Camino in reverse
4 comments February 11th, 2005
On the final run into Santiago, Gary and I had several earnest, heartfelt discussions relating to the coming re-packing of our bags, during which we would have to somehow incorporate our previously discarded camping gear whilst minimising the weight we carried. Determinedly we vowed to weigh our bags on entering Santiago, and not to gain one single kilo more than we had walked the camino with. No matter what sacrifices had to be made, what precious treasures left behind; under no circumstances, we swore and declared, would those packs gain a single gram.
Ah, yes.
What an utter load of codswallop.
For future reference: never should one ever pack a bag whilst warm, comfortable, rested, fed, and under the influence of any amount of alcohol. Oh, no. Packing one’s life into a bag is the kind of mission which should be undertaken in controlled circumstances; a good time, for example, might be after running a 40km marathon in 30 degree heat with the entire load on one’s back, and no beer in sight at the finish line. Perhaps in those kind of conditions, one would make decisions which displayed a semblance of intelligence.
As averse to those which demonstrate ample measures of sheer, pathetic, moronic stupidity.
You would think that after walking the distance we have, we would gain the ability to be brutal and utterly logical in regards to belongings.
Oh, I think not.
After performing what I considered to be an excellent pack cull, I added a couple of things to my pack. Not much, I thought. Half of the tent; the mess tins and cutlery; a new knife (admittedly slightly crocodile Dundee-ish in proportion; but hey, I reasoned, we’re heading for Africa); bedroll; and a couple of other odds and ends. I watched Gary’s evergrowing stash, meanwhile, with some trepidation, but he swore blind it was just packed differently and there was really no more weight than before.
I weighed my pack when I had finished, the night before we were due to leave – and this is where I really can’t believe my own idiocy – cheerfully said to Gary, “Oh, that should be no problem, it’s only about 5 kilos heavier than before. Still waaaay lighter than in France.”
Hello?
5 kilos?
Did I suddenly have a brain atrophy or something?
Off we merrily trotted the following morning, bright sunshine and all, bound for Portugal. I will add that at this point we’d also blithely planned to stroll a short 25km day. Nothing too difficult, you know; a good reasonable day to break us back in gently. Of course, we were aware that it might not be as easy going the opposite direction to Santiago, as all the waymarks point toward that city rather than away, but hey – we’re old hands at all of this now, aren’t we? How hard can it be? And the packs aren’t really MUCH heavier, not really, only a few kilos here and there. Nothing too serious.
Nothing too serious, BOLLOCKS.
The first five kilometres were okay. We didn’t seem to be going as fast as we were accustomed to, but we didn’t mind, there was no rush. The waymarks were a little difficult to follow; but we had expected that, too. Unfortunately, after we had walked about an hour without seeing any trace of them at all, and the compass seemed to be pointing due North as averse to the desired Southerly direction, we began to get a little concerned. This unsettling occurrence coincided with the sneaking suspicion that the alien on my back was actually not a pack but a strange, ever expanding, amorphous mass of concrete with a malevolent and destructive personality, and evil intent. As I meditated on this odd phenomenon, my feet began to wail in a particularly pitiful fashion, telling me in no uncertain terms that they were about to make my life sheer and unadulterated hell unless I unburdened them RIGHT NOW.
A short time later we saw a sign which informed us that we had successfully found our way through the new routing of the Portuguese Way. Unfortunately we had done so in the wrong direction.
It was around about then that our plans to reach the albergue 25 km away began to subside sadly into the dirt, and the 12km one to look not only appealing, but almost too far away. Oh, how the mighty are fallen.
Sometime around six o’clock we limped into the 12km albergue, my pack riding like a triumphant hippo on my broken back, feet screaming like Mariah Carey on cocaine, and any pride I had in utter tatters. Carefully I put the monster down and said, very quietly, “I’m sending a parcel off tomorrow.”
“HHHmmmmm,” said Gary. “How much do you think it’s going to cost to…”
He never got a chance to finish the sentence. Suddenly he was confronted with a mad, shrieking, rather heinously insane harridan. And my mother in law has already left.
And did I mention that knife…?
By the time I finished, we were both pleasantly clear on a couple of things. Firstly, that the five kilos I had gained in my pack were going. Immediately, and to hell west and crooked with the cost. And secondly, that the five kilos I had gained in my pack were going.
So, with a weary sense of deja vu, out came everything for yet another pack cull. Only this time, there was nothing left to cull. It was really hard.
In the end, it is things like the second set of thermals, extra socks, and journal, which have had to go. Things I use every day but which, possibly, I can manage without – especially now that (hopefully) we are out of the worst of the cold. There is just no way I can carry weight like that again. And it is hard to believe that five kilos can make that much of a difference.
Meanwhile, Gary’s pack is almost double the weight of mine; but he says he’s fine. Certainly, he doesn’t moan even a fraction as much as I do.
So we set out again. Chastened, again. Lighter packs, again. I’m sure we will learn. Eventually.
In the meantime, Gary has been a complete saint and taken the whole tent; he sent quite a bit back, but I still feel a complete girl’s blouse for not carrying my half. Unfortunately, I just can’t; so there it is.
It really isn’t easy following the Camino backwards. Every few miles there is a blue arrow to indicate the direction we are meant to go; but to be honest, they are so few and far between we are largely relying on the compass and roads now. We pick up the Way for stretches, but lose it just as frequently, and after having gone very wrong a couple of times scrupulously check the compass regularly now. We met a couple today who are walking the Way to Santiago, but who once walked it the way we are; they told us they also got lost on a daily basis, which made us feel slightly better. I’m sure we’ll get used to it.
The muscles are finding their way back to normal function again (oh, man, I still can’t believe how they made me pay for my little holiday) and my backpack is once more the benign little companion to which I am accustomed, as averse to the sinister extra terrestrial of our first day back. The weather has been utterly divine, day after day of blissful sunshine, and we are still in the land of pilgrim’s albergues, so the tent remains where all good tents should in the winter – packed. I can see it nudging at the straps though, just itching to have me back in it’s freezing little clutches. I am going to defy it for as long as humanly possible.
Thanks to the wonderful people at www.caminosantiago.com, we have been given all manner of information about accommodation on the route, for which we are eternally grateful. If you are at all interested in walking the camino, it is really worth looking at their forum, as the people on it are incredibly helpful and generous with their information. Thanks in particular to Giorgio from Italy, who took the time to send us a long and highly informative email about the Camino Portuguese. We may even get to the end of it one day. (The route, that is, not the email).
We are very close to Portugal now, despite pack and feet issues (which I am sure will improve dramatically after the pack cull). It was marvellous to have such a long and indulgent break, and to see our mothers – in my case, for the first time in three years due to our long stay in London. We are very grateful to both of them for driving the enormous distance to Santiago, and picking up all of our discarded belongings along the way!
And if I ever write anything again implying that we are cocky enough to think we have this pack thing sussed out, feel free to tell me to shove a sock in it.
Some days later…
And how quickly it all changes!
Suddenly we are back to normal, the trail seems to be much more clearly waymarked, and we are travelling at our old comfortable pace. Even better, the weather has been something out of a travel brochure, warm enough to walk in a t-shirt every day. We are just about to cross the border and not only does the food seem to get better every day, it also – and we thought this was not possible – seems to be getting cheaper! When you can get an entire three course meal with wine and coffee for five euros, you know it´s a country you´re going to like. The seafood is sizzling on barbeques as we go by; the people are smiling and friendly; and, most importantly, it is sunny here whilst the weather report tells us that the meseta and much of the camino frances is still getting snow dumped on it…this is a GOOD feeling. I realise that is horribly callous for any poor souls about to walk it, but man, it is soooo good to be in warm weather at last. We have had our share of cold and snow, and now it is good to think there is sunshine and seaside ahead. Cheers, and we will put some photos up next time.