Heart of darkness … Fear and loathing on the Camino trail, Day 10

Greg poses …Propaganda for the emerging conflict

The Generalissimo (ret?) contemplating his next move

The Spanish air force on standby to aid the return of the Generalissimo (ret).

New recruits on the way to join the army of believers

The communards a collective noun for a group of fully kitted Camino trail walkers

The way, we are almost halfway

Santillana del Mar: There are three lies in this name … no saint (san), it’s not flat (tillana) and it is not anywhere near the ocean (del mar).

A typical hotel that we are not staying in

The plaza of Santillana del mar

An Auberge or hostel. This one was $35 room plus en suite

Typical tourist trap pop up shop in a fourteenth century building

There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken at the flood, leads onto fortune,
Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and miseries
Julius Caesar … Shakespeare

The coffee was undrinkable, thick and over boiled. The waiter had no interest nor any skills in creating a smile. Only a piece of toast was offered with plastic butter and jam. I left the table, half awake, half angry and returned to my cell.

I am lost, the Generalissimo (ret) has fled to the seaport Santillada del Mar to recover from the coup, kill some time and contemplate a victorious return. It will not happen.

Sitting in the sun, watching the ocean move gently and relentlessly toward a high tide, our Generalissimo, contemplates his steps and misteps. He pulls the rug around his tired legs and reaches for the phone.

I answer, waiting orders, he wants me to join him immediately, my joy is palpable as I seek escape from a very warm but unsuccessful bed. Being tired is a sickness on the Camino Santiago el Norte.

Moving west, is a constant, there are no choices unless you are John Adams, second President of Merica. Adams was shipwrecked and took el Norte in reverse all the way back to Paris. He had no French but persuaded the money and arms out of French hands and into Merican hands to defeat the King.

Adams travelled by donkey, Gonzo and I take the bus, urgency is needed to avoid the sand dunes between here and there swallowing Gonzo and myself.

But I am in a bus station. The romance of bus stations has never been on anyone’s agenda, there is none. Stains, graffiti and grey add to my need to leave with Gonzo hiding in the luggage compartment disguised as a Basque shopping trolley. Spies are every where, watching me as I pull my $5 Bunnings straw hat low over my eyes and climb aboard the bus to Santillada del Mar.

The Generalissimo (ret?) has informed me that he is visiting Neanderthal caves this afternoon and for me to wait for his return. He may be seeking a new operations base. It seems, unnecessary so far from the action or maybe there are secret messages in the drawings. Past campaigns hunting woolly mammoths and messages from Hannibal before he left to invade Rome. Gonzo will be an interpreter of the oracle’s messages.

The arrival in Santillada del Mar, the town of three lies was uneventful, I found the Generalissimo hiding in a garden restaurant with his new lieutenant Richard, a hardened Camino walker of 1300 km from Holland. They were blending in successfully and the staff were pleasantly in awe of their capacity to eat, drink and be merry.

Talk considering the long march was underway and war stories came easily. I returned to the Auberge and lay down and fell asleep in the sun, quite very contented considering the previous nights escapades.

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.