reason why will be revealed in due course…..
for now, here’s the address
reason why will be revealed in due course…..
for now, here’s the address
Is the phone not working or is the new blog not working? Trying a post on this old blog to see….
“I’m missing my breakfast updates!” I’m surprised just how many people have said this to us in the week we’ve been back. I’ve been missing writing too. And taking photos. And lots of walking.
Which brings me to shoes. Or more precisely, sandals.
When we left New Zealand my sandals were green. When we returned they had taken on a distinct orangey-brownish tint. I had intended to scrub them in Santiago, but it wasn’t warm enough for them to dry so I just made a point of declaring them on the bio-security-hazards part of the arrivals card. In the past, our newly-cleaned hiking gear has been given a disinfectant treatment. This time the bio security guys didn’t even look at them. Go figure!
But today’s story – concocted especially for those of you who are missing the morning updates – is not about my green sandals. It’s about a pair of brown sandals.
When I was seventeen I was given the opportunity to attend one of the most prestigious girls’ schools in Auckland. My family wasn’t really into prestige or keeping up with the Jones-es, but they did value education.
On the first day I bowled up wearing the uniform that had probably cost my parents more than they would usually spend on our whole wardrobe for an entire year. There were no regulation shoes; the only stipulation was that they be brown. At the beginning of summer I had bought myself a pair of brown sandals from an op shop. I’d worn them every day and I intended to wear them to school for the summer term.
One of the first conversations I had in the Hallowed Seventh Form Common Room began, “When are you going to buy your school shoes?” My sandals…..just a wide band of leather across the foot and a strap around the ankle…..were nothing like the slip-ons-with-a-dangly-tassel-on-the-front that everyone else was wearing. I saw a pair of shoes like that the other day, which reminded me of this.
Now don’t misunderstand me. I’m no rhinoceros with extra-thick skin. I wanted to be liked. Don’t we all? But I didn’t want to be like the girl for whom the most important thing was what kind of shoes I was wearing. I wanted to be liked by them, but I didn’t want to be like them.
I drove in their daddies’ cars with leather seats, I went to the ball, I sat in the common room…..but I never belonged. I wore the wrong sandals.
Looking back, I can see perhaps it was a significant step (no pun intended, but hard to avoid) in my journey. I learnt that it was OK to be different.
Perhaps wearing that pair of sandals gave me courage to get married at twenty. To go and live in Poland. To apply to do a post-graduate diploma before acquiring a degree. To homeschool. Eight kids. On one income. To travel a decent portion of the world with them for fifteen months. We couldn’t have done it if I’d needed new shoes like everyone else. I guess I also learnt that buying secondhand is ultimately empowering.
Now I need to go and scrub my green sandals.
The pilot of the last one had a great sense of hum our: “This is your pilot speaking. The good news is we have one of the strongest tail winds ever and flight time will be forty minutes shorter than usual. The bad news is right now the control tower staff are on strike so we will have to sit here on the tarmac for forty minutes. So basically there is no news.”
He went on to deliver a very smooth flight until landing time. He warned us we were about to enter a thunderstorm and even when we were only meters from the ground the plane was being buffered from side to side and when we touched down it felt like we were swerving to avoid pandas or something on the runway. Once the passengers were confident we were going to arrive in one piece, most of them started clapping!
Now we’re off to our favourite spot on the floor to have a lying-down-sleep for a few hours before the last leg. Hopefully the thunderstorm will blow itself out. Can’t wait to get home now!
The rest of us took the slog through a maze of roundabouts out of Salamanca. After quite a stretch of walking by the road with lots of honks and toots and waves from passing motorists, the route turned on to a dirt road.
In one little village we were busy following our yellow markers when a little lady with a watering can called us from up the street. She insisted we were going the wrong way and grabbed my arm to drag us in the right direction. I explained there were two routes and we did not want the alternative. Little lady thumped me on the arm and shuffled further up the road, enlisting the help of a teenaged girl to convince us about her route. We kept repeating the same things at each other, I consulted googlemaps which confirmed we did not want to go through the lady’s detour village, and we tried to look busy while she wandered back to the church to finish the flowers. After a respectable time we snuck down the back of the church, trying to avoid detection. We backtracked to check the sign:
The yellow arrows continued and then lo and behold they pointed off towards the village the Bossy Little Lady had tried to steer us towards. We make a point of following arrows and not using googlemaps, but this time we took a look. The village was a detour. The main road would take us straight to Our Village. Some things make no sense. We took the detour.
After a week of the temperatures not being the highest, we were reluctant to complain about the heat, BUT boy was it hot!
When we were about an hour away Daddy messaged us with the news he had finished his wanderings around Madrid and was heading to the airport. The race was on: who would arrive first? Despite the heat, the kids changed gear, and we just made it to the village before he got to the airport.
There was also a Spanish guy, Pedro, who is riding his horse who goes by the name of Peregrin! Then a typically expressive Italian who speaks with his hands turned up and the place was full. Lingua Franca is Spanish and we’re having a laugh a minute. Mr Italiano loved the kids immediately and bought them food. He’s their friend already!
As we walked along the street the aroma of fried dough wafted on the air. A solid round man stepped out of the fly-screened doorway clutching a large paper bag.
One of the two young dark men behind the counter rushed to rearrange the furniture and make a table big enough for us. While everyone else
piled backpacks in a corner and sat down I went to order. Eight chocolates (and a cafe solo for Uncle to mix his own mochacino with) and two churros per person please. “No hay churros”
“We’ve only got porres.”
No problem! We’ll take 16 of them thanks. It doesn’t matter to us whether the dough is straight or curly! (Not that I said all of that in Spanish!!)
Our table fell into silence as we savoured the sweetness. All around us voices babbled louder and louder, more and more men (and one lady) came in, took a seat or stood at the counter adding to the commotion, sipping, munching, laughing, chattering. We couldn’t have heard ourselves unless we were also shouting….but we were too busy eating anyway.Well nourished, we headed for the bus station where we found all the women of the town, equally noisy and without exception, smoking. They were all off to Caceres – for work or shopping, we presume. They chatted as noisily as the men in the churreria – everyone knew everyone else and they engaged us as well, a very inclusive friendly community.
In ten minutes the bus had covered the ground we walked yesterday!
mum i just caught up on the blog, question, are you enjoying the trip so far? coz it looks miserable with all the rain and cold weather…. would totally understand if you weren’t… but just wondering
My answer: “It IS miserable and demanding and challenging. No denying that. But it is also great. Fun people, yummy food, relaxing-ish, exercise, kids getting on well, lots of Polish and German speaking, beautiful vistas, amazing wild flowers and birds. Yeah, it’s good.”
Today we got all our walking in before the rain, and it has to be said that it is much more pleasant walking in non-rain! But at the same time, things are not bad or even necessarily unenjoyable simply because they are hard. There is satisfaction that can come only from achieving something challenging, and that is positive. We have now had a week of such moments!
Mixed in with the difficulty have been a whole lot of lovely sights and experiences too:
Last night we wandered around Zafra, bumping into fellow pilgrims, enjoying the architecture of the town, looking for a place that would serve food before 8:30, having a few laughs with Bruce and Jenny, who we were going to have dinner with. It was simply pleasant and we eventually (at nine o’clock) had a tasty dinner together including the best olives ever (and chicken giblets for Ella-Rose, who was told only the first word – chicken! No-one tried Bruce’s oxtail).
We all set out at the same time this morning, and although it was not planned that way, Jenny and I (somewhat unusually) strode out ahead and (not unusually if the past couple of days are anything to go by) shared stimulating inspirational conversation until 17km later! Bruce, meanwhile, walked with his companions, who he challenged with questions as he urged them to think about their surroundings.
Except when we passed this pig farm… There were more pigs than we could count; some eating, some wallowing in the mud, some sheltering in a shed, some climbing over others,some lying on top of each other. All of them S.T.I.N.K.I.N.G. The smell was not unlike a rubbish dump with a chemistry experiment gone wrong aftertaste to it. It’s not often you taste a smell, but this was one of those times and it was not pleasant. Neither was it the first time we have passed one of these farms.
But apart from the smell of the piggy farms, we’re having a great time.
Distance: 20.2km Total distance: 195km
Seven hours on the road……
Yep, road-walking. The Camino does not actually follow the road, but we were advised to take this detour to avoid two complicated river crossings. We saw Polish Pani Sabina and her Italian husband, Benedict, ahead of us not taking the detour. Despite walking more than 2km further than them, we reached the spot where the two routes intersected a good twenty minutes sooner. They had had a terrible time wading through water above their knees on unstable stones covering a riverbed that dropped unexpectedly and caught them unawares a number of times. Oma Gertrud took the same route and even fell in the water! We were so pleased to have gone the long way.
11:30 lunch break
Approaching 12:30 (by 12:30 we were right under The Black Cloud in a howling gale being Dumped On)
2:10pm (just before town)
From across the street Antonio waved and smiled at us. “The family is here!” He ushered us upstairs, called his wife to begin the stamping procedure, poured glasses of juice, handed out shells, told us last night’s host (also Antonio) had told him we were coming so he reserved a room “for the family” (which we will end up sharing with Oma because she understandably does not want to share with Don Roncador/Snorer, who is otherwise a lovely guy!)….he handed out towels and insisted we have our washing done for free and by 4:30pm a brand new drier would be delivered and – of course – our family’s clothes should go in first!!! What an amazing welcome. Another day’s walking done.