Leaving Estella.

As I walked out of Estella I came to an ancient gate. Before passing

through, I stopped and looked at the highrises on the other side and

felt a distinct reluctance as I passed from an ancient world into a

modern one. No choiceÑI had to keep walking. As in Puente la Reina, I

felt a need to leave a little something behind, so after speaking

with two horses who were corralled in a small lot overlooking the

city, I gave them an apple and left a small scallop shell that had

been given to me by my friend Jackie who lives on Cape Cod. She had

given me a small collection before I left and I had one pinned to my

hat as a symbol of my pilgrimage. The legend of El Camino includes

the story of a bridegroom who was drowned when he and the horse he

was riding were swept into the sea as he was riding along the beach

to his wedding. When his bride appealed to Saint James the groom

arose from the sea covered with shells. From then on the shell became

the mark of all who fought the infidel and the badge of those who

make the pilgrimage. Most pilgrims have a scallop shell sewn or

hanging from their pack and it is incorporated into much of the

architecture along the route as an ornamental element.

Before long I arrived at Irache where there is a very unusual

fountain provided by a winery from which visitors have a choice

between water or wine.

Wine or water.

Although it is only 11:30 I of course sample

the wine which tasted very bitter to me and I hoped it wasn't the

best they could produce. Later I ran into a group of young Germans

who raved about it and filled their water bottles with the free wine.

A few paces up the hill there is the amazing Irache Monastery where

the guard allowed me to pass without paying the entrance fee. Records

of the monastery go back as far as 958 but the current romanesque

church on the site was completed in the 13th century. Although the

parking lot outside was teaming with tour groups and their huge

busses, I was the only visitor inside and grateful for the

opportunity to experience its powerful energy in solitude. Despite

the fact that I am not Catholic I felt a particular affinity to this

church and its beautiful cloisters. The ancient architects knew how

to create spaces that touch one's soul. There is a blend of peace,

simplicity, and grandeur, that I have only felt in ancient

cathedrals. The harmonics of the space created by the columns and

fifty foot ceilings are not to be found elsewhere.

Irache Cloisters.

As I walked up a hill to the next community, not a town exactly, but

a cluster of houses and a hotel with an playground only a couple of

hundred meters from one end to the other, I passed a garden center

where a man leaped up from his chair behind the heavy gate

(everything was fenced in and guarded, even the houses) and came over

to the gate to greet me. He repeated the word "well" several times

with great enthusiasm, and I must admit that I didn't understand what

he wanted. This encounter turned out to be one of the many

misunderstandings I would experience along the way. He spoke the word

"well" as a question in exactly the way an English speaker would when

demanding a response to the question: "Well, what is the answer?"

Finally I realized that he was asking "Are you well," but something

subtle in the inflection and mannerism was off just enough to

completely confuse me. After assuring him that I was in fact "well,"

or, as well as could be expected under the circumstances, I continued

to walk through the small community, past the tour busses parked

outside the hotel and out the other end towards Los Arcos.

A short time later I came around a curve in the path to a field of

lavender in full bloom. The sight was breathtaking. I lingered for a

moment amazed and listened to the millions of bees working the

flowers. So many bees made quite a loud chorus and I hoped that I

wouldn't do anything to annoy one by accident since the consequences

could be dire. A paranoid response to natures bounty, but what can

you expect from a person born and raised in New York City?

Lavender field.

At 1:00 I came to Azqueta, a town with a fine church to St. Peter. As

I was having cheese and Irache wine in the tiny garden, the man who

keeps the key came out to open the church and show me the inside.

Azqueta Garden.

Awesome 16th century high alter and statues. Quite inspiring. The

view across the valley to the Castillo de Deyo is delightful, but I

am getting a little concerned about the upcoming terrain, since the

key keeper, who has been joined by two of his comrades, informs me

that the road ahead is quite steep. I decided to leave my vest here,

since it is a beautiful and hospitable town. This is a vest I have

treasured for years, but I could think of no better place than

Azqueta to let it go and lighten my burden. Just before entering

Millamayor de Monjardin I lingered briefly at the 13th century

Fountain of the Moors. Maybe it was the recent restoration, or just

my desire to move on, but the place didn't interest me very much

despite its antiquity.

Fuentede los Moros.

In sharp contrast to the hospitality of

Azqueta, in the next town, Millamayor de Monjardin, as I admired the

church and take a photograph, a hostile man came out to protect and

conceal his church from me rather than share its beauty.

Parish Church.

Leaving Villamayor de Monjardin.

It is 3:30 and I begin what seems an interminable march across a

forbidding landscape. As fate and poor planning would have it, I

begin this march ill equipped, with neither enough food or water.

There is nothing from here to Los Arcos 12 kilometers away, and while

it isn't far, conditions combine to make it arduous. At this hour the

sun is high and hot. Everything with any sense is resting in the

shade. It is one of those intensely bright afternoons where not even

a bug is crawling or bird flying. One feels unusually alone and

vulnerable. As I walk the dirt path through fields of wheat, which

are mercifully mostly flat, I begin to tire and rest after an hour to

drink my last (hot) can of orange-aid, since I am out of water. As I

walk again, out of nowhere an old man begins to catch up with me and

then disappears suddenly like a phantom. 5:00 and two Frenchmen catch

up to me and tell me they left Estella at 2:00. They set a very fast

pace which I can't even think of matching and a few minutes later at

the top of a rise from where I can see for miles, with the road in

plain view, the Frenchmen are nowhere to be seen. Like the old man,

they have vanished. Spooky. After what seems an eternity, I reach Los

Arcos and the refugio which is quite nice. It is a single story

contemporary building, clean and uninspiring. After paying my 400

pts. and selecting my bunk, I make my way to the local grocery store

and buy the usual cheese, fruit, and wine and head back to the

refugio to eat. There were several other pilgrims at the kitchen

table eating, and what seems like a pleasant discussion (in French),

suddenly turned into a heated argument with shouting and gesturing.

One of the participants was the Frenchman I met back in Zubiri,

otherwise known as "the French guy," (see chapter 4) and who I met

later that evening in town as he was checking the bus schedules in an

attempt to avoid any further contact with the members of the

opposition. He remains a very excitable pilgrim, and while I

understood little of what he was saying, it was clear that he was

still upset by the altercation back at the refugio. Each time I came

in contact with him, he was bitterly upset by something or someone.

Back in Zubiri it was his pilgrim's guide mistake about the local

restaurants being open that had him fuming.

After eating I attended a special pilgrim's Mass at the cathedral

which gave me a chance to explore the square a bit and make a phone

call home.