“A vow had bound him ne’er to give his heart
To a streamlet bright, or soft secluded grow.
‘Twas a hard humbling task, onwards to move.
His easy-captured eyes from each fair spot,
With unattach’d and lonely step to rove
O’er happy meadows, which soon its print forgot:—
Yet kept he safe his pledge, prizing his pilgrim lot. ”
____John Henry Newman, Verses on Various Occasions[i]
Carda-ñuela and by the río Pico, through Orbaneja.
Into Burgos
On the Way: Atapuerca to Burgos
We left Atapuerca in the early morning, and the road began to climb slightly as we crossed the Sierra, which was clothed in woods of oak and pine. Through muddy trails and dew-decked brush, uphill and downhill, we crossed the shallow mountain range. While we climbed down the hills, some Army vehicles going uphill passed us, and, after a brief interrogation, the soldiers wished us “Buen Camino.”
That morning I was shod in sandals, for I decided to follow St. John’s advice and unbind my feet temporarily from my boots (which I counted among the instruments of torture worthy of the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tassaud’s). Once over and past the mountain range, we took a simple paved farm road into Cardeñuela del Río Pico, which, as the name informs, is by the río Pico, a diminutive river, really just a stream. As we headed to Cardeñuela the way lead us beyond the oak trees of the hills and though a pleasant meadow, called pozo Rubio, “fair well,” or campo de las Brujas, meaning “Field of the Witches.” Cardeñuela, like so many of the towns on the Camino, can be seen from far off and identified by its church, atop a hill, with its Renaissance portico and its bell tower with two large bells, which, were silent when we passed through.
At Cardeñuela a cock crowed, and we stopped by the café at the corner of a small cross road, and had cafes con leche and bocadillos de queso for breakfast. The owner, a large woman, was very friendly, and did not mind in the least that we had tracked mud throughout her clean floors. “That’s what they are there for!” she cheerily responded.
From Cardeñuela we followed the río Pico on a farm road through Orbanela and its grey stone church, until we reached Villafría with its church of white-grey stone, arched windows, and four bells, each in its own arch, and one bell in a horseshoe arch. The bell in the horseshoe arch rang nine times (twice) as we passed it. May the bells of Romanesque churches never cease to peal in Spain!
The path veered to the right, and it took us over the railroad tracks. We entered Burgos by means of a long and uninspiring, wide and many-laned street. As we started to Burgos, I was met with a scene of stark contrasts, as if someone had taken two pictures of Spain, centuries apart and placed them side by side in front of me. If I looked left, I saw a shepherd in a gray beret and sweater, walking and cajoling his sheep to pasture. If I looked right, I saw modern workmen in blue coveralls working with cranes and building new residences. On the main road into Burgos, the traffic was busy, and we passed many modern factories. We stopped briefly in a café in Burgos, Randi and Richard bought some walking sandals. Refreshed, we headed further into Burgos, prayed briefly at the Church of St. Lesmes. After we left the church, I met a man from Texas, spoke about the pilgrimage to him, said good-bye, and then walked toward the towers of the Cathedral.
I I I
Burgas
Burgos is a city named after a castle, but in sooth it is the town the capitán Rodrigo de Bivar, El Mio Cid Campeador, banished from here by Alfonso VI, and buried here. El Cid with his horse Babieca and his sword Tizona is the subject of epopee, one of the hirsute men that epics and legends are made of. Burgos is also the town of a marvelous temple.
The cathedral of Burgos stood confidently in the plaza, and in the sun it shone chalky and pink. It is of France. It is of Germany. It is of Spain. It is of Europe. The first stones were laid in 1221 by Ferdinand III and Bishop Maurice. The first architect is likely French, though his identity is unknown. There was second building phase in the late 15th century, handled by architects from Cologne headed by Juan de Colonia, his son Simón, and his grandson, Francisco. Among other things, they added the pinnacled and crocheted look to the great spires.
N
Catedral de Burgos
Inside I prayed—pack and all—at the Capilla containing the Christ of Burgos. The 17th century Italian pilgrim Laffi tells us that this Crucifix of Burgos (the Santo Cristo de Burgos) was one of three crucifixes made by Nicodemus.[ii] The first mention of the crucifix is by Baron Lev of Rozmitel in 1466, who describes the crucifix in his book of travels.[iii] It is made out of dried ox-hide—the better to resemble human flesh—and uses actual human hair for scalp and beard. For my sensibilities it was a little grotesque, disfigured and contorted, as it were, by the crude and fierce realism (as Giovanni Papini puts it) of the makers of the Spanish crucifix makers. Unquestionably, it effectively relayed the message of a God who suffered much. Beneath the crucifix was a tabernacle, and in the tabernacle, in silence, the humble and innocent God Who was depicted brutally punished on the cross above. My second glance at the Cristo de Burgos brought thoughts of Péguy:
Alas my Son, alas my Son, alas my Son;
My Son who on the Cross had a skin as dry as bark;
A faded skin, a wrinkled skin, a tanned skin;
A skin which cracked under the nails.[iv]
I I I
After worship lunch. After lunch, Richard, Randi, and I departed for Tardajos.
I I I
Out of Burgos over the Puente de los Malatos and the río Arlanzón
On the Way: Burgos to Tardajos
After Burgos the pilgrim encounters the mesetas of clay and limestone, and then beyond Frómista the llanuras or plains of the Tierra de Campos which continue through to the Páramo leonés, the Desert of León. According to Trogus Pompeius, the Gaul, this was a hard land and parsimonious when Rome ruled the world; and it remains so today for the pilgrim. It is a land of alternating fields, some barren and dry, others irrigated and bearing grain, but all interminably flat and hot.
Dura omnibus et adstricta parsi-monia.
A land of extremes—exposed to frigid winters and torrid summers—yielding comfort to no man. There is little to spark the imagination, to occupy the senses, and so the path is externally monotonous, the only partner being the endless shifting of the pilgrim’s feet. After the rich variety of the land of Navarre and La Rioja and the parts of Castile through which we have traveled, the monotony is new and unwelcome. It numbs the senses which cry for the solace of trees and the comfort of gurgling brooks. It is the time of suffering, the time of physical passion of the pilgrim to Compostela. The pilgrim, like the Desert Fathers, must turn inward for relief; he is forced to carry an introspective colloquy within his soul and with his God. This is what this portion of the pilgrimage is about. So every guide has warned. Indeed, the warnings frighten some pilgrims. Some pilgrims avoid this portion altogether, and take a bus through the mesetas and llanuras.
I I I
Hug the río Arlanzón for a while
We left Burgos through the puerta de San Martín and over the famed puente de Los Malatos, the Leper’s Bridge, which spans the río Arlanzón.
The río Arlanzón, the river that refreshes Burgos with its cool waters, is yet a temperamental river, and dangerous, less so perhaps now than years previous. In the 12th century, Alfonso VI narrowly escaped drowning here, when he fell off his horse chasing thieves. He was saved, not by his strong arms, or those of his guards, but by his prayers to the Christ of Benavel. St. Theresa of Avila, on her way into Burgos to found a Carmelite convent, had her carriage upended here at the Arlanzón. Suffering the inconvenience of water and mud—surely heavy upon her habit of brown—she asked God in this moment of frustration why he treated her thus. He responded that he treated all His friends in this manner. St. Theresa, not to be undone, quipped, “If that is so, I can see why you have so few of them.” Apocryphal this? Perhaps. But as is always the case with the stuff of legends: Si non e vero e ben trovato.
I I I
Cross the Arlanzón again by the Puente del Arzobispointo Tardajo
Out of Burgos we followed, more or less, the río Arlanzón. The path turned to a dirt road, which hugged the tracks of a railroad. On occasion, trains would whiz by howling and blowing their horns, as if to mock us with their superior speed and efficiency. We headed toward the town of Tardajos. Tardajos is a town of Roman origin, on the old Roman road, though it was known in those far off times as Agustobriga.
Once in Tardajos, we checked into the refugio, met the Brazilian pilgrims that we had seen in Atapuerca, cleaned up, did our wash, bought some provisions for the day ahead, had dinner, and went upstairs to bed. There was little else to do in Tardajos.
I I I
Very early, a few hours past midnight, I heard a banging on the door of the refugio. It was raining. A Spanish pilgrim, named Margarita, started yelling at the person knocking on the door. The banging persisted, and Margarita let the person in. He was wet, ill-clothed, and he was shivering. He told his story. He had been thrown out of his home at Burgos by his family. He had some drug problems, and he had feared he had acquired AIDS. But he had just received his test reports, and he had tested negative for the disease. In thanksgiving, he wanted to make the pilgrimage to Santiago. We found a blanket to cover him, he thanked us, and shivering he went to bed.
k
[i] J. H. Newman, The Pilgrim, Verses on Various Occasions (Dimension Books: New Jersey), p. 61
[ii] Laffi, at 137.
[iii] Starkie, p. 220.
[iv] Charles Péguy, The Mystery of the Holy Innocents (translated by Pansy Pakenham) “A vow had bound him ne’er to give his heart
To a streamlet bright, or soft secluded grow.
‘Twas a hard humbling task, onwards to move.
His easy-captured eyes from each fair spot,
With unattach’d and lonely step to rove
O’er happy meadows, which soon its print forgot:—
Yet kept he safe his pledge, prizing his pilgrim lot. ”
____John Henry Newman, Verses on Various Occasions[i]
Carda-ñuela and by the río Pico, through Orbaneja.
Into Burgos
On the Way: Atapuerca to Burgos
We left Atapuerca in the early morning, and the road began to climb slightly as we crossed the Sierra, which was clothed in woods of oak and pine. Through muddy trails and dew-decked brush, uphill and downhill, we crossed the shallow mountain range. While we climbed down the hills, some Army vehicles going uphill passed us, and, after a brief interrogation, the soldiers wished us “Buen Camino.”
That morning I was shod in sandals, for I decided to follow St. John’s advice and unbind my feet temporarily from my boots (which I counted among the instruments of torture worthy of the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tassaud’s). Once over and past the mountain range, we took a simple paved farm road into Cardeñuela del Río Pico, which, as the name informs, is by the río Pico, a diminutive river, really just a stream. As we headed to Cardeñuela the way lead us beyond the oak trees of the hills and though a pleasant meadow, called pozo Rubio, “fair well,” or campo de las Brujas, meaning “Field of the Witches.” Cardeñuela, like so many of the towns on the Camino, can be seen from far off and identified by its church, atop a hill, with its Renaissance portico and its bell tower with two large bells, which, were silent when we passed through.
At Cardeñuela a cock crowed, and we stopped by the café at the corner of a small cross road, and had cafes con leche and bocadillos de queso for breakfast. The owner, a large woman, was very friendly, and did not mind in the least that we had tracked mud throughout her clean floors. “That’s what they are there for!” she cheerily responded.
From Cardeñuela we followed the río Pico on a farm road through Orbanela and its grey stone church, until we reached Villafría with its church of white-grey stone, arched windows, and four bells, each in its own arch, and one bell in a horseshoe arch. The bell in the horseshoe arch rang nine times (twice) as we passed it. May the bells of Romanesque churches never cease to peal in Spain!
The path veered to the right, and it took us over the railroad tracks. We entered Burgos by means of a long and uninspiring, wide and many-laned street. As we started to Burgos, I was met with a scene of stark contrasts, as if someone had taken two pictures of Spain, centuries apart and placed them side by side in front of me. If I looked left, I saw a shepherd in a gray beret and sweater, walking and cajoling his sheep to pasture. If I looked right, I saw modern workmen in blue coveralls working with cranes and building new residences. On the main road into Burgos, the traffic was busy, and we passed many modern factories. We stopped briefly in a café in Burgos, Randi and Richard bought some walking sandals. Refreshed, we headed further into Burgos, prayed briefly at the Church of St. Lesmes. After we left the church, I met a man from Texas, spoke about the pilgrimage to him, said good-bye, and then walked toward the towers of the Cathedral.
I I I
Burgas
Burgos is a city named after a castle, but in sooth it is the town the capitán Rodrigo de Bivar, El Mio Cid Campeador, banished from here by Alfonso VI, and buried here. El Cid with his horse Babieca and his sword Tizona is the subject of epopee, one of the hirsute men that epics and legends are made of. Burgos is also the town of a marvelous temple.
The cathedral of Burgos stood confidently in the plaza, and in the sun it shone chalky and pink. It is of France. It is of Germany. It is of Spain. It is of Europe. The first stones were laid in 1221 by Ferdinand III and Bishop Maurice. The first architect is likely French, though his identity is unknown. There was second building phase in the late 15th century, handled by architects from Cologne headed by Juan de Colonia, his son Simón, and his grandson, Francisco. Among other things, they added the pinnacled and crocheted look to the great spires.
N
Catedral de Burgos
Inside I prayed—pack and all—at the Capilla containing the Christ of Burgos. The 17th century Italian pilgrim Laffi tells us that this Crucifix of Burgos (the Santo Cristo de Burgos) was one of three crucifixes made by Nicodemus.[ii] The first mention of the crucifix is by Baron Lev of Rozmitel in 1466, who describes the crucifix in his book of travels.[iii] It is made out of dried ox-hide—the better to resemble human flesh—and uses actual human hair for scalp and beard. For my sensibilities it was a little grotesque, disfigured and contorted, as it were, by the crude and fierce realism (as Giovanni Papini puts it) of the makers of the Spanish crucifix makers. Unquestionably, it effectively relayed the message of a God who suffered much. Beneath the crucifix was a tabernacle, and in the tabernacle, in silence, the humble and innocent God Who was depicted brutally punished on the cross above. My second glance at the Cristo de Burgos brought thoughts of Péguy:
Alas my Son, alas my Son, alas my Son;
My Son who on the Cross had a skin as dry as bark;
A faded skin, a wrinkled skin, a tanned skin;
A skin which cracked under the nails.[iv]
I I I
After worship lunch. After lunch, Richard, Randi, and I departed for Tardajos.
I I I
Out of Burgos over the Puente de los Malatos and the río Arlanzón
On the Way: Burgos to Tardajos
After Burgos the pilgrim encounters the mesetas of clay and limestone, and then beyond Frómista the llanuras or plains of the Tierra de Campos which continue through to the Páramo leonés, the Desert of León. According to Trogus Pompeius, the Gaul, this was a hard land and parsimonious when Rome ruled the world; and it remains so today for the pilgrim. It is a land of alternating fields, some barren and dry, others irrigated and bearing grain, but all interminably flat and hot.
Dura omnibus et adstricta parsi-monia.
A land of extremes—exposed to frigid winters and torrid summers—yielding comfort to no man. There is little to spark the imagination, to occupy the senses, and so the path is externally monotonous, the only partner being the endless shifting of the pilgrim’s feet. After the rich variety of the land of Navarre and La Rioja and the parts of Castile through which we have traveled, the monotony is new and unwelcome. It numbs the senses which cry for the solace of trees and the comfort of gurgling brooks. It is the time of suffering, the time of physical passion of the pilgrim to Compostela. The pilgrim, like the Desert Fathers, must turn inward for relief; he is forced to carry an introspective colloquy within his soul and with his God. This is what this portion of the pilgrimage is about. So every guide has warned. Indeed, the warnings frighten some pilgrims. Some pilgrims avoid this portion altogether, and take a bus through the mesetas and llanuras.
I I I
Hug the río Arlanzón for a while
We left Burgos through the puerta de San Martín and over the famed puente de Los Malatos, the Leper’s Bridge, which spans the río Arlanzón.
The río Arlanzón, the river that refreshes Burgos with its cool waters, is yet a temperamental river, and dangerous, less so perhaps now than years previous. In the 12th century, Alfonso VI narrowly escaped drowning here, when he fell off his horse chasing thieves. He was saved, not by his strong arms, or those of his guards, but by his prayers to the Christ of Benavel. St. Theresa of Avila, on her way into Burgos to found a Carmelite convent, had her carriage upended here at the Arlanzón. Suffering the inconvenience of water and mud—surely heavy upon her habit of brown—she asked God in this moment of frustration why he treated her thus. He responded that he treated all His friends in this manner. St. Theresa, not to be undone, quipped, “If that is so, I can see why you have so few of them.” Apocryphal this? Perhaps. But as is always the case with the stuff of legends: Si non e vero e ben trovato.
I I I
Cross the Arlanzón again by the Puente del Arzobispointo Tardajo
Out of Burgos we followed, more or less, the río Arlanzón. The path turned to a dirt road, which hugged the tracks of a railroad. On occasion, trains would whiz by howling and blowing their horns, as if to mock us with their superior speed and efficiency. We headed toward the town of Tardajos. Tardajos is a town of Roman origin, on the old Roman road, though it was known in those far off times as Agustobriga.
Once in Tardajos, we checked into the refugio, met the Brazilian pilgrims that we had seen in Atapuerca, cleaned up, did our wash, bought some provisions for the day ahead, had dinner, and went upstairs to bed. There was little else to do in Tardajos.
I I I
Very early, a few hours past midnight, I heard a banging on the door of the refugio. It was raining. A Spanish pilgrim, named Margarita, started yelling at the person knocking on the door. The banging persisted, and Margarita let the person in. He was wet, ill-clothed, and he was shivering. He told his story. He had been thrown out of his home at Burgos by his family. He had some drug problems, and he had feared he had acquired AIDS. But he had just received his test reports, and he had tested negative for the disease. In thanksgiving, he wanted to make the pilgrimage to Santiago. We found a blanket to cover him, he thanked us, and shivering he went to bed.
k
[i] J. H. Newman, The Pilgrim, Verses on Various Occasions (Dimension Books: New Jersey), p. 61
[ii] Laffi, at 137.
[iii] Starkie, p. 220.
[iv] Charles Péguy, The Mystery of the Holy Innocents (translated by Pansy Pakenham)
To a streamlet bright, or soft secluded grow.
‘Twas a hard humbling task, onwards to move.
His easy-captured eyes from each fair spot,
With unattach’d and lonely step to rove
O’er happy meadows, which soon its print forgot:—
Yet kept he safe his pledge, prizing his pilgrim lot. ”
____John Henry Newman, Verses on Various Occasions[i]
Carda-ñuela and by the río Pico, through Orbaneja.
Into Burgos
On the Way: Atapuerca to Burgos
We left Atapuerca in the early morning, and the road began to climb slightly as we crossed the Sierra, which was clothed in woods of oak and pine. Through muddy trails and dew-decked brush, uphill and downhill, we crossed the shallow mountain range. While we climbed down the hills, some Army vehicles going uphill passed us, and, after a brief interrogation, the soldiers wished us “Buen Camino.”
That morning I was shod in sandals, for I decided to follow St. John’s advice and unbind my feet temporarily from my boots (which I counted among the instruments of torture worthy of the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tassaud’s). Once over and past the mountain range, we took a simple paved farm road into Cardeñuela del Río Pico, which, as the name informs, is by the río Pico, a diminutive river, really just a stream. As we headed to Cardeñuela the way lead us beyond the oak trees of the hills and though a pleasant meadow, called pozo Rubio, “fair well,” or campo de las Brujas, meaning “Field of the Witches.” Cardeñuela, like so many of the towns on the Camino, can be seen from far off and identified by its church, atop a hill, with its Renaissance portico and its bell tower with two large bells, which, were silent when we passed through.
At Cardeñuela a cock crowed, and we stopped by the café at the corner of a small cross road, and had cafes con leche and bocadillos de queso for breakfast. The owner, a large woman, was very friendly, and did not mind in the least that we had tracked mud throughout her clean floors. “That’s what they are there for!” she cheerily responded.
From Cardeñuela we followed the río Pico on a farm road through Orbanela and its grey stone church, until we reached Villafría with its church of white-grey stone, arched windows, and four bells, each in its own arch, and one bell in a horseshoe arch. The bell in the horseshoe arch rang nine times (twice) as we passed it. May the bells of Romanesque churches never cease to peal in Spain!
The path veered to the right, and it took us over the railroad tracks. We entered Burgos by means of a long and uninspiring, wide and many-laned street. As we started to Burgos, I was met with a scene of stark contrasts, as if someone had taken two pictures of Spain, centuries apart and placed them side by side in front of me. If I looked left, I saw a shepherd in a gray beret and sweater, walking and cajoling his sheep to pasture. If I looked right, I saw modern workmen in blue coveralls working with cranes and building new residences. On the main road into Burgos, the traffic was busy, and we passed many modern factories. We stopped briefly in a café in Burgos, Randi and Richard bought some walking sandals. Refreshed, we headed further into Burgos, prayed briefly at the Church of St. Lesmes. After we left the church, I met a man from Texas, spoke about the pilgrimage to him, said good-bye, and then walked toward the towers of the Cathedral.
I I I
Burgas
Burgos is a city named after a castle, but in sooth it is the town the capitán Rodrigo de Bivar, El Mio Cid Campeador, banished from here by Alfonso VI, and buried here. El Cid with his horse Babieca and his sword Tizona is the subject of epopee, one of the hirsute men that epics and legends are made of. Burgos is also the town of a marvelous temple.
The cathedral of Burgos stood confidently in the plaza, and in the sun it shone chalky and pink. It is of France. It is of Germany. It is of Spain. It is of Europe. The first stones were laid in 1221 by Ferdinand III and Bishop Maurice. The first architect is likely French, though his identity is unknown. There was second building phase in the late 15th century, handled by architects from Cologne headed by Juan de Colonia, his son Simón, and his grandson, Francisco. Among other things, they added the pinnacled and crocheted look to the great spires.
N
Catedral de Burgos
Inside I prayed—pack and all—at the Capilla containing the Christ of Burgos. The 17th century Italian pilgrim Laffi tells us that this Crucifix of Burgos (the Santo Cristo de Burgos) was one of three crucifixes made by Nicodemus.[ii] The first mention of the crucifix is by Baron Lev of Rozmitel in 1466, who describes the crucifix in his book of travels.[iii] It is made out of dried ox-hide—the better to resemble human flesh—and uses actual human hair for scalp and beard. For my sensibilities it was a little grotesque, disfigured and contorted, as it were, by the crude and fierce realism (as Giovanni Papini puts it) of the makers of the Spanish crucifix makers. Unquestionably, it effectively relayed the message of a God who suffered much. Beneath the crucifix was a tabernacle, and in the tabernacle, in silence, the humble and innocent God Who was depicted brutally punished on the cross above. My second glance at the Cristo de Burgos brought thoughts of Péguy:
Alas my Son, alas my Son, alas my Son;
My Son who on the Cross had a skin as dry as bark;
A faded skin, a wrinkled skin, a tanned skin;
A skin which cracked under the nails.[iv]
I I I
After worship lunch. After lunch, Richard, Randi, and I departed for Tardajos.
I I I
Out of Burgos over the Puente de los Malatos and the río Arlanzón
On the Way: Burgos to Tardajos
After Burgos the pilgrim encounters the mesetas of clay and limestone, and then beyond Frómista the llanuras or plains of the Tierra de Campos which continue through to the Páramo leonés, the Desert of León. According to Trogus Pompeius, the Gaul, this was a hard land and parsimonious when Rome ruled the world; and it remains so today for the pilgrim. It is a land of alternating fields, some barren and dry, others irrigated and bearing grain, but all interminably flat and hot.
Dura omnibus et adstricta parsi-monia.
A land of extremes—exposed to frigid winters and torrid summers—yielding comfort to no man. There is little to spark the imagination, to occupy the senses, and so the path is externally monotonous, the only partner being the endless shifting of the pilgrim’s feet. After the rich variety of the land of Navarre and La Rioja and the parts of Castile through which we have traveled, the monotony is new and unwelcome. It numbs the senses which cry for the solace of trees and the comfort of gurgling brooks. It is the time of suffering, the time of physical passion of the pilgrim to Compostela. The pilgrim, like the Desert Fathers, must turn inward for relief; he is forced to carry an introspective colloquy within his soul and with his God. This is what this portion of the pilgrimage is about. So every guide has warned. Indeed, the warnings frighten some pilgrims. Some pilgrims avoid this portion altogether, and take a bus through the mesetas and llanuras.
I I I
Hug the río Arlanzón for a while
We left Burgos through the puerta de San Martín and over the famed puente de Los Malatos, the Leper’s Bridge, which spans the río Arlanzón.
The río Arlanzón, the river that refreshes Burgos with its cool waters, is yet a temperamental river, and dangerous, less so perhaps now than years previous. In the 12th century, Alfonso VI narrowly escaped drowning here, when he fell off his horse chasing thieves. He was saved, not by his strong arms, or those of his guards, but by his prayers to the Christ of Benavel. St. Theresa of Avila, on her way into Burgos to found a Carmelite convent, had her carriage upended here at the Arlanzón. Suffering the inconvenience of water and mud—surely heavy upon her habit of brown—she asked God in this moment of frustration why he treated her thus. He responded that he treated all His friends in this manner. St. Theresa, not to be undone, quipped, “If that is so, I can see why you have so few of them.” Apocryphal this? Perhaps. But as is always the case with the stuff of legends: Si non e vero e ben trovato.
I I I
Cross the Arlanzón again by the Puente del Arzobispointo Tardajo
Out of Burgos we followed, more or less, the río Arlanzón. The path turned to a dirt road, which hugged the tracks of a railroad. On occasion, trains would whiz by howling and blowing their horns, as if to mock us with their superior speed and efficiency. We headed toward the town of Tardajos. Tardajos is a town of Roman origin, on the old Roman road, though it was known in those far off times as Agustobriga.
Once in Tardajos, we checked into the refugio, met the Brazilian pilgrims that we had seen in Atapuerca, cleaned up, did our wash, bought some provisions for the day ahead, had dinner, and went upstairs to bed. There was little else to do in Tardajos.
I I I
Very early, a few hours past midnight, I heard a banging on the door of the refugio. It was raining. A Spanish pilgrim, named Margarita, started yelling at the person knocking on the door. The banging persisted, and Margarita let the person in. He was wet, ill-clothed, and he was shivering. He told his story. He had been thrown out of his home at Burgos by his family. He had some drug problems, and he had feared he had acquired AIDS. But he had just received his test reports, and he had tested negative for the disease. In thanksgiving, he wanted to make the pilgrimage to Santiago. We found a blanket to cover him, he thanked us, and shivering he went to bed.
k
[i] J. H. Newman, The Pilgrim, Verses on Various Occasions (Dimension Books: New Jersey), p. 61
[ii] Laffi, at 137.
[iii] Starkie, p. 220.
[iv] Charles Péguy, The Mystery of the Holy Innocents (translated by Pansy Pakenham) “A vow had bound him ne’er to give his heart
To a streamlet bright, or soft secluded grow.
‘Twas a hard humbling task, onwards to move.
His easy-captured eyes from each fair spot,
With unattach’d and lonely step to rove
O’er happy meadows, which soon its print forgot:—
Yet kept he safe his pledge, prizing his pilgrim lot. ”
____John Henry Newman, Verses on Various Occasions[i]
Carda-ñuela and by the río Pico, through Orbaneja.
Into Burgos
On the Way: Atapuerca to Burgos
We left Atapuerca in the early morning, and the road began to climb slightly as we crossed the Sierra, which was clothed in woods of oak and pine. Through muddy trails and dew-decked brush, uphill and downhill, we crossed the shallow mountain range. While we climbed down the hills, some Army vehicles going uphill passed us, and, after a brief interrogation, the soldiers wished us “Buen Camino.”
That morning I was shod in sandals, for I decided to follow St. John’s advice and unbind my feet temporarily from my boots (which I counted among the instruments of torture worthy of the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tassaud’s). Once over and past the mountain range, we took a simple paved farm road into Cardeñuela del Río Pico, which, as the name informs, is by the río Pico, a diminutive river, really just a stream. As we headed to Cardeñuela the way lead us beyond the oak trees of the hills and though a pleasant meadow, called pozo Rubio, “fair well,” or campo de las Brujas, meaning “Field of the Witches.” Cardeñuela, like so many of the towns on the Camino, can be seen from far off and identified by its church, atop a hill, with its Renaissance portico and its bell tower with two large bells, which, were silent when we passed through.
At Cardeñuela a cock crowed, and we stopped by the café at the corner of a small cross road, and had cafes con leche and bocadillos de queso for breakfast. The owner, a large woman, was very friendly, and did not mind in the least that we had tracked mud throughout her clean floors. “That’s what they are there for!” she cheerily responded.
From Cardeñuela we followed the río Pico on a farm road through Orbanela and its grey stone church, until we reached Villafría with its church of white-grey stone, arched windows, and four bells, each in its own arch, and one bell in a horseshoe arch. The bell in the horseshoe arch rang nine times (twice) as we passed it. May the bells of Romanesque churches never cease to peal in Spain!
The path veered to the right, and it took us over the railroad tracks. We entered Burgos by means of a long and uninspiring, wide and many-laned street. As we started to Burgos, I was met with a scene of stark contrasts, as if someone had taken two pictures of Spain, centuries apart and placed them side by side in front of me. If I looked left, I saw a shepherd in a gray beret and sweater, walking and cajoling his sheep to pasture. If I looked right, I saw modern workmen in blue coveralls working with cranes and building new residences. On the main road into Burgos, the traffic was busy, and we passed many modern factories. We stopped briefly in a café in Burgos, Randi and Richard bought some walking sandals. Refreshed, we headed further into Burgos, prayed briefly at the Church of St. Lesmes. After we left the church, I met a man from Texas, spoke about the pilgrimage to him, said good-bye, and then walked toward the towers of the Cathedral.
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Burgas
Burgos is a city named after a castle, but in sooth it is the town the capitán Rodrigo de Bivar, El Mio Cid Campeador, banished from here by Alfonso VI, and buried here. El Cid with his horse Babieca and his sword Tizona is the subject of epopee, one of the hirsute men that epics and legends are made of. Burgos is also the town of a marvelous temple.
The cathedral of Burgos stood confidently in the plaza, and in the sun it shone chalky and pink. It is of France. It is of Germany. It is of Spain. It is of Europe. The first stones were laid in 1221 by Ferdinand III and Bishop Maurice. The first architect is likely French, though his identity is unknown. There was second building phase in the late 15th century, handled by architects from Cologne headed by Juan de Colonia, his son Simón, and his grandson, Francisco. Among other things, they added the pinnacled and crocheted look to the great spires.
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Catedral de Burgos
Inside I prayed—pack and all—at the Capilla containing the Christ of Burgos. The 17th century Italian pilgrim Laffi tells us that this Crucifix of Burgos (the Santo Cristo de Burgos) was one of three crucifixes made by Nicodemus.[ii] The first mention of the crucifix is by Baron Lev of Rozmitel in 1466, who describes the crucifix in his book of travels.[iii] It is made out of dried ox-hide—the better to resemble human flesh—and uses actual human hair for scalp and beard. For my sensibilities it was a little grotesque, disfigured and contorted, as it were, by the crude and fierce realism (as Giovanni Papini puts it) of the makers of the Spanish crucifix makers. Unquestionably, it effectively relayed the message of a God who suffered much. Beneath the crucifix was a tabernacle, and in the tabernacle, in silence, the humble and innocent God Who was depicted brutally punished on the cross above. My second glance at the Cristo de Burgos brought thoughts of Péguy:
Alas my Son, alas my Son, alas my Son;
My Son who on the Cross had a skin as dry as bark;
A faded skin, a wrinkled skin, a tanned skin;
A skin which cracked under the nails.[iv]
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After worship lunch. After lunch, Richard, Randi, and I departed for Tardajos.
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Out of Burgos over the Puente de los Malatos and the río Arlanzón
On the Way: Burgos to Tardajos
After Burgos the pilgrim encounters the mesetas of clay and limestone, and then beyond Frómista the llanuras or plains of the Tierra de Campos which continue through to the Páramo leonés, the Desert of León. According to Trogus Pompeius, the Gaul, this was a hard land and parsimonious when Rome ruled the world; and it remains so today for the pilgrim. It is a land of alternating fields, some barren and dry, others irrigated and bearing grain, but all interminably flat and hot.
Dura omnibus et adstricta parsi-monia.
A land of extremes—exposed to frigid winters and torrid summers—yielding comfort to no man. There is little to spark the imagination, to occupy the senses, and so the path is externally monotonous, the only partner being the endless shifting of the pilgrim’s feet. After the rich variety of the land of Navarre and La Rioja and the parts of Castile through which we have traveled, the monotony is new and unwelcome. It numbs the senses which cry for the solace of trees and the comfort of gurgling brooks. It is the time of suffering, the time of physical passion of the pilgrim to Compostela. The pilgrim, like the Desert Fathers, must turn inward for relief; he is forced to carry an introspective colloquy within his soul and with his God. This is what this portion of the pilgrimage is about. So every guide has warned. Indeed, the warnings frighten some pilgrims. Some pilgrims avoid this portion altogether, and take a bus through the mesetas and llanuras.
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Hug the río Arlanzón for a while
We left Burgos through the puerta de San Martín and over the famed puente de Los Malatos, the Leper’s Bridge, which spans the río Arlanzón.
The río Arlanzón, the river that refreshes Burgos with its cool waters, is yet a temperamental river, and dangerous, less so perhaps now than years previous. In the 12th century, Alfonso VI narrowly escaped drowning here, when he fell off his horse chasing thieves. He was saved, not by his strong arms, or those of his guards, but by his prayers to the Christ of Benavel. St. Theresa of Avila, on her way into Burgos to found a Carmelite convent, had her carriage upended here at the Arlanzón. Suffering the inconvenience of water and mud—surely heavy upon her habit of brown—she asked God in this moment of frustration why he treated her thus. He responded that he treated all His friends in this manner. St. Theresa, not to be undone, quipped, “If that is so, I can see why you have so few of them.” Apocryphal this? Perhaps. But as is always the case with the stuff of legends: Si non e vero e ben trovato.
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Cross the Arlanzón again by the Puente del Arzobispointo Tardajo
Out of Burgos we followed, more or less, the río Arlanzón. The path turned to a dirt road, which hugged the tracks of a railroad. On occasion, trains would whiz by howling and blowing their horns, as if to mock us with their superior speed and efficiency. We headed toward the town of Tardajos. Tardajos is a town of Roman origin, on the old Roman road, though it was known in those far off times as Agustobriga.
Once in Tardajos, we checked into the refugio, met the Brazilian pilgrims that we had seen in Atapuerca, cleaned up, did our wash, bought some provisions for the day ahead, had dinner, and went upstairs to bed. There was little else to do in Tardajos.
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Very early, a few hours past midnight, I heard a banging on the door of the refugio. It was raining. A Spanish pilgrim, named Margarita, started yelling at the person knocking on the door. The banging persisted, and Margarita let the person in. He was wet, ill-clothed, and he was shivering. He told his story. He had been thrown out of his home at Burgos by his family. He had some drug problems, and he had feared he had acquired AIDS. But he had just received his test reports, and he had tested negative for the disease. In thanksgiving, he wanted to make the pilgrimage to Santiago. We found a blanket to cover him, he thanked us, and shivering he went to bed.
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[i] J. H. Newman, The Pilgrim, Verses on Various Occasions (Dimension Books: New Jersey), p. 61
[ii] Laffi, at 137.
[iii] Starkie, p. 220.
[iv] Charles Péguy, The Mystery of the Holy Innocents (translated by Pansy Pakenham)
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