“Men become romers and pilgrims to serve God and honor the saints. And because that is what they endeavor to do, they leave their families, their land, their wives, their homes, and all that they have, and they go through foreign lands, lacerating their bodies and leaving their belongings looking for shrines.”
____Las Siete Partidas del Rey Don Alfonso el Sabio[i]
Southwest to Rabé de las Calzadas
Cross the río Horman-zuela into Hornillos
On the Way: Tardajos to Hornillos
It rained all night, and it was raining in the morning when we arose. Our clothes, which had hung all night on the clothesline outside the refugio, had not dried, so we packed them all wet and heavy into our packs. The only dry pair of socks I had was too thick for my boots, they cramped my toes, and they caused great discomfort. Richard elected to sleep late with the Brazilians, but Randi and I decided to brave the rain in our ponchos, for it looked like it would continue most of the day anyway.
The rain lightened somewhat as we traveled by paved road in the dark from the town of Tardajos to the town of Rabé de las Calzadas. This was a most difficult path for the medieval pilgrim, and so was born the old rhyme, “De Tardajos a Rabé Libera nos Domine.” It was very wet and cold that morning, and the thick socks hindered circulation in my feet and they suffered, and so the words Libera nos Domine! were the prayer of my toes. They wanted very badly to be freed of their misery.
For us that morning, the walk from Rabé to Hornillos through the valle de Hormaza was much, much worse than the trip from Tardajos to Rabé. De Rabé a Hornillos, te rogamus audi nos. For at Rabé we left the paved road to a dirt road, and a dirt road is always bad news in the rain. Indeed, the rain had left the dirt road in poor shape for walkers. The rain had transformed the dirt road into a river of mud, thick mud, slippery mud, sticky and sludgy mud, which stuck to the soles of our boots and made them heavy, uncontrollable weights. The weight of the mud strained the hamstrings. For several hours, it felt as though we were walking on a sponge cake with thick, brown icing. The prospect of serious injury from a slip and fall was always a threat. The cold, wet rain continued to bear down on us, adding further discomfort. Despite my poncho, my clothes were sodden. It was chilly, and we shivered despite our heavy physical effort. We walked for what seemed an interminable time, and were very wet and suffered cold, until we walked into Hornillos.
As we crossed the bridge into Hornillos, Randi and I feared there would be no café open, for it was still early in the morning. Hornillos looked small, and everything was dark. As we walked up to the café, it appeared closed. What joy filled our hearts when just as we arrived to the closed café, the shutters opened up with a rattle, the door unlocked and swung open, and the owner, a friendly man, ushered us in out of the rain. He even welcomed us tramping and leaving a trail of wet sludge with a charitable ambivalence. “The floors are clean so the pilgrims can made them dirty,” he explained. “And what of it? Mud dries into dirt and it can be swept out in a moment. Don’t worry about it.” We did, however, worry about it. We took our boots off, and left them at the entrance despite the license he had given us to muddy up his place. We were not altogether altruistic about it, for we wanted to warm our feet, and the only way do so was to take them out of our wet boots.
I downed three cafés con leche that morning, some water, and a hefty boccadillo de queso. We met some pilgrims from Ireland, one a talkative Catholic missionary to an African country I cannot recall, who had very little kind to say of the Muslims in the country which hosted her.
I I I
De Tardajos a Rabé Libera-nos Domine!
De Rabé a Hornillos Domine audi nos!!
The fuentes del Gallo
and de los Pere- grinos
Cross the high meseta into Hontanas
Descend into the valley of Sambol
Another meseta into Hontanas
On the Way: Hornillos to Hontanas
The rain virtually ceased as we drank our coffee. That this happened is not surprising, as we stalled a long time in the café. But after a time, the pilgrim feels the urge to go and can no longer justify the rest. Grimacing, we donned our wet clothes, wet socks, and wet, muddy boots and hit the road. The Camino ran straight through the small town of Hornillos. The town was full of fountains for the pilgrim. As we passed walked through the town, we passed to our left a very simple, cubical church of gray ashlar stone dedicated to San Román. Its first story was arched; the second square, with square windows pierced in the rock. It had a simple bell tower, with elongated arched windows in the belfry.
Out of Hornillos Randi and I traveled by way of a dirt road. We bore left and climbed a shallow glacis to the meseta, past the ruined farmsteads of Corrales de la Nuez, with a descent to the valley and the Fuente de San Bol. San Bol, or St. Baudelius, martyr of the faith, found his death at Nîmes in France around 380 A.D., maybe earlier. He harangued the pagans and dared to preach of Christ during Jupiter’s Feast, and so lost his head by the blade of an axe. The monastery dedicated to the ancient martyr that once was here is gone, like the water in the fountain. However, a resourceful group of Spaniards has built here a refugio a few hundred meters to the left of the Camino. We did not visit it; we ambled past it and headed toward the town of Hontanas.
From Sambol we ascended to another meseta, past the Granja de Sambol (really nothing but abandoned sheep pens). It was here that the priest-pilgrim Laffi encountered a poor man, half-eaten by locusts, but still alive. Laffi heard the man’s confession, absolved him, and, after the man died, buried him. That unfortunate man’s body lies somewhere here, given burial in an unmarked grave by the same hand that absolved his soul. That anonymous pilgrim’s soul, long separate of his body, lives well now, thanks to the Providence that led the priest Laffi here and the Christ that gave his priest the power to forgive and to absolve.
I I I
From Sambol we traveled to the height of Arenillas, and down to Hontanas. At Hontanas, we washed our muddy boots and drank of the cold water of the fountain. We passed by the refugio when we heard, “Haaaalooooo there.” The call bore the traces of a Flemish tongue. Following the voice led our eyes to focus on a window in the upper story of the refugio, where to our surprise we saw Eric, the Belgian.
As it turned out, Eric had been waylaid by an injury. His leg was all wrapped up thick in a bandage. We learned that he had developed tendonitis, and had to take two or three days off of walking. As we commiserated with Eric about his plight, we witnessed a marvelous display of friendship. And it all started with a white van that had difficulty managing the narrow roads of Hontanas, and honked repeatedly (and we thought unusually obnoxiously in this quiet town of Hontanas).
The van finally parked by the refugio, barely squeezing through the narrow alley, and leaving little way for pilgrims.
“Pascal, Staf, Jo, Jan!” shouted Eric as four men climbed out of the van, laden with a cooler.
Pascal, Staf, Jo, and Jan were Belgian. Friends and business associates of Eric, they had learned from Eric’s wife of his tendonitis, and decided to drive the 1,500 kilometers from their home to Hontanas to visit Eric. They brought with them a little bit of Belgium, as they brought Eric’s favorite foodstuffs with them and messages of encouragement from his wife.
We shared some Duval beer—a devil of a strong beer—with the Belgians. Although Eric tried to coax us into staying at Hontanas (the beer seemed to be his best advocate), Randi and I felt obliged to go on, for it was still too early to finish the day. Besides, the refugio was already nearing capacity with the recent addition of four additional Belgians.
We did not see Eric again on the Road. But we know that he healed fast, and he was a heck of a walker. When we made inquiry with fellow pilgrims in Santiago, we learned that he had beat us to Santiago, and had arrived hale there.
I I I
Furnellos
Arroyo Garban-zuelo
By the ruins of San Antón
On the Way: Hontanas to Castrojeríz
Randi and I had decided to walk the five or so miles from Hontanas to the town of Castrojeríz. By late morning, the foul weather had cleared, and so we hung our boots on our packs to dry, and walked out of Hontanas in our sandals. Although a local resident at Hontanas assured us that the Camino up ahead despite the rain would not be full of barrio or mud, we thought it prudent nevertheless to walk to Castrojeríz on the reliable pavement of the carretera.
The carretera trip was unexpectedly pleasant. There was very little traffic on the road, and it was beautifully lined with tall, narrow Lobelius maples. Rising tall and narrow in great rows one either side of the road, they had the feel of cypress trees. It felt almost if one was walking down a Tuscan road. The maples gave enough shade so that we could have a pleasant lunch on the side of the road. Randi and I shared the food we could find in our packs, and so we snacked a bric-a-brac lunch of cheese, chorizo, bread, peanuts, corn nuts, cherries, and Toblerone. A gentle breeze caressed us as we looked southward at the gray-purplish hills across the wheat fields. I watched a bus drop off an old woman at the side of the carretera, and observed her trudge to her village, a mile or more away. She carried some heavy bags. I did not know the village, for it was not on my map. The woman knew the village, but she was too far away to hail.
After lunch we climbed up to the height of Carroalcarro where sat the ruins of the Convent of San Antón, at one time belonging to the military order of the Antonines. The road runs right between the convent’s tall gothic arches, which rise between the buttresses of the old walls.
I I I
About the Way: The Knights of St. Anthony
The Antonines, named after St. Anthony of Egypt, were a militairy monastic order founded in France by Gaston de la Valloir in 1039. The particular emphasis of the order was to take care of those suffering from St. Anthony’s fire. This horrible disease, today recognized to be erysipelas, appeared in medieval Europe of the 10th century. The disease was caused by the consumption of rye bread infected with the fungus ergot, Claviceps purpura, which would appear as cockspurs on the rye plant. In mild cases, its sufferers would experience hallucinations (LSD was first isolated from this fungus) and wryneck. In serious cases, the unfortunate would endure gangrene and loss of members of their body. Thousands died and many more underwent the agony of this malady during the middle ages. The cause of the disease was finally isolated by a French physician, Dr. Thuillier, in 1670. Before that time, however, many suffered, and the Antonines relieved the suffering as best as they could. King Alfonso VII founded this particular monastery in 1146. After the order’s usefulness passed, and their numbers dwindled, the order was suppressed by Pope Pius VI (1775-99). I looked for the cross of their order which they shared with the Franciscans, the Tau, and was able to find it in the carvings below the windows of the church.
I I I
The blue Tau of the Antonine Knights
T
On the Way: Castrojeriz
The path from the old Antonine ruins on the heights of Carroalcarro to Castrojeriz was generally downhill. About a kilometer or so west from the ruins the arroyo de Garbanzuelo joined with the arroyo de Villajos. A little beyond Castrojeríz the joint arroyo dumps its water into the río Odra. Thunder rumbled ominously as we entered the town of Castrojeríz. As we climbed uphill to the center of the town, lightning flashed around us. We passed by the Church of Santa María de Manzano, which appeared closed. Santa María is a church that dates from the 9th century, although there are no signs of the original church. The originally humble Visigothic church, with square apse and rude stone, was replaced by a collegiate church in 1214, which still stands. It is of ashlar stone, well-built and ponderous, with a multilobed portal, sparse sculpture, and a large rose window between two butresses. Since the church was closed and offered no sanctuary, and we were tired, and the thunder followed quickly after the lightning, we looked for the closest hotel.
Into Castro-jeríz
k
Santa María de Manzano
Castrojeríz is a historic town. It was founded by the Visigoths in the 8th century. It is a town of many a church and one great castle or castrum atop its main hill. Over ages and ages, the Latin Castrum Sigerici was corrupted and elided by the careless hurry of the Castillian tongue to the present Castrojeríz. The town skirts a hill, on its southern slope, and its castle, its castro, sits atop of it. The town was the subject of a number of battles between Moors and Christians during the Reconquista. It is now at peace.
I I I
Dinner at the local restaurant was a hearty one. I had bean soup, pork loin with red peppers and potatos, and red wine. I had flan for desert. While we finished our meal, Richard walked by. He was complaining of an ailing tendon, but he wanted to walk the next day. We made plans to meet him in the morning at his hotel. With the plans made, we turned back to our hotel, prepared for the next morning, and went to bed.
M
Full Moon
k
[i] Source: “Men become romers and pilgrims to serve God and honor the saints. And because that is what they endeavor to do, they leave their families, their land, their wives, their homes, and all that they have, and they go through foreign lands, lacerating their bodies and leaving their belongings looking for shrines.”
____Las Siete Partidas del Rey Don Alfonso el Sabio[i]
Southwest to Rabé de las Calzadas
Cross the río Horman-zuela into Hornillos
On the Way: Tardajos to Hornillos
It rained all night, and it was raining in the morning when we arose. Our clothes, which had hung all night on the clothesline outside the refugio, had not dried, so we packed them all wet and heavy into our packs. The only dry pair of socks I had was too thick for my boots, they cramped my toes, and they caused great discomfort. Richard elected to sleep late with the Brazilians, but Randi and I decided to brave the rain in our ponchos, for it looked like it would continue most of the day anyway.
The rain lightened somewhat as we traveled by paved road in the dark from the town of Tardajos to the town of Rabé de las Calzadas. This was a most difficult path for the medieval pilgrim, and so was born the old rhyme, “De Tardajos a Rabé Libera nos Domine.” It was very wet and cold that morning, and the thick socks hindered circulation in my feet and they suffered, and so the words Libera nos Domine! were the prayer of my toes. They wanted very badly to be freed of their misery.
For us that morning, the walk from Rabé to Hornillos through the valle de Hormaza was much, much worse than the trip from Tardajos to Rabé. De Rabé a Hornillos, te rogamus audi nos. For at Rabé we left the paved road to a dirt road, and a dirt road is always bad news in the rain. Indeed, the rain had left the dirt road in poor shape for walkers. The rain had transformed the dirt road into a river of mud, thick mud, slippery mud, sticky and sludgy mud, which stuck to the soles of our boots and made them heavy, uncontrollable weights. The weight of the mud strained the hamstrings. For several hours, it felt as though we were walking on a sponge cake with thick, brown icing. The prospect of serious injury from a slip and fall was always a threat. The cold, wet rain continued to bear down on us, adding further discomfort. Despite my poncho, my clothes were sodden. It was chilly, and we shivered despite our heavy physical effort. We walked for what seemed an interminable time, and were very wet and suffered cold, until we walked into Hornillos.
As we crossed the bridge into Hornillos, Randi and I feared there would be no café open, for it was still early in the morning. Hornillos looked small, and everything was dark. As we walked up to the café, it appeared closed. What joy filled our hearts when just as we arrived to the closed café, the shutters opened up with a rattle, the door unlocked and swung open, and the owner, a friendly man, ushered us in out of the rain. He even welcomed us tramping and leaving a trail of wet sludge with a charitable ambivalence. “The floors are clean so the pilgrims can made them dirty,” he explained. “And what of it? Mud dries into dirt and it can be swept out in a moment. Don’t worry about it.” We did, however, worry about it. We took our boots off, and left them at the entrance despite the license he had given us to muddy up his place. We were not altogether altruistic about it, for we wanted to warm our feet, and the only way do so was to take them out of our wet boots.
I downed three cafés con leche that morning, some water, and a hefty boccadillo de queso. We met some pilgrims from Ireland, one a talkative Catholic missionary to an African country I cannot recall, who had very little kind to say of the Muslims in the country which hosted her.
I I I
De Tardajos a Rabé Libera-nos Domine!
De Rabé a Hornillos Domine audi nos!!
The fuentes del Gallo
and de los Pere- grinos
Cross the high meseta into Hontanas
Descend into the valley of Sambol
Another meseta into Hontanas
On the Way: Hornillos to Hontanas
The rain virtually ceased as we drank our coffee. That this happened is not surprising, as we stalled a long time in the café. But after a time, the pilgrim feels the urge to go and can no longer justify the rest. Grimacing, we donned our wet clothes, wet socks, and wet, muddy boots and hit the road. The Camino ran straight through the small town of Hornillos. The town was full of fountains for the pilgrim. As we passed walked through the town, we passed to our left a very simple, cubical church of gray ashlar stone dedicated to San Román. Its first story was arched; the second square, with square windows pierced in the rock. It had a simple bell tower, with elongated arched windows in the belfry.
Out of Hornillos Randi and I traveled by way of a dirt road. We bore left and climbed a shallow glacis to the meseta, past the ruined farmsteads of Corrales de la Nuez, with a descent to the valley and the Fuente de San Bol. San Bol, or St. Baudelius, martyr of the faith, found his death at Nîmes in France around 380 A.D., maybe earlier. He harangued the pagans and dared to preach of Christ during Jupiter’s Feast, and so lost his head by the blade of an axe. The monastery dedicated to the ancient martyr that once was here is gone, like the water in the fountain. However, a resourceful group of Spaniards has built here a refugio a few hundred meters to the left of the Camino. We did not visit it; we ambled past it and headed toward the town of Hontanas.
From Sambol we ascended to another meseta, past the Granja de Sambol (really nothing but abandoned sheep pens). It was here that the priest-pilgrim Laffi encountered a poor man, half-eaten by locusts, but still alive. Laffi heard the man’s confession, absolved him, and, after the man died, buried him. That unfortunate man’s body lies somewhere here, given burial in an unmarked grave by the same hand that absolved his soul. That anonymous pilgrim’s soul, long separate of his body, lives well now, thanks to the Providence that led the priest Laffi here and the Christ that gave his priest the power to forgive and to absolve.
I I I
From Sambol we traveled to the height of Arenillas, and down to Hontanas. At Hontanas, we washed our muddy boots and drank of the cold water of the fountain. We passed by the refugio when we heard, “Haaaalooooo there.” The call bore the traces of a Flemish tongue. Following the voice led our eyes to focus on a window in the upper story of the refugio, where to our surprise we saw Eric, the Belgian.
As it turned out, Eric had been waylaid by an injury. His leg was all wrapped up thick in a bandage. We learned that he had developed tendonitis, and had to take two or three days off of walking. As we commiserated with Eric about his plight, we witnessed a marvelous display of friendship. And it all started with a white van that had difficulty managing the narrow roads of Hontanas, and honked repeatedly (and we thought unusually obnoxiously in this quiet town of Hontanas).
The van finally parked by the refugio, barely squeezing through the narrow alley, and leaving little way for pilgrims.
“Pascal, Staf, Jo, Jan!” shouted Eric as four men climbed out of the van, laden with a cooler.
Pascal, Staf, Jo, and Jan were Belgian. Friends and business associates of Eric, they had learned from Eric’s wife of his tendonitis, and decided to drive the 1,500 kilometers from their home to Hontanas to visit Eric. They brought with them a little bit of Belgium, as they brought Eric’s favorite foodstuffs with them and messages of encouragement from his wife.
We shared some Duval beer—a devil of a strong beer—with the Belgians. Although Eric tried to coax us into staying at Hontanas (the beer seemed to be his best advocate), Randi and I felt obliged to go on, for it was still too early to finish the day. Besides, the refugio was already nearing capacity with the recent addition of four additional Belgians.
We did not see Eric again on the Road. But we know that he healed fast, and he was a heck of a walker. When we made inquiry with fellow pilgrims in Santiago, we learned that he had beat us to Santiago, and had arrived hale there.
I I I
Furnellos
Arroyo Garban-zuelo
By the ruins of San Antón
On the Way: Hontanas to Castrojeríz
Randi and I had decided to walk the five or so miles from Hontanas to the town of Castrojeríz. By late morning, the foul weather had cleared, and so we hung our boots on our packs to dry, and walked out of Hontanas in our sandals. Although a local resident at Hontanas assured us that the Camino up ahead despite the rain would not be full of barrio or mud, we thought it prudent nevertheless to walk to Castrojeríz on the reliable pavement of the carretera.
The carretera trip was unexpectedly pleasant. There was very little traffic on the road, and it was beautifully lined with tall, narrow Lobelius maples. Rising tall and narrow in great rows one either side of the road, they had the feel of cypress trees. It felt almost if one was walking down a Tuscan road. The maples gave enough shade so that we could have a pleasant lunch on the side of the road. Randi and I shared the food we could find in our packs, and so we snacked a bric-a-brac lunch of cheese, chorizo, bread, peanuts, corn nuts, cherries, and Toblerone. A gentle breeze caressed us as we looked southward at the gray-purplish hills across the wheat fields. I watched a bus drop off an old woman at the side of the carretera, and observed her trudge to her village, a mile or more away. She carried some heavy bags. I did not know the village, for it was not on my map. The woman knew the village, but she was too far away to hail.
After lunch we climbed up to the height of Carroalcarro where sat the ruins of the Convent of San Antón, at one time belonging to the military order of the Antonines. The road runs right between the convent’s tall gothic arches, which rise between the buttresses of the old walls.
I I I
About the Way: The Knights of St. Anthony
The Antonines, named after St. Anthony of Egypt, were a militairy monastic order founded in France by Gaston de la Valloir in 1039. The particular emphasis of the order was to take care of those suffering from St. Anthony’s fire. This horrible disease, today recognized to be erysipelas, appeared in medieval Europe of the 10th century. The disease was caused by the consumption of rye bread infected with the fungus ergot, Claviceps purpura, which would appear as cockspurs on the rye plant. In mild cases, its sufferers would experience hallucinations (LSD was first isolated from this fungus) and wryneck. In serious cases, the unfortunate would endure gangrene and loss of members of their body. Thousands died and many more underwent the agony of this malady during the middle ages. The cause of the disease was finally isolated by a French physician, Dr. Thuillier, in 1670. Before that time, however, many suffered, and the Antonines relieved the suffering as best as they could. King Alfonso VII founded this particular monastery in 1146. After the order’s usefulness passed, and their numbers dwindled, the order was suppressed by Pope Pius VI (1775-99). I looked for the cross of their order which they shared with the Franciscans, the Tau, and was able to find it in the carvings below the windows of the church.
I I I
The blue Tau of the Antonine Knights
T
On the Way: Castrojeriz
The path from the old Antonine ruins on the heights of Carroalcarro to Castrojeriz was generally downhill. About a kilometer or so west from the ruins the arroyo de Garbanzuelo joined with the arroyo de Villajos. A little beyond Castrojeríz the joint arroyo dumps its water into the río Odra. Thunder rumbled ominously as we entered the town of Castrojeríz. As we climbed uphill to the center of the town, lightning flashed around us. We passed by the Church of Santa María de Manzano, which appeared closed. Santa María is a church that dates from the 9th century, although there are no signs of the original church. The originally humble Visigothic church, with square apse and rude stone, was replaced by a collegiate church in 1214, which still stands. It is of ashlar stone, well-built and ponderous, with a multilobed portal, sparse sculpture, and a large rose window between two butresses. Since the church was closed and offered no sanctuary, and we were tired, and the thunder followed quickly after the lightning, we looked for the closest hotel.
Into Castro-jeríz
k
Santa María de Manzano
Castrojeríz is a historic town. It was founded by the Visigoths in the 8th century. It is a town of many a church and one great castle or castrum atop its main hill. Over ages and ages, the Latin Castrum Sigerici was corrupted and elided by the careless hurry of the Castillian tongue to the present Castrojeríz. The town skirts a hill, on its southern slope, and its castle, its castro, sits atop of it. The town was the subject of a number of battles between Moors and Christians during the Reconquista. It is now at peace.
I I I
Dinner at the local restaurant was a hearty one. I had bean soup, pork loin with red peppers and potatos, and red wine. I had flan for desert. While we finished our meal, Richard walked by. He was complaining of an ailing tendon, but he wanted to walk the next day. We made plans to meet him in the morning at his hotel. With the plans made, we turned back to our hotel, prepared for the next morning, and went to bed.
M
Full Moon
k
[i] Source:
____Las Siete Partidas del Rey Don Alfonso el Sabio[i]
Southwest to Rabé de las Calzadas
Cross the río Horman-zuela into Hornillos
On the Way: Tardajos to Hornillos
It rained all night, and it was raining in the morning when we arose. Our clothes, which had hung all night on the clothesline outside the refugio, had not dried, so we packed them all wet and heavy into our packs. The only dry pair of socks I had was too thick for my boots, they cramped my toes, and they caused great discomfort. Richard elected to sleep late with the Brazilians, but Randi and I decided to brave the rain in our ponchos, for it looked like it would continue most of the day anyway.
The rain lightened somewhat as we traveled by paved road in the dark from the town of Tardajos to the town of Rabé de las Calzadas. This was a most difficult path for the medieval pilgrim, and so was born the old rhyme, “De Tardajos a Rabé Libera nos Domine.” It was very wet and cold that morning, and the thick socks hindered circulation in my feet and they suffered, and so the words Libera nos Domine! were the prayer of my toes. They wanted very badly to be freed of their misery.
For us that morning, the walk from Rabé to Hornillos through the valle de Hormaza was much, much worse than the trip from Tardajos to Rabé. De Rabé a Hornillos, te rogamus audi nos. For at Rabé we left the paved road to a dirt road, and a dirt road is always bad news in the rain. Indeed, the rain had left the dirt road in poor shape for walkers. The rain had transformed the dirt road into a river of mud, thick mud, slippery mud, sticky and sludgy mud, which stuck to the soles of our boots and made them heavy, uncontrollable weights. The weight of the mud strained the hamstrings. For several hours, it felt as though we were walking on a sponge cake with thick, brown icing. The prospect of serious injury from a slip and fall was always a threat. The cold, wet rain continued to bear down on us, adding further discomfort. Despite my poncho, my clothes were sodden. It was chilly, and we shivered despite our heavy physical effort. We walked for what seemed an interminable time, and were very wet and suffered cold, until we walked into Hornillos.
As we crossed the bridge into Hornillos, Randi and I feared there would be no café open, for it was still early in the morning. Hornillos looked small, and everything was dark. As we walked up to the café, it appeared closed. What joy filled our hearts when just as we arrived to the closed café, the shutters opened up with a rattle, the door unlocked and swung open, and the owner, a friendly man, ushered us in out of the rain. He even welcomed us tramping and leaving a trail of wet sludge with a charitable ambivalence. “The floors are clean so the pilgrims can made them dirty,” he explained. “And what of it? Mud dries into dirt and it can be swept out in a moment. Don’t worry about it.” We did, however, worry about it. We took our boots off, and left them at the entrance despite the license he had given us to muddy up his place. We were not altogether altruistic about it, for we wanted to warm our feet, and the only way do so was to take them out of our wet boots.
I downed three cafés con leche that morning, some water, and a hefty boccadillo de queso. We met some pilgrims from Ireland, one a talkative Catholic missionary to an African country I cannot recall, who had very little kind to say of the Muslims in the country which hosted her.
I I I
De Tardajos a Rabé Libera-nos Domine!
De Rabé a Hornillos Domine audi nos!!
The fuentes del Gallo
and de los Pere- grinos
Cross the high meseta into Hontanas
Descend into the valley of Sambol
Another meseta into Hontanas
On the Way: Hornillos to Hontanas
The rain virtually ceased as we drank our coffee. That this happened is not surprising, as we stalled a long time in the café. But after a time, the pilgrim feels the urge to go and can no longer justify the rest. Grimacing, we donned our wet clothes, wet socks, and wet, muddy boots and hit the road. The Camino ran straight through the small town of Hornillos. The town was full of fountains for the pilgrim. As we passed walked through the town, we passed to our left a very simple, cubical church of gray ashlar stone dedicated to San Román. Its first story was arched; the second square, with square windows pierced in the rock. It had a simple bell tower, with elongated arched windows in the belfry.
Out of Hornillos Randi and I traveled by way of a dirt road. We bore left and climbed a shallow glacis to the meseta, past the ruined farmsteads of Corrales de la Nuez, with a descent to the valley and the Fuente de San Bol. San Bol, or St. Baudelius, martyr of the faith, found his death at Nîmes in France around 380 A.D., maybe earlier. He harangued the pagans and dared to preach of Christ during Jupiter’s Feast, and so lost his head by the blade of an axe. The monastery dedicated to the ancient martyr that once was here is gone, like the water in the fountain. However, a resourceful group of Spaniards has built here a refugio a few hundred meters to the left of the Camino. We did not visit it; we ambled past it and headed toward the town of Hontanas.
From Sambol we ascended to another meseta, past the Granja de Sambol (really nothing but abandoned sheep pens). It was here that the priest-pilgrim Laffi encountered a poor man, half-eaten by locusts, but still alive. Laffi heard the man’s confession, absolved him, and, after the man died, buried him. That unfortunate man’s body lies somewhere here, given burial in an unmarked grave by the same hand that absolved his soul. That anonymous pilgrim’s soul, long separate of his body, lives well now, thanks to the Providence that led the priest Laffi here and the Christ that gave his priest the power to forgive and to absolve.
I I I
From Sambol we traveled to the height of Arenillas, and down to Hontanas. At Hontanas, we washed our muddy boots and drank of the cold water of the fountain. We passed by the refugio when we heard, “Haaaalooooo there.” The call bore the traces of a Flemish tongue. Following the voice led our eyes to focus on a window in the upper story of the refugio, where to our surprise we saw Eric, the Belgian.
As it turned out, Eric had been waylaid by an injury. His leg was all wrapped up thick in a bandage. We learned that he had developed tendonitis, and had to take two or three days off of walking. As we commiserated with Eric about his plight, we witnessed a marvelous display of friendship. And it all started with a white van that had difficulty managing the narrow roads of Hontanas, and honked repeatedly (and we thought unusually obnoxiously in this quiet town of Hontanas).
The van finally parked by the refugio, barely squeezing through the narrow alley, and leaving little way for pilgrims.
“Pascal, Staf, Jo, Jan!” shouted Eric as four men climbed out of the van, laden with a cooler.
Pascal, Staf, Jo, and Jan were Belgian. Friends and business associates of Eric, they had learned from Eric’s wife of his tendonitis, and decided to drive the 1,500 kilometers from their home to Hontanas to visit Eric. They brought with them a little bit of Belgium, as they brought Eric’s favorite foodstuffs with them and messages of encouragement from his wife.
We shared some Duval beer—a devil of a strong beer—with the Belgians. Although Eric tried to coax us into staying at Hontanas (the beer seemed to be his best advocate), Randi and I felt obliged to go on, for it was still too early to finish the day. Besides, the refugio was already nearing capacity with the recent addition of four additional Belgians.
We did not see Eric again on the Road. But we know that he healed fast, and he was a heck of a walker. When we made inquiry with fellow pilgrims in Santiago, we learned that he had beat us to Santiago, and had arrived hale there.
I I I
Furnellos
Arroyo Garban-zuelo
By the ruins of San Antón
On the Way: Hontanas to Castrojeríz
Randi and I had decided to walk the five or so miles from Hontanas to the town of Castrojeríz. By late morning, the foul weather had cleared, and so we hung our boots on our packs to dry, and walked out of Hontanas in our sandals. Although a local resident at Hontanas assured us that the Camino up ahead despite the rain would not be full of barrio or mud, we thought it prudent nevertheless to walk to Castrojeríz on the reliable pavement of the carretera.
The carretera trip was unexpectedly pleasant. There was very little traffic on the road, and it was beautifully lined with tall, narrow Lobelius maples. Rising tall and narrow in great rows one either side of the road, they had the feel of cypress trees. It felt almost if one was walking down a Tuscan road. The maples gave enough shade so that we could have a pleasant lunch on the side of the road. Randi and I shared the food we could find in our packs, and so we snacked a bric-a-brac lunch of cheese, chorizo, bread, peanuts, corn nuts, cherries, and Toblerone. A gentle breeze caressed us as we looked southward at the gray-purplish hills across the wheat fields. I watched a bus drop off an old woman at the side of the carretera, and observed her trudge to her village, a mile or more away. She carried some heavy bags. I did not know the village, for it was not on my map. The woman knew the village, but she was too far away to hail.
After lunch we climbed up to the height of Carroalcarro where sat the ruins of the Convent of San Antón, at one time belonging to the military order of the Antonines. The road runs right between the convent’s tall gothic arches, which rise between the buttresses of the old walls.
I I I
About the Way: The Knights of St. Anthony
The Antonines, named after St. Anthony of Egypt, were a militairy monastic order founded in France by Gaston de la Valloir in 1039. The particular emphasis of the order was to take care of those suffering from St. Anthony’s fire. This horrible disease, today recognized to be erysipelas, appeared in medieval Europe of the 10th century. The disease was caused by the consumption of rye bread infected with the fungus ergot, Claviceps purpura, which would appear as cockspurs on the rye plant. In mild cases, its sufferers would experience hallucinations (LSD was first isolated from this fungus) and wryneck. In serious cases, the unfortunate would endure gangrene and loss of members of their body. Thousands died and many more underwent the agony of this malady during the middle ages. The cause of the disease was finally isolated by a French physician, Dr. Thuillier, in 1670. Before that time, however, many suffered, and the Antonines relieved the suffering as best as they could. King Alfonso VII founded this particular monastery in 1146. After the order’s usefulness passed, and their numbers dwindled, the order was suppressed by Pope Pius VI (1775-99). I looked for the cross of their order which they shared with the Franciscans, the Tau, and was able to find it in the carvings below the windows of the church.
I I I
The blue Tau of the Antonine Knights
T
On the Way: Castrojeriz
The path from the old Antonine ruins on the heights of Carroalcarro to Castrojeriz was generally downhill. About a kilometer or so west from the ruins the arroyo de Garbanzuelo joined with the arroyo de Villajos. A little beyond Castrojeríz the joint arroyo dumps its water into the río Odra. Thunder rumbled ominously as we entered the town of Castrojeríz. As we climbed uphill to the center of the town, lightning flashed around us. We passed by the Church of Santa María de Manzano, which appeared closed. Santa María is a church that dates from the 9th century, although there are no signs of the original church. The originally humble Visigothic church, with square apse and rude stone, was replaced by a collegiate church in 1214, which still stands. It is of ashlar stone, well-built and ponderous, with a multilobed portal, sparse sculpture, and a large rose window between two butresses. Since the church was closed and offered no sanctuary, and we were tired, and the thunder followed quickly after the lightning, we looked for the closest hotel.
Into Castro-jeríz
k
Santa María de Manzano
Castrojeríz is a historic town. It was founded by the Visigoths in the 8th century. It is a town of many a church and one great castle or castrum atop its main hill. Over ages and ages, the Latin Castrum Sigerici was corrupted and elided by the careless hurry of the Castillian tongue to the present Castrojeríz. The town skirts a hill, on its southern slope, and its castle, its castro, sits atop of it. The town was the subject of a number of battles between Moors and Christians during the Reconquista. It is now at peace.
I I I
Dinner at the local restaurant was a hearty one. I had bean soup, pork loin with red peppers and potatos, and red wine. I had flan for desert. While we finished our meal, Richard walked by. He was complaining of an ailing tendon, but he wanted to walk the next day. We made plans to meet him in the morning at his hotel. With the plans made, we turned back to our hotel, prepared for the next morning, and went to bed.
M
Full Moon
k
[i] Source: “Men become romers and pilgrims to serve God and honor the saints. And because that is what they endeavor to do, they leave their families, their land, their wives, their homes, and all that they have, and they go through foreign lands, lacerating their bodies and leaving their belongings looking for shrines.”
____Las Siete Partidas del Rey Don Alfonso el Sabio[i]
Southwest to Rabé de las Calzadas
Cross the río Horman-zuela into Hornillos
On the Way: Tardajos to Hornillos
It rained all night, and it was raining in the morning when we arose. Our clothes, which had hung all night on the clothesline outside the refugio, had not dried, so we packed them all wet and heavy into our packs. The only dry pair of socks I had was too thick for my boots, they cramped my toes, and they caused great discomfort. Richard elected to sleep late with the Brazilians, but Randi and I decided to brave the rain in our ponchos, for it looked like it would continue most of the day anyway.
The rain lightened somewhat as we traveled by paved road in the dark from the town of Tardajos to the town of Rabé de las Calzadas. This was a most difficult path for the medieval pilgrim, and so was born the old rhyme, “De Tardajos a Rabé Libera nos Domine.” It was very wet and cold that morning, and the thick socks hindered circulation in my feet and they suffered, and so the words Libera nos Domine! were the prayer of my toes. They wanted very badly to be freed of their misery.
For us that morning, the walk from Rabé to Hornillos through the valle de Hormaza was much, much worse than the trip from Tardajos to Rabé. De Rabé a Hornillos, te rogamus audi nos. For at Rabé we left the paved road to a dirt road, and a dirt road is always bad news in the rain. Indeed, the rain had left the dirt road in poor shape for walkers. The rain had transformed the dirt road into a river of mud, thick mud, slippery mud, sticky and sludgy mud, which stuck to the soles of our boots and made them heavy, uncontrollable weights. The weight of the mud strained the hamstrings. For several hours, it felt as though we were walking on a sponge cake with thick, brown icing. The prospect of serious injury from a slip and fall was always a threat. The cold, wet rain continued to bear down on us, adding further discomfort. Despite my poncho, my clothes were sodden. It was chilly, and we shivered despite our heavy physical effort. We walked for what seemed an interminable time, and were very wet and suffered cold, until we walked into Hornillos.
As we crossed the bridge into Hornillos, Randi and I feared there would be no café open, for it was still early in the morning. Hornillos looked small, and everything was dark. As we walked up to the café, it appeared closed. What joy filled our hearts when just as we arrived to the closed café, the shutters opened up with a rattle, the door unlocked and swung open, and the owner, a friendly man, ushered us in out of the rain. He even welcomed us tramping and leaving a trail of wet sludge with a charitable ambivalence. “The floors are clean so the pilgrims can made them dirty,” he explained. “And what of it? Mud dries into dirt and it can be swept out in a moment. Don’t worry about it.” We did, however, worry about it. We took our boots off, and left them at the entrance despite the license he had given us to muddy up his place. We were not altogether altruistic about it, for we wanted to warm our feet, and the only way do so was to take them out of our wet boots.
I downed three cafés con leche that morning, some water, and a hefty boccadillo de queso. We met some pilgrims from Ireland, one a talkative Catholic missionary to an African country I cannot recall, who had very little kind to say of the Muslims in the country which hosted her.
I I I
De Tardajos a Rabé Libera-nos Domine!
De Rabé a Hornillos Domine audi nos!!
The fuentes del Gallo
and de los Pere- grinos
Cross the high meseta into Hontanas
Descend into the valley of Sambol
Another meseta into Hontanas
On the Way: Hornillos to Hontanas
The rain virtually ceased as we drank our coffee. That this happened is not surprising, as we stalled a long time in the café. But after a time, the pilgrim feels the urge to go and can no longer justify the rest. Grimacing, we donned our wet clothes, wet socks, and wet, muddy boots and hit the road. The Camino ran straight through the small town of Hornillos. The town was full of fountains for the pilgrim. As we passed walked through the town, we passed to our left a very simple, cubical church of gray ashlar stone dedicated to San Román. Its first story was arched; the second square, with square windows pierced in the rock. It had a simple bell tower, with elongated arched windows in the belfry.
Out of Hornillos Randi and I traveled by way of a dirt road. We bore left and climbed a shallow glacis to the meseta, past the ruined farmsteads of Corrales de la Nuez, with a descent to the valley and the Fuente de San Bol. San Bol, or St. Baudelius, martyr of the faith, found his death at Nîmes in France around 380 A.D., maybe earlier. He harangued the pagans and dared to preach of Christ during Jupiter’s Feast, and so lost his head by the blade of an axe. The monastery dedicated to the ancient martyr that once was here is gone, like the water in the fountain. However, a resourceful group of Spaniards has built here a refugio a few hundred meters to the left of the Camino. We did not visit it; we ambled past it and headed toward the town of Hontanas.
From Sambol we ascended to another meseta, past the Granja de Sambol (really nothing but abandoned sheep pens). It was here that the priest-pilgrim Laffi encountered a poor man, half-eaten by locusts, but still alive. Laffi heard the man’s confession, absolved him, and, after the man died, buried him. That unfortunate man’s body lies somewhere here, given burial in an unmarked grave by the same hand that absolved his soul. That anonymous pilgrim’s soul, long separate of his body, lives well now, thanks to the Providence that led the priest Laffi here and the Christ that gave his priest the power to forgive and to absolve.
I I I
From Sambol we traveled to the height of Arenillas, and down to Hontanas. At Hontanas, we washed our muddy boots and drank of the cold water of the fountain. We passed by the refugio when we heard, “Haaaalooooo there.” The call bore the traces of a Flemish tongue. Following the voice led our eyes to focus on a window in the upper story of the refugio, where to our surprise we saw Eric, the Belgian.
As it turned out, Eric had been waylaid by an injury. His leg was all wrapped up thick in a bandage. We learned that he had developed tendonitis, and had to take two or three days off of walking. As we commiserated with Eric about his plight, we witnessed a marvelous display of friendship. And it all started with a white van that had difficulty managing the narrow roads of Hontanas, and honked repeatedly (and we thought unusually obnoxiously in this quiet town of Hontanas).
The van finally parked by the refugio, barely squeezing through the narrow alley, and leaving little way for pilgrims.
“Pascal, Staf, Jo, Jan!” shouted Eric as four men climbed out of the van, laden with a cooler.
Pascal, Staf, Jo, and Jan were Belgian. Friends and business associates of Eric, they had learned from Eric’s wife of his tendonitis, and decided to drive the 1,500 kilometers from their home to Hontanas to visit Eric. They brought with them a little bit of Belgium, as they brought Eric’s favorite foodstuffs with them and messages of encouragement from his wife.
We shared some Duval beer—a devil of a strong beer—with the Belgians. Although Eric tried to coax us into staying at Hontanas (the beer seemed to be his best advocate), Randi and I felt obliged to go on, for it was still too early to finish the day. Besides, the refugio was already nearing capacity with the recent addition of four additional Belgians.
We did not see Eric again on the Road. But we know that he healed fast, and he was a heck of a walker. When we made inquiry with fellow pilgrims in Santiago, we learned that he had beat us to Santiago, and had arrived hale there.
I I I
Furnellos
Arroyo Garban-zuelo
By the ruins of San Antón
On the Way: Hontanas to Castrojeríz
Randi and I had decided to walk the five or so miles from Hontanas to the town of Castrojeríz. By late morning, the foul weather had cleared, and so we hung our boots on our packs to dry, and walked out of Hontanas in our sandals. Although a local resident at Hontanas assured us that the Camino up ahead despite the rain would not be full of barrio or mud, we thought it prudent nevertheless to walk to Castrojeríz on the reliable pavement of the carretera.
The carretera trip was unexpectedly pleasant. There was very little traffic on the road, and it was beautifully lined with tall, narrow Lobelius maples. Rising tall and narrow in great rows one either side of the road, they had the feel of cypress trees. It felt almost if one was walking down a Tuscan road. The maples gave enough shade so that we could have a pleasant lunch on the side of the road. Randi and I shared the food we could find in our packs, and so we snacked a bric-a-brac lunch of cheese, chorizo, bread, peanuts, corn nuts, cherries, and Toblerone. A gentle breeze caressed us as we looked southward at the gray-purplish hills across the wheat fields. I watched a bus drop off an old woman at the side of the carretera, and observed her trudge to her village, a mile or more away. She carried some heavy bags. I did not know the village, for it was not on my map. The woman knew the village, but she was too far away to hail.
After lunch we climbed up to the height of Carroalcarro where sat the ruins of the Convent of San Antón, at one time belonging to the military order of the Antonines. The road runs right between the convent’s tall gothic arches, which rise between the buttresses of the old walls.
I I I
About the Way: The Knights of St. Anthony
The Antonines, named after St. Anthony of Egypt, were a militairy monastic order founded in France by Gaston de la Valloir in 1039. The particular emphasis of the order was to take care of those suffering from St. Anthony’s fire. This horrible disease, today recognized to be erysipelas, appeared in medieval Europe of the 10th century. The disease was caused by the consumption of rye bread infected with the fungus ergot, Claviceps purpura, which would appear as cockspurs on the rye plant. In mild cases, its sufferers would experience hallucinations (LSD was first isolated from this fungus) and wryneck. In serious cases, the unfortunate would endure gangrene and loss of members of their body. Thousands died and many more underwent the agony of this malady during the middle ages. The cause of the disease was finally isolated by a French physician, Dr. Thuillier, in 1670. Before that time, however, many suffered, and the Antonines relieved the suffering as best as they could. King Alfonso VII founded this particular monastery in 1146. After the order’s usefulness passed, and their numbers dwindled, the order was suppressed by Pope Pius VI (1775-99). I looked for the cross of their order which they shared with the Franciscans, the Tau, and was able to find it in the carvings below the windows of the church.
I I I
The blue Tau of the Antonine Knights
T
On the Way: Castrojeriz
The path from the old Antonine ruins on the heights of Carroalcarro to Castrojeriz was generally downhill. About a kilometer or so west from the ruins the arroyo de Garbanzuelo joined with the arroyo de Villajos. A little beyond Castrojeríz the joint arroyo dumps its water into the río Odra. Thunder rumbled ominously as we entered the town of Castrojeríz. As we climbed uphill to the center of the town, lightning flashed around us. We passed by the Church of Santa María de Manzano, which appeared closed. Santa María is a church that dates from the 9th century, although there are no signs of the original church. The originally humble Visigothic church, with square apse and rude stone, was replaced by a collegiate church in 1214, which still stands. It is of ashlar stone, well-built and ponderous, with a multilobed portal, sparse sculpture, and a large rose window between two butresses. Since the church was closed and offered no sanctuary, and we were tired, and the thunder followed quickly after the lightning, we looked for the closest hotel.
Into Castro-jeríz
k
Santa María de Manzano
Castrojeríz is a historic town. It was founded by the Visigoths in the 8th century. It is a town of many a church and one great castle or castrum atop its main hill. Over ages and ages, the Latin Castrum Sigerici was corrupted and elided by the careless hurry of the Castillian tongue to the present Castrojeríz. The town skirts a hill, on its southern slope, and its castle, its castro, sits atop of it. The town was the subject of a number of battles between Moors and Christians during the Reconquista. It is now at peace.
I I I
Dinner at the local restaurant was a hearty one. I had bean soup, pork loin with red peppers and potatos, and red wine. I had flan for desert. While we finished our meal, Richard walked by. He was complaining of an ailing tendon, but he wanted to walk the next day. We made plans to meet him in the morning at his hotel. With the plans made, we turned back to our hotel, prepared for the next morning, and went to bed.
M
Full Moon
k
[i] Source:
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