Castle of the Knights Templar.

I am up at first light, though I don't think I actually slept in

the full sense of the word. I had gotten my gear together last

night so I could make a clean and fast break this morning. It

feels good to sneak out of the building, stepping over bodies, and

trying to be careful not to slam the door. Freedom again at last

as I set a quick pace up the street towards Ponferrada and the

legendary castle of the nights templar 7 km ahead.

At about 7:30 I was standing in front of the castle which is very

impressive and must certainly be the model for Disneyland. The

front door is guarded by two imposing turrets with high walls all

around. I spent a couple of hours admiring and photographing the

structure and was very disappointed in not being able to enter. I

had read of three recent accounts by pilgrims who describe buying

tickets and exploring the interior of the castle. I asked the

woman at the information center when the castle was closed to

visitors and she told me that it had never been open. Naturally

there was no point in arguing with her, and I was tired after

little or no sleep the night before, so I went off in search of

breakfast.

View of the castle foundation.

As I sat and drank my cafe con leche, I thought about the Templars

and the immense power they wielded. This castle was built in the

early 11th century and stands as an imposing monument to their

wealth and power. The Templars played an important role in the

Crusades and afterwards maintained the security and safety of

pilgrims in this remote part of the country. By the beginning of

the 14th century they had become so powerful that it became

difficult for kings and popes alike to discipline them.

Accordingly, in 1307, trumped up charges were brought against them

by King Philip IV of France, their leaders systematically tortured

and killed, and by 1312 the Order of the Knights Templar was

eradicated. A sad and ignominious ending to a once proud and

honorable organization.

Cobblestones, Ponferrada.

I found a supermarket and bought some supplies, my usual hard

cheese, bread, a little sausage, and a couple of bottles of water.

On my way out of town, I bought three rolls of Fuji 400 film and a

package of the amazing second skin bandages that the Norwegians

introduced me to for the still painful wounds on my achilles

heels. The way out of Ponferrada was down a road leading to a

bridge over the River Sil and then steeply up through a

neighborhood of apartment buildings. This was a somewhat rough and

dirty section which lead to a far more affluent neighborhood at

the top of the hill overlooking the city. Here, I walked through

clean, safe streets with attractive houses and well cared for

lawns. At this point my right shin tendons were very painful as I

walked and I was very concerned about my ability to walk with the

pain. Just at the outskirts of town before passing through an

underpass I stopped and sat on the wall of a garden to dress my

wounds. I took off my right boot and carefully massaged my shin

before wrapping it in a bandage. As I sat a French couple came by

and asked how I was doing. Being the stoic, I of course told them

everything was fine instead of asking them to call for an

ambulance. Shortly afterwards, two Frenchmen came by and one

asked me, "How was your sleep?"

"My sleep?" I repeated, having no idea what he was talking about.

"Your walking."

"Not good," I told him. "How's yours?"

"Horrible!" he said patting his leg as they walked on.

Ponferrada.

The treatment and short rest seemed to help a bit, but the pain

was still intense as I walked, so I proceeded slowly and with

great deliberation. After a few paces down a paved street, a man

on a bicycle stoped me and sent me back to a turnoff I had missed.

I really felt as though Santiago himself had intervened on my

behalf since I was in no condition to be putting on kilometers in

error only to retrace my steps. Presently I entered a small town,

just an intersection really, with a few stores, a bar, and a

public phone. The sky was beginning to look very dark and ominous

so I decided to pause for a short while and phone my wife Cameron

back home north of Boston. We spoke for a while, and I am always

glad to hear her voice. I forget, struggling as I am with my own

challenges, how difficult it is for her, having been left alone

for an extended period. A local man comes by and I ask him if he

thinks it will rain. He responds: "Possibly no rain," and crosses

the street and enters the bar. The sky is getting darker by the

second and the lights come on in the bar. It is 2:35 and I head

for the bar rather than the expanse of open plain that I can see

ahead. The bar is a large long room on the corner of the building.

Booths line one side with plate-glass windows and the counter runs

the full length of the room opposite the windows. A group of men

congregate at the end of the bar toward the front and I take a

booth at the rear. After unloading my pack I approach the bar and

order a cafe solo and brandy to ease the pain, and take it back to

my table by the window. Then the sky opens up and heavy drenching

rain falls in sheets, immediately flooding the streets. I glance

over to the "possibly no rain" guy who has apparently forgotten

his prediction since he takes no notice. Although this is the

heaviest rain I've seen so far, accompanied by steady thunder and

lightening, it lightens up after a few minutes and finally stops.

I pay my bill, gather my gear, and head out. Every step is painful

so I walk slowly for a few kilometers and stop to sit on a bench

outside of a house in one of Spain's little ghost towns as I've

come to think of them. They apparently were populated until quite

recently. The houses show evidence of people having lived in them

and the plants are healthy but there is no one around. It is very

erie, as though the entire population of the town were sucked up

by an alien space craft and abducted. What is more probable is

that they are avoiding me like the plague since I am the alien.

Then Santiago himself seems to take pity on me in the form of two

pilgrims who come toward me. They are wearing shorts and I notice

that one has a bandage on his right shin. When they reach me they

stop and we chat for a bit since they speak English. I ask the man

with the bandage about his injury, and he tells me it is a tendon

problem exactly like mine which he incurred in Leon, exactly like

me. Very weird. He proceeds to tell me that they are from Belgium

and that he is a doctor. Then, he gives me very specific

instructions about how to apply a bandage that will work, pointing

out his own bandage. This information was revolutionary! Really.

The doctor in Leon had no clue about the bandaging technology that

was being revealed to me, nor did the pilgrim I spoke to in Burgos

who was aborting his pilgrimage due to tendon injury. I was

practically dumbstruck in my gratitude. The key to the

effectiveness of the Belgian doctor's bandage lie in not simply

wrapping the shin with an elastic as is typically done, but

rather, three pieces of bandage scientifically applied. First off,

you must use a non-stretch adhesive bandage several inches wide,

the type that is typically used to hold a bandage on. The first

piece is placed on the front of the shin from knee to ankle. Just

a straight piece running up and down with no wrapping around.

Then, a second piece is wrapped tightly around the ankle,

overlapping the first piece of bandage. Finally, the third piece

is wrapped tightly around the shin just below the knee. When

applied correctly, the unbearable pain you experienced vanishes.

Somehow, this particular wrapping procedure holds the tendons and

muscles in place and one is almost as good as new. The bandages

must be very tight - as tight as possible without cutting off

circulation. It was 4:00 and the doctor's friend was getting

anxious and wanted to continue. We all shook hands and after I

thanked him earnestly, the continued on to Villafranca. The doctor

had very caring eyes, a sign to me that he was obviously in the

right profession.

After a boring walk on a paved road, I arrived in Cacabelos at

6:30 P.M. I had gotten out of phase with the daily walks in my

guidebook (A Practical Guide for Pilgrims, Editorial Everest,

ISBN: 84-241-3833-3) which neatly maps the route in walkable

segments of 20 to 35 km with stops in towns and cities with

refugios for pilgrims. This was not a problem today but would soon

become one. I had a beer in a central bar and asked about the

refugio which was over the river at the far end of town and out in

the fringe area. This sounded much too much like the refugio I

stayed in last night in Molinaseca so when I saw an advertisement

for Hostel de Santa Maria, I went for it. The word hostel used to

describe it was somewhat misleading, since it turned out to be a

splendid renovated hotel which would rival any American hotel at

twice the price. The room was new and clean and cost 3500 pts,

relatively expensive, but I really needed a decent nights rest and

felt no guilt at all about passing over the refugio. After taking

care of my laundry and relaxing I went to dinner at a fine

restaurant, the Meson, a few doors up the street. I ordered roast

pork, fish soup, and rice pudding and thoroughly enjoyed it. Back

at the hostel, I redressed my sore tendon with the bandages I

bought yesterday. The bandage cost a fortune, 1400 pts, since in

Spain, any medical supplies must be purchased at an actual

pharmacy or apothecary where prices are high since there is no

other option. I was really shocked by the price, since it was

easily twice what I would expect to pay back home, even after

taking into consideration the currency conversion. In America, for

example, you can buy bandages in a variety of places ranging from

the pharmacy to K-Mart to a food supermarket, and the prices are

low and competitive.

View from my room at Hostel Santa Maria in Cacabelos.

As I settled in for the night in my luxurious accommodations, it

was becoming clear that something had gone awry in the gastronomic

department. I wasn't feeling well and apparently something I ate

or drank did not agree with me, and the condition was exacerbated

by the smell of fresh paint wafting up from the recently renovated

lobby of the hostel. Still, tomorrow would be a new day, and, I

hoped, one where I would throw off the queasiness I felt as I went

to sleep.