Fear and loathing on the Camino trail, day 14: Beer Goggles

The main alter about 12 m high, featuring the layers of hierarchy in heaven. St Petrr with his keys are on the left of Jesus. Very gold and very impressive. The modern alters are the football stadiums.

A walled church in a small town, Big monastery behind the wall

A visit to the local church in Laurenza Spain. This was at the base of a side chapel and shows faces burning in fire.

There were eight double sided confessionals. A busy group of sinners and forgivers …

A Conquistador knight, long forgotten and under this stone floor …

The cupola and top of the golden alter, so high it had echoes and sunlight and was heavenly …

The golden alter from about 40 metres away …

Strangely the Byzantine double headed eagle. Symbol of the eastern orthodox church in Constantinople.

A gruesome representation, note the bleeding knees and the open gash on the torso.

The gold may have come from the Americas, which can explain how so much gold was consumed after it was removed from the Incas, Aztecs and Mayans.

Music in stereo with horns and woofers on both sides of the building. Huge choir area and large mezzanine.

My guess this is Fatima receiving her three prophetic secrets from the mother of Jesus.

Alcohol giveth the desire but takes away the performance. Macbeth, Shakespeare

We are well into the forced march from the Bay of Biscay, into the inland and onto the plains of western Spain. Gonzo our faithful donkey is carrying more than my share. The Generalissimo (ret) is a shadow of his former glory and is now a bloated mass of beans and alcohol. When rest occurs, it is the collapse of muscles and legs, heads rolling about our necks as we faint continuously or so it is in my dreams.

My belt is now moving notches towards infinity as are my desires. We rise, walk until we find coffee. Then we walk about 15km and find lunch. It is usually about 1pm that this tired army of three finds it’s first collapse of the day. Gonzo, the donkey grazes, the Generalissimo (ret) orders enough alcohol to ease the pain and then we eat a Peregrino (pilgrim) meal of three courses. The Spanish make no allowances, everything promptly closes at 2pm, except the restaurants. The Spanish have their biggest meal at lunchtime, which lasts exactly from 1pm until 2pm.

The soporifics of a large lunch completely change our intentions, walking is now a different event, taxi, buses and chatting up the waiter are far more interesting. Alcohol further interferes and everything becomes happy and sleepy, at some point we give up or move on. The performance does not relate to our desires.

Our biggest day was 30km and what a desperate end it was for the Generalissimo (ret) as he started to mumble and dribble fat from his waste. Yet daily he grows larger as his ego diminishes. The dichotomy is the angelic look on his face and his ability to reinvent himself, is he approaching enlightenment? All misery is man made and in his deposing as ‘Dictator for life’ the Generalissimo is now truly absent from his problems and the demands of ruling his empire. The son and now Caesar has worked wonders on our Generalissimo who is now satisfied that he can gloat when mistakes are made, just as he made them in his youth. That is the only time to make mistakes, it gives time to recover in your youth. The dreams are a reality.

We have arrived at an oppressive Alberge, it seems damp, most appear newly renovated, this one is our only choice in the town. Normally there are pensiones, hostels and hotels, but everything is closed.

This town may have zombies, my teenage son is an authority, I must WhatsApp him tomorrow morning. He no doubt will refer to season seven, episode one of The Walking Dead and give me the clues. He said I wasn’t on his timeline and thus he hadn’t kept up with our adventures. I do not actually understand what he meant. My desires cannot match his performance.

All that brings me back to resting … hard. Tired muscles are rejuvenated with food, alcohol and company. The Generalissimo (ret) is a social being, his narcissism is self destructive when he is alone. The dreams are bigger than desire.

Many stories are told after dinner. Yet, the stories from others on the Camino are all different. Women traveling solo or in pairs tell tales of warm greetings, invitations into houses and meals with families. Not so for any male on the Camino, people are a bit surly at times, no lifts are offered and hitching a lift is impossible. This all comes as a surprise to both sexes, when discussed, normally late in the evening.

Very rarely are the folks in the alberges up late past 11pm. Some of the people on a mission are up and gone by 6:30 am, the rest wake and leave by 8:30 am. Some do 45km per day, some like us anywhere between zero and 30km per day. The performance is sobering.

Occasionally, liaisons start and the European sense of privacy, sex and affection are different from ours. Germans undress and shower without care. The Spanish walk about in their underwear, the French go bare chested and the Italians just laugh. Occasionally there is live action and beds moved together but quiet time is respected. We are on the open road and this is a continual moving feast.

Today is our longest walk as we head south west towards the junction with the large Camino Frances trail. This is the beginning of the end of el Norte and the start of the zoo, with 90% of pilgrims walking Camino Frances. Instead of Alberges with twenty beds, I am told the largest on the Camino Frances is where 800 souls sleep at night. Thus the old hands and I met one lady on her sixth Camino refer to the Camino Frances as a zoo.

On this trail, el Norte there are very few Mericans, no Aussies or Kiwis and mainly Spanish and other Europeans, which suits me fine. I can converse in elementary Spanish, French and Greek and by combination with a bit of school Latin, I can interpret for the Generalissimo, who is doing very well in Spanish. The Germans easily switch to English and can fill in the holes I miss.

Last night conversing with Dominic, a Frenchman, my age, we used three languages. He knew about the same amount of English as I knew French, the gaps were filled with Spanish.

The central American Spanish I learnt in the seventies is the Spanish equivalent of Shakespeare’s English to the modern Spaniard, who make no attempt to speak English. Almost Pauline Hanson’s ‘speak English or leave ‘ attitude. So we always try in Spanish and are delighted and embarrassed when the response is in impeccable English.

To be continued …

*Greg James is a malcontent capitalist. He has employed (and fired) a lot of people and spawned many business opportunities for himself and others. Some have been wild successes and some abject failures. Greg refuses to accept that Tasmania is second rate, it is only the people who occupy it who are second rate. Greg is a self and state educated owner-operator. He has been Chairman and President of State and Federal organizations, has owned a gay bar, built a suburb and wasted his life hoping that others around him would see the light as he see it. His brain is addled, his motives suspect and age has caught up with a life well lived. He writes about himself in the third person.