, Richard and I started on the rua Mayor and departed the town of Puente la Reina. The rua Mayor ends at a medieval gate, which is in front of the Queen’s Bridge, the Puente la Reina, the famous 11th century bridge that gives the town its name. The waters of the Arga which we crossed in the early morning were a dark as India ink, and their surface smooth except where the water bugs made small ripples.
We crossed the beautiful bridge, the hübsche bruken as the German pilgrim Hermann Künig described it. A hospital which stood next to the bridge exists no longer, but the bridge survives, in all six arches of its original medieval construction. The expansive arches rest on hefty piers that thrust confidently out of the calm, but black waters of the Arga. The spandrels between the arches are pierced with subsidiary archways, probably (I speculated) to ease the press of the wind on the structure or allow the passage of flood waters.
It was dark, but my eyes were touched with the graceful simplicity of this lovely bridge the same as were those of Hermann the pilgrim, and for a moment it appeared not as the Puente de la Reina, but a mysterious pons seclorum, which spanned not only the River Arga, but the centuries of time. It is the same feeling of trans-temporal solidarity one feels when praying the prayers of the Mass (it works best in Latin!) knowing that countless Catholic souls past—among them those most lovely of human creatures, the saints—have mouthed the same words with their lips and have allowed them to fan the fire of Divine love in their hearts.
This strong practical but mystical bridge was built by a strong woman, royal and devout and charitable at that—irrespective of whether it was Doña Mayor, wife of the King of Navarre, Sancho III Garcés el Mayor, or Doña Estefanía, Doña Mayor’s daughter-in-law and queen of Sancho III Garcés’ successor, García III Sánchez, el de Nájera. The historians are not certain.
I I I

Navarrese Patronymics
If we do not know for sure who we should thank for the Puente de la Reina, we must not hold it against the Spanish historians, but we might want to hold it against the Kings of Navarre. It all gets rather confusing in Navarrese history in the 10th and 11th centuries and who is who and who did what. To show how this is so, I have listed here all the Kings of Navarre following the death of King Fortún Garcés, who died in 905:
Sancho Garcés (905-926)
García Sanchéz (926-970)
Sancho Garcés (970-994)
García Sánchez (994-1000)
Sancho Garcés (1000-1035)
García Sánchez (1035-1054)
Sancho Garcés (1054-1076)

I suppose the desperate chroniclers were pleased when this patronymic infinite loop was broken. Mercifully, the successor of Sancho Garcés (Sancho IV) was a son of Ramiro and not a son of Sancho.
I I I




On the camino Francés


Uber zwo myl komestu gen Ponte-regina. Darinne findestu eyn spital darinne magstu ghen. Auch findestu eyn hübsche bruken da steen







By Mañeru

M
San Pedro

By Cirauqi

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San Román

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Santa Catalina



On the Way: Puente la Reina to Estella
On the other side of the bridge was the open countryside of the Arga River valley, a land of rolling hills and fertile land thankfully exploited by vintners. We crossed the carretera, went down a single-laned, paved street by some houses, full into this rich land. The planet Venus shone brightly ahead of us. It was dark, and as the sun contemplated its rising and the morning star dimmed, the jet-black Camino lightened navy-blue. The trees looking flat and black in the dark, were encouraged by the sun to slowly reveal their green hue. Richard and I talked about our wives and our children, for we both were beginning to miss them very badly.
We veered unto a footpath, and it took us uphill to Bargotta where a hospital of the Knights of St. John once stood, but now was only ruins. The soil changed to a reddish clay as we entered into the village of Mañeru, a town at one time of the Knights Templar. From Mañeru, we went uphill to the next village, Cirauqui, which means viper’s nest in Euskera. Richard wanted to rest at the gate into the town, and Randi passed us as we sat on some benches. The town of Cirauqui was redolent of times medieval, full of narrow cobbled lanes and primitive stone houses, many of them bearing, as is frequent hereabouts, heraldic crests of stone.









Atop the village is the 13th century church of San Román. It has a multilobed main portal, in terms of style, wonderfully mixed. In the main, it is Gothic, for it bears ogival architraves, which spring out of a colonnade of ten columns, the inner two composed of two paired columns. The internal arch is Moorish in flavor, for out of a geometrical zig-zag running around the arch, spring out eleven decorated cusps, ornamented at their ends with flowers. On the keystone is a rock medallion, a chrismon, bearing the Chi-Ro and the Α and Ω, symbols all of Christ. Each arch bears different molding: of leaves, flowers, diaperwork, interlaced rings, modified and heavy dogtooth, one looking like pretzels, the next of flowers, and one of leaf, and a final of billet moulding. Four rock medallions set on the apex of the pointed architraves, pushed in as if buttons, bear symbols, from top to bottom: the hand of God revealing the mysteries of the Incarnation, of the Trinity, what appears to be an angel, the agnus Dei, and a rose.
Out of Cirauqui, we tread upon the cobblestones of the ancient Roman road, traversed ancient Roman bridges, and headed beyond the ruins of Urbe. Uphill and down. Across some freshly-plowed fields. A log bridge. A number of arroyos. Under a modern cement aqueduct. Finally we arrive at the río Salado, the salty rivulet.
If we are to believe Aymeric Picaud, the water of the río Salado is poisonous here. Under this simple bridge of two ogival arches, Picaud tells us, the Navarrese used to lay in wait and flay the dead and poisoned horses of the pilgrims who had the misfortune to grant their mounts leave to quench their thirst from its river banks.

Through the ruins of Urbe


Over the río Salado



Indeed, if we can trust him, he ought to know, for he claims to have lost two horses by this contrivance. Whether the brackish water of this meager river (really only a stream in this desolate spot) is poisonous or no, I did not intend to test, for I had no horse and I was not thirsty, and I did not think personal knowledge warranted the personal risk. I can tell you this about it: the water plants loved its waters, for the place was overgown and lush with wild reeds and rush which hid the waters of the Salado. We passed some groves of recently-planted silver-green olive trees, walked through a rock tunnel, and entered Lorca.
I I I

Ad locum qui dicitur Lorca . . . decurrit flumen quod dicitur Rivus Salatus

Into Lorca
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Santa María
The name of the town of Lorca is said to be Arabic in origin, a corruption of the word alarque, which means battle. The battle referenced is that of Sancho I Garcés, King of Navarre (926-970), who was defeated by the blue-eyed Umayyad caliph of mixed blood, Abd al-Rahman III (912-961), known to us also as Mohammed Ibn Lope.

Over the río Iranzu

Through Villa-
tuerta


At Lorca, by the apse of the church of Santa María, we asked a man in a white truck to point out the closest Café or Bar. We headed for it, and there I had some coffee. Richard was ill, as was another pilgrim at the Bar from Belgium named Eric, and I made arrangements for them both to take a taxi into Estella.
I was thus left alone at Lorca. I rested my feet at Lorca, for the battle with the road had made martyrs of them. I met there a Dutch pilgrim and his daughter, and we talked of openness to other cultures. On my way out the Bar, Leen (for that was the Dutch man’s name) showed me an article in the paper he had been reading. The article had a quote by some Spanish author whose name I did not recognize, which said that loneliness can only be filled with love.
I I I

Out of Lorca I went toward Villatuerta. While I walked I pondered about the two kinds of loneliness, one evil and the other good. It is a great evil to lack human and divine love, and thus be lonely. It is a great good to be alone and thereby find the love of God in us. Somewhere between Lorca and Villatuerta while I was alone reflecting on these things, I confronted the first of my Great Temptations.
It was early afternoon and it was hot; the sun’s heat unmercifully unattenuated, for the sky was clear and cloudless and there was no wind. The wheat had been harvested, and wheat spikelets gleaned from the ground by my socks, acted like burs and pricked my skin. On occasion I had to stop and pick them off my socks. I was on a dry and dusty road by the highway to Estella. I waved to a farmer in a red combine, and a white car slowed and passed me on my right. It was then that I was visited by a cheerful, humanitarian spirit, whose name was Irreligio.
Irreligio: (Cheerfully) How’s it going?
Peregrino: (Unhappily) I’m glad you asked. Not well.
Irreligio: Why not?
Peregrino: My feet.
Irreligio: What’s with the feet?
Peregrino: They are most pained, and there is utterly no prospect for relief, for even aspirin is worthless. I feel a blister coming on my little toe of my left foot.
Irreligio: (With great affectivity) How can this be part of pilgrimage, for doesn’t it affect your progress?
Peregrino: Yes, I cannot walk, I only hobble, and hobbling is slow; I have to rest frequently. I spend all day walking and that means I have to walk into the heat of the afternoon. This is not good.
Irreligio: (With the appearance of deep concern) Does the pain affect your ability to enjoy the sights?
Peregrino: Oh yes, for I am distracted by it, and often avoid visiting the ruins and adding any unnecessary distance. This is not good.
Irreligio: (With a wise demeanor) But those, of course, are not the essence of pilgrimage.
Peregrino: No, I suppose not.
Irreligio: Prayer is at the heart of a true pilgrim’s progress?
Peregrino: True.
Irreligio: Do your hurting feet impede your prayer?
Peregrino: Yes, I am distracted. This is also not good.
Irreligio: Is there anyone around here that knows you?
Peregrino: Why, no.
Irreligio: (With feigned charity) Then it is clear. For the good of the pilgrimage give up your vow. Wave to the driver of this car, and hitch a ride to Estella. Rest there a day. That way you may recover and you may enjoy the pilgrimage. There is no danger of scandal. Reason makes it quite plain and sensible that you do this. Why continue this senseless regimen of pain?
Peregrino: . . . (Thinking) . . .
Irreligio: (With a strange sense of urgency) Why suffer this incovenience?
Peregrino: (Inspired by a sudden surge of actual grace) Why? Love! That’s why! Caritas omnia suffert, and this pilgrimage is made for Love, for caritas Christi urget me.

At the name of Christ, Irreligo vanished with a hiss and a clap, for he knew he had been bested. Hot, dry wind whirled around me like a dust devil; the chaff of wheat raised up by it as it skipped across the harvested wheat fields got in my eyes and stung my skin. I smelled about me a very foul smell, redolent of cow manure, and I then knew that this solicitous and cheery spirit had not been good, but very evil, and had been sent to me by the Devil to tempt me with the virtue of mundane practicability against the virtue of religion.
I I I

After I resisted the Great Temptation of the White Car presented me by irreligion, I rested in the shade of a tunnel that went under the carretera. There I took off my boots and massaged my feet, for they hurt. I discovered a blister on the little toe of my left foot. It was the diameter of a pencil, and it was about an inch long. I thought it wise to treat it, if at all, that evening and not on the road. I put back on my boots and trudged to Villatuerta.
At Villatuerta, I had to decide whether to take the left or the right branch of a fork in the Camino. In a way it did not matter, for the two paths adjoined further west just beyond the town of Ayegui. In another way the choice did matter, however, as is obvious if one knows ahead of time where the routes go. Any map will tell you. The left fork bypasses the town of Estella, and goes directly into the town of Irache by way of Zarapuz. The right fork goes through Estella. Only the most crass philistine, a pilgrim of the devil, or a fool would purposefully avoid Estella the beautiful, the Toledo del Norte and the spiritual capital of Navarre.

The Dutch pilgrims, Leen and his daughter, passed me at Villatuerta as I crossed the stone bridge over the river that ran through town. Disheartened at my slow progress and by my great pain, I stopped at the Church there. Before a statue of St. Veremundus, I prayed for a revival of monastic life, for Christian Europe had been built by medieval monks, and modern monks would be required to rebuild it. As I prayed before the tabernacle, it seems I almost forgot the pain I bore in my feet.
I I I



Take the right fork to Estella


Over the río Erga


By Zarapuz

Into Estella la Bella

On the Way: Estella, Star of Navarre
The reprieve, however, was not for long, and the trip from Villatuerta to Estella was so frought with pain, that I despaired at finishing my pilgrimage altogether. Though the weather was hot and dry, I repeatedly broke into a cold sweat as a result of the pain. Had I been a child, I would have cried the entire way between Villatuerta and Estella. As it was, I suffered silently and hard. It was the white martyrdom of a broken down and near-defeated pilgrim. The only visible companions to my passion were a big mountain on my left named Monte Jurra, some cliffs ahead, and a small hillock to my right. They were impassive and stoic. What unseen witnesses to my pain surrounded me I was unable to know.
As I hobbled downhill, around a bend toward the valley of the río Erga, I caught a glimpse of paradise. The Erga’s gurgling waters fed the trees, for these were tall, green, and hearty; and these marvelous trees cheered the birds, as they chirruped and sang to a healthy and fat bay horse that grazed upon the lush grass in this wondrous valley of the Erga. I saw and heard these marvels and they brought me great joy. I stopped there, at that Eden by the Erga, and ate some bread with cheese and olives, and drank some red wine I had brought with me. I was not far from heaven there.
After resting I crossed a new bridge and climbed a hill past a farmhouse, but the sharp pain in my feet would not go away. I trudged and marched and tramped and hobbled and limped; but howsoever I walked I could not relieve the suffering of my feet.
Doctor: What hurt?
Auctor: As I told you, my feet.
Doctor: But your foot has 26 bones, more than 100 ligaments, and 33 muscles. Where did it hurt the worst?
Auctor: All of them, but worst of all my toes then, the joints of my toes.
Doctor: All?
Auctor: All ten toes.
Doctor: The joints between the phalanges and metatarsals, the metatarsophalaneal joints? Diagnosis: Metatarsalgia and Sesamoiditis.
Auctor: Call it what you wish, doctor. You are not here to help me. I shall call it pilgrim’s foot and call upon Santiago.
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Stella, que pane bono et optimo vino et carne et piscibus fertilis est, cunc-tisque felicita-tibus plena

Hobbling, I entered Estella from the west. It was well past five o’clock when I made it to Estella and past the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where I prayed to St. James. The town is situated at the foot of the hills of Montejurra, by a bend in the Ega River in a valley—untypically, as the old towns of Navarre generally worried about war and lookout and therefore preferred heights. It is an ancient town, at least the old district, since it is mentioned by both Ptolemy and Strabo, although it was then known as Gebalda. There is no dearth of encomium for the place. Even Aymeric Picaud, the Navaroclast, departs from his usual hostility of things Navarese in his Pilgrim’s Guide and concedes: “Estella, where the bread is good, wine excellent, meat and fish are abundant, and which overflows with all delights.”[i] The water is good here even for Picaud, as he tells us that the waters of the Ega, which flow through Estella, are “sweet, healthy and excellent.”[ii] But perhaps Picaud was not so out of character, for one must remember that Estella was populated not by the Navarri impii, but by the French. The French were encouraged to settle here by the kings of Navarre in the 11th century, especially King Sancho Ramírez, as part of the policy of repoblación or resettlement of that land once occupied or razed by the Moor. The Langue’doc of Provençe was commonly heard here among the Basque as late as the 14th century.
There are some heights in Estella, and they are invariably occupied by the Church.
I I I

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San Miguel in Excelsis
In Estella I came upon the Church of San Miguel in Excelsis, which occupies a rocky spur, and is reached by a flight of medieval steps. Its north portal is Romanesque, of yellowish-white stone aged gray. The portal has five attached columns either side supporting five archivolts that are decorated by angelic figures. The tympanum bears sculptures of Christ the Pantocrator in a mandorla, with the tetramorphs—symbols of the Evangelists derived from St. John’s vision in the Apocalypse—about him. It bears the inscription against the ancient Hispanicus error, Adoptionism:
Nece Deus et nec homo presens quam cernis imago, sed Deus est et homo quem sacra figurat imago.

Neither God nor man is presented by this image, but God and Man are figured by this holy image.

St. Beatus of Liebana could not have stated it more succinctly. For this is our Creed. Believe it ye Infidels! For this God is equally yours as He is mine, and His Will is to embrace you all!

I I I

Et animal primum simile leoni, et secundum animal simile vitulo, et tertium animal habens faciem quasi hominis, et quartum animal simile aquilae volanti
--Apo. 4:7

I met an angel in Estella. But he was not a spirit; he was of the flesh. He was from California and his name was Shawn. Shawn was a pilgrim, and he was a nurse. He was taking a few days off on account of the blisters on his heel. Told of the painful tragedy of my feet, Shawn suggested I try a drug called Toradol. In Spain, he explained, a prescription was not needed, and it was medicine well-crafted for pain in the joints. Belloc took his balm, and I thought that justified my Toradol. And though the drug each day lost efficacy over the three or four days I took it, and never wholly took the pain away after the first day, it took away its edge. That first evening, however, was nothing short of wonderful; for the first time since I had left Roncesvalles I did not feel pain. It had been replaced by a dull, thick feeling in my feet. I had Shawn to thank for it, and I called him my Raphael, although he did not understand why. But I got to tell him why later, when I met him again outside of León.














It was the feast of some saint in Estella, I think St. Peter, and the town was celebrating at the Plaza San Martín. There amidst some lively music of some strange indigenous horns and a single drum, we had a thick, sweet chocolate drink that was being dispensed to all around for free. The lady who served us recognized us as pilgrims and joked that this choco would allow us to walk to Santiago in two days’ time. Children seemed to take to the feast, for they, along with their parents and grandparents who chased after them, were everywhere.
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A group of pilgrims got together at dinner. Among us was Eric, the Belgian, Kori, a Dutch woman who had started the pilgrimage from her home in Holland, Randi, Richard, and Shawn. There was a magic about the dinner. Like Eric observed, “Why can’t nations get along the way we just did?” I believe that if the nations were ever to realize that we are all on the same pilgrim path (or ought to be), and we all have (or ought to have) the same goal since we have the same end, our many differences would be bridged. My gift to the group was Spanish, for I translated for the Dane, the Belgian, the Dutch, and the Americans at our table, all of whom spoke English, but not of whom—save me—spoke Spanish.
I I I





As I lay in bed in the Pensión San Andrés, distracted from sleep by the light of the quarter moon which shown through the panes of my window, I thought how Estella was under the patronage of St. Andrew the Apostle, who was martyred in Patras, Greece. That St. Andrew is patron of this town is the result of a strange story tied to the pilgrimage to Compostela. Legend has it that the Greek Bishop of Patras was on pilgrimage to Compostela. At Estella he became sick, never recovered, and died. The bishop had carried with him a relic of St. Andrew (his shoulder blade) with the intent to make an offering of it at Compostela. The shoulder blade was buried with the bishop in the cloisters here, but was discovered upon the exhumation of the bishop’s body. The relic never made it to Compostela; instead Estellans adopted St. Andrew as their patron and the shoulder blade found its rest at San Pedro de la Rua in Estella, there to be venerated by pilgrims for many years until it was stolen.[iii] The Roman Breviary puts the following prayer on the lips of St. Andrew:
O bona crux, diu desiderata, et iam O good Cross, so long desired and now
Concupiscenti animo praeparata Set up for my longing soul.
Securus et guadens venio ad te, Confident and rejoicing I come to you
Ita et tu exsultans suscipias me So you also excultingly receive me,
Discipulum eius, qui pependit in te. A disciple of Him Who hung upon you.

Would that I bear the little sufferings I have with the same generosity of spirit as this patron of mine. Imagine a body so well-disciplined in the regimen of Grace and the Spirit that it is fraught with a concupiscent hankering after the Cross, instead of a concupiscent hankering after the flesh and the things of this world. Saints are made of flesh, true, but there is some tough stuff inside them. This pilgrim lacked all of that, but prayed for a little greater share of it. As these thoughts ebbed from my mind, I fell into a deep sleep.









Ό άγιος
̉Ανδρέας


k
[i] Melczer, Pilgrim’s Guide, at 86.
[ii] Melczer, Pilgrim’s Guide, at 89.
[iii] Starkie, at 182.