*Pic: of Gernika Town Hall, with solar-powered parking meters … !
A Journey to Santiago de Compostela
The day was beautiful and the Camino walk was gentle along the northern coast of Spain to a fishing village, very unlike Kettering, named Getaria.
It pays not to enjoy yourself too much and as the smiles grew on our faces, God decided to smite us with a stoning. Large boulders descended from the heavens and landed very close to the Field Marshall, clouds of dust enveloped our world, cars stopped, horns started and people screamed. Was it a drone strike, terroristas or a remake of the Spanish civil war? I turned to look after the Field Marshall, concerned, as he was carrying the food. He had taken off! ‘Run away, Run away’ he was screaming as he ran away. I was distracted by the dust, more stones came crashing down, thankfully this God is a wondrous fellow and he missed everybody.
We calmed ourselves by directing traffic around the rocks which were as big as the cars. We looked inside Gonzo, the Basque shopping trolley, seeking directions, he continued to lead the way, followed by myself and the now dilapidated Field Marshall, white with surprise, but still very Anglo. We needed sustenance and stopped at Getaria for the morning vino blanco. The wine is sec (dry) and cheap and good, some pintxos (tapas) for brunch.
The road was treacherous, which suited my companions, along cliffs with a delicious salt water smell and the occasional broken sewer pipe and dead fish added to the European ambience. Rock fishermen caught large fish and the ocean rolled in, constantly, ever constantly, never stopping. I could see that things were getting desperate as the footpath disappeared and the trucks came closer. The monotonous noise of Gonzo’s complaining about rocks on the road made the little fascist deviate to the right. I struggled to contain him to a narrow path. The Field Marshall insisted on stopping at the next large town Zumeia for lunch and it was here that he devised a devious plan to avoid the mountains ahead.
We took a bus to the highest part of this day’s walk, which also was then our first real encounter with the Camino Santiago El Norte. At Itzia there is a marker that says 900km to Santiago de Compostela, but it’s a journey not a destination. There is also a fourteenth century church with a limestone cannon ball imbedded in the sea side wall. The church is elevated about 300 metres and the cannon ball was shot from the sea about 5km away. A direct hit from the other seafaring villages along the west coast at Deba. Apparently they have a unique way of showing affection for each other and regularly bomb each other’s churches, which are the most obvious targets on hills at distance.
The walk to Deba was now marked with painted yellow arrows and scallop shells, this is the Pilgrim’s way. I am a pilgrim on my Hadj. The Field Marshall is a desperate hungry man and Gonzo talks back.
This Camino way was a beautiful walk of nine km, through country which was highly cultivated, farmers everywhere cutting hay and sheep, lots of sheep. At this point Mother Nature smacked the Field Marshall with an encounter with his first ever donkey, his mobile went flat taking pictures of this cute horse the Field Marshall’s size. He wanted to buy it, I stopped him, thinking it would be inappropriate to buy the horse a bed in the Auberges, the cheap hostels that aid the pilgrim each night.
The talk was about Jesus and his three miracles as I instructed the Field Marshall on how the bureaucracy then took over the Christian Orthodox Church at the Council of Nicea in 325 AD. Like all bureaucracies they insisted on total agreement and death or exile to those who disagreed. 318 Bishops mainly from the east assembled to decide if Christ was made from God or a bloke made from bloke.
You can find the result in the Nicean Creed. Emperor Constantine, exiled the opposition, seeking Christ’s harmony. The Field Marshall and myself agreed that exile would have been the better option, ‘Christ was a simple intelligent bloke with charisma and would have made a good Buddhist’. Gonzo was ambivalent, he was having difficulty staying on the path.
It was a long day, over like this embellished tale, so we found the Alburges in Deba and bunk beds 25 & 26, two fine ladies from Washington DC, pintxos, a bottle of vino blanco and three txakoli, and relaxed our weary bodies as we lied to each other about our day on the Camino Santiago.
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.
