spain

As another wave washed over me and threw me off direction I thought back to what Lucas had been saying: “It’s the easiest of the travesías, it’s hard to get lost.” He had paused a second and then added, “It’s also the hardest”

Me and Lucas, before

In January this year I joined Ovimaster, the masters swimming club in Oviedo (Masters swimming is for swimmers who are no longer in university/competition but who still enjoy swimming clubs and meets). I didn’t do any of the indoor competitions but I chatted to the others about open water swimming. In Asturias between the end of June and the end of August there are open water events pretty much every weekend. Some are local affairs, with a handful of competitors, others are international, like Navia, where the whole town turns out and the 500 swimmers parade in the morning, part of the local fiesta. There are river swims (descents and ascents (against the current)) and sea swims (travesías). There are short swims of 800m and long ones up to 8km (although there are few takers, and the weather has to cooperate). The travesía del Musel had been described as the purest of the sea swims, because it had the most open of open water sections. The route leaves the industrial Musel port from inside the harbour, which is usually used by tankers, ferrys, cruise ships and big cargo vessels. Then as you leave the harbour you turn right, following the breakwater until that takes another right and heads inland while you strike out across the bay to the calmer waters of the leisure port 2km distant.

I hadn’t done any open water swimming but it sounded like a challenge I would enjoy. I started with a 1500m race in Gijón, along San Lorenzo beach, and then a 5000m river swim in Navia. And lots of laps in the pool.

Team Ovimaster

We registered at the finish line, then stripped down to whatever swimwear we favoured. Vaseline or grease was applied liberally (not goose fat, and not for warmth, this was to stop chafing) before 100 oiled swimmers walked down to two waiting buses ready to take us to the start.

Ready to get on a bus

We clambered over slippy breakwater blocks and sat half in and half out of the water waiting for the start. Some people swam lazy warm-up strokes. The woman next to me slipped and head butted my shoulder before apologising profusely and laughing. People started shouting for the race to start. I don’t know what we were waiting for but we spent 15 minutes in the water becoming increasingly impatient. Then we were told to get in and line up. This took a frustratingly long time. I spotted Carmen, from Ovimaster, who would probably swim a similar time to me, and we nodded at each other, we would stick together, we said. If we could.

swimming in the rain

And then we were off, and it was the usual press of bodies and jumble of strokes until the faster swimmers had gone and there was more space for the rest of us. Inside the harbour walls there weren’t too many waves, although I was out on the edge of the group nearer the middle of the harbour and the swell was noticeable. 700m or so to the first turn, out of the harbour. It was relatively easy to navigate, the harbour wall and the big cranes on the right, but even so, I zigzagged a bit and had to correct myself time and again, sighting every four breaths or so.

It was a different story as we neared the corner. The sea swell was much more pronounced, sighting was much harder, I struggled to time it to match the crests of the waves but they seemed to be coming from all directions. It felt like it took forever to make the turn and once I did, the swell got even bigger. In all probability it was less than 1m but it was intimidating. I swallowed a fair amount of water but I concentrated on breathing and sighting and kept going. Every now and again I would see one of the support kayaks but not the other swimmers. I realised someone was shouting at me and took a couple of breast strokes to listen to the kayaker telling me to head more to the right. I said thanks and reoriented myself and was off once again. Someone appeared suddenly next to me (the water was clear, but you couldn’t see anything more than a couple of metres away because of the turbulent surface), Carmen. We swam together for a minute before more waves pushed us in different directions. I tried to guess how long we had been swimming. The breakwater was still to the right, so I was still less than halfway. That was a bit unsettling, because I felt tired from battling the waves. I kept trying to breathe at the top of the swell and it was getting better but the breakwater was refusing to recede into the distance.

Another kayaker shouted and I reoriented myself, off in the distance I could see the tallest building in the Gijón skyline, the one everyone said to aim for. I continued, a kayak hit me and the kayakers apologised profusely, no problem I said and kept on. Every so often I had to lift up my steamed up goggles to make sure I wasn’t heading for Ireland. The breakwater finally disappeared from my view to the right, I could see the shipyards next to Arbayal beach in the distance. I kept on trying to keep close enough to the kayaks so I didn’t have to change direction too much.

On the east side of the bay the waves eased a little and the swimming was easier. All of a sudden I could see the big green lighthouse which marked the entrance to the harbour. Rain started to fall heavily, which felt quite nice. A man in a white launch yelled for me to head right, I was going towards the breakwater rather than the harbour entrance. I felt good, I was going to finish. As I reached the harbour wall and swam between it and the lighthouse I could hear a couple of people cheering, I thought it was Luciano (the president of Ovimaster) but couldn’t be sure, not being able to see much.

One slightly knackered swimmer on the jetty

Once in the harbour there was just 500m to go, in flat calm water, which feltlike a luxury. I swam past an enormous catamaran and reached the jetty where patient helpers told me to come out on all fours because the concrete was slippery. They reached a hand out and helped me to my unsteady feet. Knackered. I walked up the jetty, kissed Liz and enjoyed the feeling of having accomplished something difficult. Everyone agreed that it had been difficult, rough swimming. It took me an hour and twenty six minutes, which is the longest I have swum for.

Lucas came in five minutes ahead of me. He’s sixty seven.

“Can you invigilate an exam in Pamplona?”

I said yes, thinking of San Fermín and bulls and historic cities and Navarran wine and that kind of thing.

The reality, as ever, was a little different. Everardo and I left Oviedo on the Friday evening after our last classes (so once we’d got the car sorted and such that meant 8pm). There are two choices to get to Pamplona according to google maps, South via León and Burgos, or along the coast to Bilbao and then inland. We plumped for the coast road. The sun sank lower and turned everything golden as we figured out the limiter on the car (don’t want to go over 110km per hour, thanks to the new speed limits and the police being all vigilant and all).

An unfinished part of the motorway

Eve said there might be some traffic but there was nothing, well, nothing compared to the M62. We drove until the car asked for fuel, and pulled off at the first garage… lights on, no one about. So on to the next, hoping it was within 25km which, thankfully, it was.

At the side of the garage there was a Meson, which is basically a restaurant, but one which doesn’t have any pretensions. I was a paper tablecloth kind of place. We didn’t really have time to hang around so we ordered a plate of chorizo, egg and chips each. It was bloomin’ lovely. Sugary coffee and a coke to keep alert and off we went again.

From Bilbao south, the roads get a little trickier to navigate, signs appear just yards before the junction, they’re poorly lit and they don’t always point you towards the bigger cities (I had in my head that we’d follow Santander – Bilbao – Pamplona, but the signs alternated between Pamplona and Vizcaya. Eve is not the worlds best navigator so we had to be a bit careful). Still, at one thirty we pulled into the car park behind the hotel and checked in.

After what seemed like a criminally short time we were up and out. Just 5km to the exam site. But in this part of Pamplona they’re building a lot of streets and there are neither houses nor street signs to help you. There are, however, a lot of roundabouts. Take the fifth exit, according to Google maps, onto Calle Juan Pablo II… oops, there are only three exits, and no street names. It took us forty minutes to find the damn place.

The exam itself is easy to invigilate. Hand out the exams while reading from the script (it’s an american exam) then watch and make sure there’s no shenanigans. For four hours.

Then pack up and head back to Oviedo. This time via Burgos. Total distance 999km. Six hours each way.

We’ve got another one to do next week.

Mientras conducía hacía la casa ayer, después de una clase en Olloniego con un grupo de trabajadores en una nave industrial, escuchaba a la radio nacional en lo que hablaban de una nueva ficción sonora que transmitirían aquella noche en la radio 3. Aquí no hay mucha ficción en la radio en comparación con la situación en Inglaterra y es algo que lo echo de menos. Fue aun mejor cuando descubrió que la transmisión sería un podcast también. Ayer andaba por las calles con auriculares metidos en las orejas, escuchando a la historia conocida pero renovada para el siglo XXI, con emails y sms en el lugar del estilo epistolario del original. Estaba bien , la obra (pues, los efectos sonidos eran un poco ruidosos y faltaron casi la parte media del libro, llegando al castillo de Dracula muy pronto), pero lo que llamó la atención fue el programa entero. Lo introdujeron como si fuese un evento muy especial (hasta una función de gala), y era así con una ovación fuerte. Lo que me extraña es que, en la BBC radio 4, hay obras cada tarde, y algunas noches también, sin el alboroto que oí (incluso una noticia en la tele esta tarde sobre la representación).

They don't make this kind of fuss over the Archers

Estoy contento que hay obras así en la radio, pero aquí tienen un camino largo si quieren llegar a una obra por dia, en lugar de un obra por año.

As I was driving home the other day from a class I give to a bunch of warehouse workers in Olloniego, I was listening to the radio and they were talking about a live version of Dracula that would be on the radio that night. There’s not a lot of radio drama here, certainly nothing like radio 4 and it’s something I miss so I was pleased to discover that the play would also be available as a podcast.

So, yesterday, there I was, wandering the streets (on my way to classes) earphones in, listening to the story, which had been updated to use emails and text messages instead of the epistolary nature of the original.

It was pretty good (a bit too heavy on the sound effects and they skipped the middle of the book so they managed to arrive at the castle rather quickly) but what was really noticeable was the programme as a whole. It was introduced with a lot of fuss, like it was a gala event, and it was treated as such, with a long ovation and interviews afterwards. What’s funny is that BBC radio 4 do a play every afternoon and some nights too, without all the kerfuffle (there was even a news report about it the following day)

I’m happy to find that there are radio plays, but they’ve got a long way to go if they want to do a play a day, rather than one a year.

We didn’t have Jools Holland grinning at midnight, instead, at about twenty to, Cova remembered the grapes. “We’ve got to prepare them,” she said. So a cup for each person with twelve grapes was produced and Liz got busy with a toothpick to deseed hers, Cova meticulously peeled her dozen. Julio and I scorned such shortcuts, we would eat the whole thing, pips, skin and all.

At five to midnight (bearing in mind we hadn’t actually reached dessert yet, having just finished the main course of roast veg and greek dips) we turned on the telly to find ‘The Channel Five Angels’ Marta Fernández, Sara Carbonero y Pilar Rubio counting down to midnight in front of the Puerto del sol in Madrid (a rather warmer version of the Trafalgar Square bash). On the stroke of twelve, a little pac man and a dozen dots appeared on the screen and the counting and eating began…

Definitely not Jools Holland

I knew of this tradition, of course, but hadn’t realised that everybody would be doing it, or that the tableful of celebrities eating grapes would be replayed, and still available on the channel five website.

The other new year’s tradition we had done was the day before. The walking group had invited everyone to their headquarters to wish each other a happy new year and they’d put on a buffet spread which finished with the Roscón de los Reyes, this is basically a big ring cake with candied fruit and fruit paste inside. In the Roscón there are two little gifts… a figurine (representing Jesus) and a bean… Liz got the figurine, and a (paper) crown. Ana, the secretary of the group got the bean, which means she has to pay for the Roscón next year!

El roscón de reyes

After the grape eating we went for a stroll, ending up in a cafe at around two. The night was just getting started for the young Ovetense who traditionally take advantage of the new year celebrations to tog themselves up very smartly. Being lightweights, we headed home at around three. A pleasant start to the new year.

No tuvimos Jools Holland sonriendo abiertamente a medianoche, en su lugar, a las doce menos veinte recordó Cova las uvas. -Tenemos que prepararlas- dijo ella. Así que producimos un vaso de doce uvas para cada persona y Liz empezó trabajando con un palito para quitar las pepitas, Cova las pelaba meticulosamente la docena suya. Julio i yo desdeñamos tal atajos, las comeríamos enteras, pepitas, piel y todo.

A las doce menos cinco (tener en cuente que todavia no habíamos llegado al postre, justo acabó el plato principal, de verduras asadas y salsas griegas) la encendimos la tele en que encontramos  ”Los ángeles de telecinco” Marta  Fernández, Sara Carbonero y Pilar Rubio quien contaban para atrás hasta medianoche delante de la Puerta del sol en Madrid (una versión mas cálido de la fiesta en la plaza de Trafalgar en Londres). Al dar la medianoche aparecieron un pequeño pacman y doce puntos en la pantalla y empezó el contar y el comer.

Ya lo sabía la costumbre, pero no me había dado cuenta que lo haría todo el mundo, o que la mesa de los famosos habría una repetición instantánea, y queda todavía disponible en la pagina de canal cinco.

Hicimos otra costumbre de la temporada el día anterior. El grupo Naranco había invitado a todos los socios a despedir el año en la sede. Prepararon unos embutidos y un roscón de reyes que es un bizcocho en la forma de un anillo, que lleva frutas confitadas y dulce (tradicionalmente se come el día de los reyes pero como el Christmas Pudding vale en casi cualquier día de las fiestas). Dentro el roscón hay dos regalos, una figura y una faba.  Liz cogió la figura (y la corona de papel), Ana, la secretaria del grupo, cogió la faba, lo que quiere decir que ella tendrá que pagar el roscón el año que viene.

Después de comer las uvas salimos para dar una vuelta. Acabamos en un café a las dos, la noche estaba empezando para los ovetenses jovenes quienes aprovechan tradicionalmente la nochevieja para vestirse muy elegante. Como no somos muy dados a ir a los bares, tiramos para casa a las 3. Un principio del año muy agradable.

Although most of the media attention has been given over to el Clásico (also known as one of the most hyped matches of the year) between Barça and Real Madrid– which led to streets filled with chuffed Barça fans, the news which will be having a more personal effect is a little different.

They’ve abolished our apartment.

Well, to be precise, the RAE, the Royal Spanish Academy, guardians and staunch defenders of the mother tongue in the hispanic world, have decided that cuts are in this year. Up until yesterday ch and ll were considered single letters in a Spanish alphabet of 29 letters. We live in apartment 3LL (across the hall from 3L– it’s a big building, apparently it’s pretty rare outside of the big cities). So, instead of saying “elyay, tres elllyaaay” on the phone to telemarketers we’ll now be saying double L.

Earth shattering, isn’t it.

It also makes our scrabble set out of date, although the news was frustratingly unforthcoming about the effect on the scores.

LL Ñ CH RR

Aunque la mayoría de la prensa se fijaba en el clásico (uno de los partidos mas sobrevalorados del año) que acabó en las calles llenas de aficionados felices del Barça, la noticia que nos afectará en una forma mas personal es un poco diferente.

Han abolido el piso nuestro

Ser preciso, el RAE, los custodios y defensores de la lengua materna en el mundo de habla española, han decidido que este año los recortes estan de la moda. Antes de ayer la ch y la ll se consideraban letras dentro un alfabeto que consistía en las 29 letras. Vivimos en piso 3LL (enfrente de 3L– es un edificio grande, no es muy común así, fuera de las ciudades grandes). Así que en el lugar de decir “elle, elle” por el teléfono a las personas que hace ventas por teléfono, diremos doble L.

Qué noticia mas impactante.

También significa que ha quedado obsoleto nuestro juego de Scrabble, aun que no decían nada de eso en el telediario.

En castellano It wasn’t going exactly to plan.

We had left the coach, twelve hardy souls who were planning on doing Torrecerredo, at Sotres (880m), but the lowish cloud and the forecast scuppered the original idea of going up to the refugio Urriellu via the path to the South East and instead we opted to go the normal route via Pandébano (1212m) and past the collado vallejo (1540m). The weather was misty and drizzly and generally not the most pleasant but it eased off and we dried out a little, then on the last half hour pull up to the refugio (1953m) it came down again with a wet vengeance. We arrived at the refugio earlier than expected, wet through and dispirited.

So this was not the plan, not at all

After a few hours of sitting and waiting (and chatting and walking round keeping warm) it was time to eat and that raised spirits. The refugio has a capacity of about a hundred but given the poor conditions there was just us, a group of about thirty from Madrid and a smattering of other walkers and climbers. The food was okay, thin noodle soup followed by stewed lentils and then meatballs, when the pudding of fruit salad (can you call it a fruit salad if it’s just peaches and pears? I’m not sure) Ignacio commented that he hadn’t needed his fork, it was spoon spoon spoon then little spoon. There’s not much to do in these huts after dinner so we retired to the dormitory and slept.

A promising start

Dawn had actually brought the sun, or at least clear skies and after a less than hearty breakfast (biscuits, melba toast, butter, jam, cocoa) we set off up the Brecha de los Cazadores (hunter’s gap) (2300m or so), and on to the Jou de Cerredo (2400m or so).

Still on the way up, just past Hunter's Gap

The path is pretty well marked until you leave the normal hut-to-hut path and head for Torre Cerredo, then it’s a bit thinner, and you have to cross a few slabs. These would normally be no problem, but the previous night’s rain, combined with the freezing overnight temperatures meant that a lot of the rocks were coated with ice and were a mite slippy. A couple of the slabs were crossed entertainingly high, say, 20m above a rocky terrace. It’s a good job it’s grippy Spanish limestone and not the polished English stuff.

Delicacy on ice

We reached the base of the peak and agreed that the ice would make the ascent too dangerous (it’s a proper scramble, and you have to come down the same way). So we sat there and basked in the sun and had Eccles cakes (well Liz and I did, blimey they’re good, I wonder if we could introduce them here). A few people came down from the peak and reported that they hadn’t been able to go up because of the ice. So the right decision.

At the refugio de los cabrones

That just left the down. We descended steep paths to the refugio de los Cabrones (2060m) where we refilled water bottles and had a little peek at the cute 28 place hut, then a bit of a climb (more slabs, some cables, some old tatty rope in some parts) and then a long stoney path down through cloud to the Majada Amuesa (1386m). A majada is a high meadow, there were no cows though, only  vultures swooping and landing. Then a punishing descent over mud covered slippy rocks to Bulnes (647m) during which we were just thinking of a cold beer in one of the bars there. All that remained was the hour’s walk down from Bulnes to Poncebos (220m) to complete a long day.

No pasaba según lo planeado.

Habíamos bajado del autobús en la curvona de Sotres (880m) , doce fuertes quien pensaban en hacer el Torrecerredo pero las nubes bajas y el pronostico echó por tierra la idea de subir hasta el refugio de Urriellu por el camino del sureste y en su lugar elegimos a ir por el camino normal por Pandébano (1212m) y por el collado Vallejo (1540m). Hacía niebla con orbayu, un tiempo desagradable pero lo peor pasó y secamos un poco. Después, durante la ultima media hora subiendo hasta el refugio (1953m) llovió de nuevo de verdad. Llegamos al refugio mas temprano que esperábamos, empapados y desanimados.

Después de unas horas de sentarse y esperar (y charlar y pasearnos de un lado a otro para calentarnos) llegó la hora de cenar que nos animó. El refugio tiene la capacidad para alrededor de cien pero en tan malo tiempo había nosotros, un grupo de madrileños y unos pocos escaladores y excursionistas. La cena fue regular, una sopa de fideos, lentejas y después albóndigas, cuando llegó el postre de ensalada de frutas (no sé si es una ensalada de frutas si contiene solo peras y melocotones) Ignacio comento que no había usado el tenedor, sopa con cuchara, primer plato con cuchara, segundo, cuchara, postre, cucharita. No hay mucho para hacer en los refugios así que nos retiramos y nos acostamos.

Amaneció con sol, o por lo menos un cielo despejado entonces después un desayuno ligero (bizcochos, pan tostado, mantequilla, mermelada, colacao) salimos hacia la Brecha de los Cazadores (2300m más o menos) y después hasta el jou de Cerredo (2400m más o menos).

El camino es bien marcado hasta que sales del camino normal entre refugios y tiras para el Torre Cerredo, en este caso queda mas estrecho y tienes que cruzar por unas losas, normalmente no causarían ningún problema, pero después la lluvia y la temperatura baja de la noche anterior muchas de las rocas quedaban cubierta de hielo y resbaladizas. Cruzamos unas lozas con una altura entretenida, 20m encima de una terraza rocosa. Menos mal que es caliza española con adherencia no la inglesa pulida.

Llegamos al base del pico y decidimos que el hielo significó que la escalada sería demasiada peligrosa (hay que trepar, y tienes que bajar por la misma vía), así que nos sentimos y disfrutamos el sol, comimos “Eccles cakes” (un pastelito Inglés) (pues por lo menos Liz y yo comimos así, son buenos, me pregunto si podríamos introdulirlos aquí). Unas personas bajaban y nos dijeron que no habían sido capaz de subir por el hielo, entonces fue la decisión correcta.

Solo nos quedaba la bajada. Bajamos por senderos empinados hasta el refugio de los Cabrones (2060m) donde las cargamos las cantimploras y echamos una miradita al refugio guapo con solo 28 plazas, después, una subida (más losas, unos cables, una cuerda muy antigua y estropeada) y luego un sendero pedregoso tras las nubes hasta la Majada Amuesa(1386m). Luego un descenso duro por rocas que estuvieron cubiertas de barro hasta Bulnes (647m), durante que pensábamos solo de unas cervezas bien frías en un bar allí. Lo único que nos quedó fue el camino de una hora desde Bulnes hasta Poncebos (220m) para acabar un día largo.

En castellano As we strolled through the narrow back alleys of Cudillero we could hear the morning mass on telly through open windows. José Ángel timed it wrong and passed an old boy in his front garden just as the mass got to the sign of the peace so I had to wait while he shook hands with the old boy, his neighbor and a couple of other folk.

158 steps up to my house, he said... I only do it once a day.

I had bumped into JA while on the way to the cinema on Friday (to see The American, when it’s out in November in the UK don’t be fooled into thinking it’s an action thriller, it’s much more sombre, good though). We hadn’t seen each other for a good while and we agreed to head out and take photos again. He said when, I said Sunday? he said ok and there we were, a 7:30 start and to the coast to catch the early sun.

After the cliffs and beaches we wandered round Cudillero, it’s a typical Asturian fishing village, small colourful houses packed into the side of steep hills with pricy seafood restaurants at the bottom. We walked in search of pictures. After the handshake incident we passed a house up on the top level outside of which were hanging half a dozen spatchcocked dogfish. It looked like there was no meat on them so I asked what they were doing there. Drying, JA guessed, but he didn’t know so he asked the old boy in the doorway behind the stinky fish.

The flies found them quite appetizing

They were dogfish, shark of some kind, drying, to be used at christmas to make a traditional dish somewhat like bacalao (the classic salt cod you get almost everywhere in Spain). The old boy motioned us to enter, he was making a fishing lure, but he did more than that, all the walls were covered in shells and pictures made from shells and photos of him as a young man on his boat. We chatted for a while, asking if he still went out fishing. I’m 86 he said, they won’t let me. Your family? The damn government. He showed us some of his mounted shellfish, spider crabs with foot-long claws, mussels the size of baseball gloves, an 8 inch dried seahorse surrounded by dried clam shells. It’s my hobby, he said. As we chatted amiably he said the fishing was sometimes still good but the Basques, the Galicians and the Russians were ruining everything. He said he could understand why the Somali pirates did piracy.

He was a spry old boy, if I was running a boat along the coast of Spain I might be a bit worried.

Mientras paseábamos por las callejones de Cudillero oímos la misa de la mañana por la tele tras las ventanas abiertas. José Ángel eligió un mal momento y pasó por un viejo en su jardín al mismo momento que la misa llegó al “gesto de amistad” y tuve que esperar mientras se daba la mano al viejo, su vecino y unos otros.

Había encontrado a JA cuando iba yo al cine el viernes (para ver la película El Americano, cuando se estrenarán en noviembre en el reino unido no se engañe en pensar que es una película de suspense con acción, es mucho más sombría aun que buena). No nos habíamos quedamos en mucho tiempo y quedamos en salir para sacar fotos otra vez. El dijo ¿cuándo?, dije ¿el domingo?, dijo vale y ya estuvo, una salida a las 7.30 y a la costa para coger el sol temprano.

Después de los acantilados y las playas paseamos por Cudillero, es un típico pueblo de pescadores, con muchas casas pequeñas y de colores muy vivos que están en los pendientes, y abajo hay restaurantes de pescado caros. Andábamos en busca de fotos. Después del incidente de darse la mano pasamos por una casa en el callejón mas alta en donde se colgaban seis pescados (abiertos como libros). Parecía que no había carne así que pregunté por qué estaban allí. Secando adivinó JA, pero no sabía el entonces preguntó al viejo en la puerta detrás los pescados hediondos.

Eran gatas, un tipo de tiburón, secando para utilizarlos en navidad en la preparación de un plato típico, algo semejante a bacalao. El viejo nos invitó adentro, estaba haciendo un cebo pero hacía mucho más, en todos las paredes había conchas y cuadros hechos de conchas y fotos de el como un joven en su barquito. Nos charlamos un rato, le preguntamos si seguía pescar. Tengo 86 años dijo, no me dejan. ¿Su familia? El gobierno de mierda. Nos mostró unos de sus caparazones montados, un centolla con pinzas de 30cm, mejillones de tamaño de guantes de béisbol, un caballito de mar de 20cm rodeado de conchas barnizadas. Es mi hobby dijo el. Tras charlamos amigablemente nos decía que la pesca estaba buena de vez en cuando pero los Vascos, Gallegos y Rusos estaban arruinando todo. Dijo que entendía porque los Somalís hacían piratería.

Era un viejo dinámico, si fuese yo en cargo de una flota de pesca en la costa norte de España podría estar un poco preocupado

En castellano

Bracingly good pool

The summer is winding down, but we’ve had a few days of decent weather, so yesterday I took advantage of temperatures in the low 20s to head to the outdoor pool before they close it on the 15th. Liz usually takes a few minutes to get into the water in the outdoor pool whereas I usually dive straight in… it’s unheated so at 11am it can be bracing.

From here they'll go to another bar and stand around there too...

The other marker of the end of the summer is the San Mateo festival. It also began yesterday, and runs through to the end of Tuesday the 21st. As in previous years it seems to be largely about sandwiches and beer and strolling around the city. There’s a big stage in the cathedral square but I don’t recognize many of the artists, there’s a battle of the bands stage by the faculty of psychology and a jazz stage in the umbrella square. Apart from that there are a number of stages in different areas of the city with fiesta bands… these are the bands that spend the summer playing at fiestas all over, some specializing in the 80s others playing a bit more varied stuff, you see them advertised on rural bus shelters, usually with thin white ties on black shirts or some other cheesy band uniform motif. On some of the message boards there were a lot of moaners complaining that the bands were rubbish this year and how they were going to go to Gijón instead. There’s also a funfair, games and activities for kids in the park, the rally of Asturias and a few dozen sporting events going on.

Fairly setup

I went out strolling with my camera to the funfair on the slab above the train station, then around the different stages, wandering solo is entertaining enough, but a large part of the fun seems to be standing around talking, or shouting depending on how near or far a stage is. Still, there’s plenty of time to practice my standing around talking, another 11 days to be precise, although not tonight, because the walking season starts tomorrow, and we leave at 6:45am.

El verano casi se acaba, hacía buen tiempo durante la semana pasada, así que ayer aproveché de las temperaturas que llegaban a los 20 para ir con rumbo a la piscina descubierta antes de la cierran el día 15. Liz normalmente lleva unos minutos para entrar en el agua mientras que me tiro al agua inmediatamente, no hay calefacción entonces a las 11h puede estar fresca.

El otro señal del fin del verano es la fiesta de San Mateo, empezó ayer y durará hasta el final del 21, como los años anteriores parece en gran parte sobre bocatas y cerveza y dar una vuelta por la ciudad. Hay un escenario en la plaza de la catedral pero no conozco muchos de los artistas, hay un concurso de rock en un tablero al lado de la facultad de psicología y un tablero de jazz en la plaza de paraguas. Ademas hay unos tableros en varios barrios en la ciudad en que tocarán orquestas típicas de las fiestas, son las orquestas que tocan en romerías y verbenas todo el verano, algunas tocan en música de los años 80, otras tienen un repertorio un poco mas extensivo, se las ve en publicidad en las paradas rurales de los autobuses, muchas veces llevan corbatas estrechas blancas y camisas negras o algún uniforme cursi. En algunos foros habían muchos que se quejaban que los artistas son malos este año y como iban a ir a Gijón en lugar de ir a San Mateo. Hay también una feria, juegos y actividades infantiles en el parque, el rally de Asturias y unos docenas de eventos deportivos.

Dí un paseo con la camera a la feria que esta en la losa encima de la estación del tren, y después iba por los tableros y escenarios. Pasear solo es bastante entretenido, pero parece que mucho de la entretenimiento es estar de pie charlando, o gritando depende en la proximidad de un escenario. Bueno, me queda mucho tiempo para practicar mi “estar de pie y charlando”, once días más para ser exacto, aun que esta noche no, porque la temporada de caminar empezará mañana y tenemos que salir a las 0645h

En castellano

Dawn on the mountain of joy

With only 5km to go there was no rush. Even so, we had to be out of the albergue by 8am, at least, in theory… the day before I had seen folk leaving at 11 but they were Spanish and maybe there’s a constitutional right somewhere deep in the founding documentation of the country that gives them a lie in. We wandered up past the sculpture to grab a picture of it in the early sun and joined the flow of people all of whom wore satisfied smiles despite a lot of hobbling and limping along.

We stopped for breakfast, I wanted chocolate and churros, even though it was high summer… but the waitress told us that there was toast or toast no matter what the sign outside said, maybe there would be a pack of cake if she looked really hard. Not surprising becuase this was the first cafe on the way into town and there had been a lot of early risers, she looked tired and run off her feet.

Done!

The rest of the walking was urban, along main roads or into the city pretty quickly. The walkers grouped at red lights and the drivers of Santiago seemed to be unnaturally patient while these big groups crossed roads. The outskirts of the city were nothing to write home about, and we kept up a good pace to reach the old town. As we got nearer the buildings were lower, the streets narrower and we were  struck by the numbers of youth marching around in gangs with matching t-shirts that proclaimed their part in the mass youth pilgrimage 2010.  We passed one of the gates into the old centre of the city, into the narrow pedestrian streets, the signs pointing this way and that. We passed the back of the cathedral, the North entrance, which is where the pilgrims of old would enter the cathedral (and burn their clothes, both in a rite of purification and  because they reeked like six month old fish no doubt). We continued past the lone piper (there is apparently only one place in the city where they let the pipers play every day, otherwise the citizens complain about the noise) and finally entered the plaza de obredorio, the famous square bounded by the cathedral, the university, the town hall and the fantastically luxurious hotel el hospital los reyes catolicos (The hospital of the catholic kings).

So where are we again?

So, that was it. I can’t say I felt spiritually moved, or indeed moved very much at all, happy to finish a long walk, enjoying the experience of a new city but not any more than that (for me, at least, the walking was the sole reason to do it).

We sat and stood and took a few photos, admiring the lichen covered stone of the cathedral. Then we headed off to the pilgrim’s office to get our compostelas. These are the official certificates documenting your indulgence from Jimmy for having walked all the way to see him. The queue was pretty long, we waited an hour before a very nice English lady asked to see my credentials and filled in my name (in latin) on the certificate.

Certificates in hand, we went to find our emergency hotel, which turned out to be a basic, but very pleasant pensión, right in the centre. We went out to buy a couple of postcards, enjoying the lightness of foot that comes with not wearing a rucksack, and then went in search of the line to hug a saint.

2010 is a holy year, because saint James’ day is on a Sunday, the next one will be in 2021. The holy years are big business for the cathedral, they have a special door (imaginatively called the holy door) which is bricked up the rest of the time. Just as in Rome, they unbrick it for the holy years and grant indulgences to those who enter (that’s different to our certified indulgences which are good for a free pizza in the vatican, I think. Hey what do I know, we never really did catechism at school). So the queue for the holy door goes around the block. We queued.

and it failed to rain...

When you go in you enter behind the main altar in the cathedral, the holy door is only for saint hugging, if you want to go to mass that’s another queue. You enter a small door in the ornate gilded rear part of the altar and follow some steps up until you’re directly behind the statue of saint Jim, and in our case, looking at the back of the bishop of somewhere as he said his mass to a packed audience. People hug the statue, from behind, like a “guess who”. Liz being game, and having experience of Rome, did the hugging thing. I refrained from patting him on the head and walked past. Then they direct you under the altar so you can walk past Santiago’s tomb, or more correctly, the box containing his remains (or even more correctly, the box containing some remains which are claimed to be those of saint Jim). He was a small chap, or there’s not much of him left. Then out into the hot sunlight, and all that remains is to find somewhere to eat and to figure out what to visit over the next two days.

Proof (mainly proof that we went to a few bars)

Castellano

Nos quedó 5km solo entonces no había prisa pero tuvimos que salir del albergue antes de las 8h, en teoría, el día anterior vi unas personas que salieron a las 11 pero eran Españoles y quizás hay una derecha constitucional que este muy dentro de la documentación de la fundación del país que las da la derecha de levantarse tarde. Paseamos por la escultura para sacar una foto en la luz de la mañana temprano, nos unimos con el corriente de gente que sonreían de satisfacción a pesar de cojear.

Hicimos una parada para desayunar, yo quería chocolate y churros aun que sea pleno verano, pero la camarera nos dijo que tenían pan tostado, o pan tostado no importaba que decía el cartel, quizás habría un bizcocho si ella buscara fijamente, no era una sorpresa porque este fue el primer bar en el camino hacia la ciudad y había muchos que se habían levantado pronto, la camarera parecía cansada y muy ocupada.

El resto del camino era urbano, tras carreteras principales y dentro de la ciudad en poco tiempo. Los peregrinos se agrupaban a los semáforos y los conductores de Santiago parecían pacientes de manera poco natural mientras esos grupos largos cruzaban. Los alrededores de la ciudad no eran notables, caminábamos con un buen ritmo para llegar al centro histórico. Cuando nos acercábamos, notábamos que los edificios tenían menos altura, las calles eran mas estrechas y nos llamaba atención que había un montón de jóvenes que iban en pandillas llevando camisetas idénticos que proclamaban sus participación en la peregrinación de la juventud 2010. Entramos en el centro antiguo de la ciudad por uno de los portales, por las calles estrechas y peatonales, vimos las señales que nos indicaban por todos lados. Pasamos por la parte atrás de la catedral, la entrada del norte, donde los peregrinos de antigüedad entraban en la catedral (y donde quemaban la ropa, como un rito de purificación y porque la ropa apestaban sin duda). Continuamos pasando por el gaitero (aparentemente había solo un lugar en la ciudad donde dejan tocar los gaiteros, sino los vecinos se quejan por el ruido) y al final entramos en la plaza de Obredorio, la plaza famosa rodeada por la catedral, la universidad, el ayuntamiento y el lujoso hospital de los reyes católicos.

Pues, se acabó. Yo no sentía nada espiritual, ni movido por nada más tampoco. Sentía feliz terminar un camino largo, disfrutaba la experiencia de una ciudad nueva pero nada más que eso (para mi, por lo menos, caminar es la única razón para hacerlo).

Nos sentamos, pusimos a pie, sacamos unas fotos, admiramos la piedra de la catedral cubierto de liquen. Fuimos a la oficina de los peregrinos para conseguir las compostelas, los certificados oficiales que documentan la indulgencia de Jaime por haber caminado a verle. La cola estaba bastante larga, esperamos una hora hasta que una señora inglesa y amable me pidió ver las credenciales y escribió mi nombre (en latín) en el certificado.

Con los documentos en las manos, fuimos a encontrar el hotel de emergencia que resultó una pensión básica, bonita y céntrica. Salimos para comprar unos postales, lo disfrutamos el sentimiento de ligereza que venía de no llevar la mochila, después buscamos la cola de abrazar un santo.

2010 es un año santo, porque el día de Santiago cae en un domingo, el próximo será 2021. Los años santos son un buen negocio para la catedral, hay un portal (que se llaman la puerta santa, con una imaginación impresionante) que esta cerrado con ladrillos en otros años. Igual que en Roma, la se abran para el año santo y dan indulgencias a los que entran (son diferentes a nuestras indulgencias certificadas con que nos dan una pizza gratis en el vaticano, pienso, que sé yo, no estudiamos el catecismo en la escuela). Por eso la cola es normalmente muy larga. Hicimos cola.

Entras detrás del altar principal, la puerta santa es solo para abrazar el santo, si quieres ir a misa hay otra cola. Entras una puerta pequeña en la parte de atrás del altar dorado, subes por unas escaleras hasta que estas detrás de la estatua de Santo Jaime, y en nuestro caso, estas mirando a la espalda del obispo de no sé donde mientras el esta celebrando la misa para mucha gente.  La gente abraza la estatua desde atrás (como si fuera un juego de ¿quién es?). Liz, que se apunta a todo, y tener experiencia de Roma, le abrazó.  Me abstuve de darle a el unas palmaditas en la cabeza y le pase. Después te dirigen debajo del altar para que pases por la tumba de Santiago, o mas bien dicho la caja en que quedan sus restos (o aun mejor dicho la caja que contiene unos restos que se afirman son del santo Jaime). Era un hombre pequeño, o no queda mucho de el. Después afuera en la luz calurosa y lo único que nos queda es encontrar un lugar para comer y decidir que visitar en los dos días siguientes.

En castellano I was shaken awake by someone. It was still dark, Julio and Liz had not been sleeping particularly well (the symphony of the wild boars, they said… ¡vaya jabalís!) I suppose in a sportshall with a hundred and some other folk you’re bound to get some world-class snorage. Julio in particular didn’t want to hang around. I don’t blame him, it wasn’t the most pleasant place to lie awake. Liz took my head torch  and proceded to blind first herself and then me while getting her gear together. We tried not to giggle, not wanting to wake the others up. We weren’t the first to move, there were a dozen or so head torches bobbing up and down in the dark.

Early? Stupid O'clock!

It wasn’t until we emerged from the fug of a couple of hundred pilgrims that I noticed it was still pitch black outside. Then I looked at my watch.

It was 4:45am.

Julio was keen to get ahead of ‘los chinos’ but this seemed to be taking it a bit too far. Still, the clouds cleared and we had a fine view of the stars as we walked. I turned off my head torch and let my eyes become accustomed to the dark, the moon was half full and  provided plenty of light to walk by. Until we passed a group of early risers with head torches on who insisted on looking at the faces of everyone coming past i.e. us. And then until Julio decied to shine his torch in my face too… a conspiracy. By the time my eyes had dark adapted properly once again the clouds had come over and astronomy time was over.

We crossed and re crossed a main road, the path rising away from it to crest a hill in a straight line before descending to meet the road again. In among the trees the darkness was total. We passed a couple of people in sleeping bags at the side of the path, lowering our voices so as not to wake them.

Always darkest before the dawn? No, it's a little bit lighter than before...

A strange series of poles and lights signalled the airport. No planes this early but there were a few helicopters lit up on their landing pads. Even at this early hour we were not alone. As it got a little lighter we passed a bar, just open by the look of it, and decided to stop for breakfast. It was 7am. Julio was keen to keep going… he didn’t say so, but he hum’d and hah’d and looked at his watch… getting to the next albergue ahead of the Koreans had become a little bit of an obsession. We didn’t really mind about the Koreans but we really needed coffee. It’s one thing to walk all day after breakfast… but another thing entirely to walk a long way beforehand.

The bar had indeed just opened. A woman took our order for coffees and pastries while seeming half asleep. We ate and drank and watched other groups arrive, all of them stopping for breakfast. Most of them, I would guess, would be continuing on to Santiago that day. We were going to stop in Monte de Gozo. At the front of the queue.

It was humid, and our path rose steadily. It began to drizzle a little bit (the only rain we had that week). We passed TV studios and repeater towers, so we thought we must be just about there but the albergue stubbornly refused to appear on the long straight road. A can of coke from a vending machine chained to the gate of a garden centre gave us a bit more energy and we rounded the first corner for what seemed like ages to see a sign pointing to the albergue.

It was still a good kilometre away mind. But Julio was off, determined not to let “los chinos” get the better of him.

Looking for "los chinos"

Monte de Gozo means mount of joy. It is so called because it’s the first point on the camino from which you can see Santiago. You can’t see much of the city, certainly not more than a couple of spires of the cathedral. At the high point there’s a sculpture which was put up to celebrate JPII coming to Santiago in 1989. He didn’t do the camino, the wimp (albeit a 70 year-old wimp at the time). The sculpture has four large metal bas reliefs on each side, one of them looked like the pope about to push saint Jimmy over a railing, there’s modern art for you.

Below the chapel and the sculpture is the albergue. It’s part of a holiday complex which appears to be modelled on a POW camp, or maybe that’s the effect of the depressingly grey Galician granite.

We were the first to arrive. Julio had to restrain himself from doing a little jig, that’ll show those chinese, he said. We asked what time the albergue opened, one o’clock, they said. I got my book out, it was 8:15am.

Because it was a holiday complex, there were shops and cafes so we took turns to go for second breakfast (I am a firm believer in that hobbit tradition, especially when you get up at ungodly o’clock). Other pilgrims arrived and the queue of rucksacks grew. No Chinese or Koreans appeared.

The default position at Monte de Gozo... resting in the sun.

The albergue is enormous, four or six buildings, 400 places (800 are available if necessary) so we could have arrived at 9pm and got a place but after the rather longer day than planned the previous day, it was a real pleasure to not walk. Liz and I had our books to read and the sun came out making it a very pleasant morning.

We dumped our stuff in our assigned room and showered and washed clothes. We left them baking in the sun while we went to a local restaurant for a 7 euro menu of the day. The rest of the day involved doing very very little, wandering down to the cafe and back, having a beer, people watching, in short, relaxing.

Castellano Alguien me sacudió para despertarme. Todavía estaba oscuro, Julio y Liz no habían dormido bien (gracias a la sinfonía de los jabalís) supongo que en un polideportivo con unos ciento y algo otros sea normal tener los que roncan de fama mundial. Julio, sobre todo, no quiso permanecer así, yo estaba de acuerdo con el, no estaba el lugar mas bonito para estar sin poder dormir. Liz cogió mi linterna frontal con que se deslumbró primero y luego a mi mientras ella estaba recogiendo la mochila, intentamos contener las risitas para evitar que despertemos la gente. No éramos los primeros despiertos, había mas o menos una docena de linternas frontales que se movían en el oscuro.

Una vez que salimos del aire sofocante del polideportivo me fijé que todavía estaba oscura, miré a mi reloj. Eran las 4:45.

Julio tenía ganas de llegar antes de “los chinos” pero esto parece un poco exagerado. Pues bueno, el cielo se despejó y nos permitía una vista de las estrellas mientras caminábamos. Apagué mi linterna y daba a mis ojos tiempo para estar acostumbrados a la oscuridad, había media luna que daba suficiente luz para andar. Hasta que pasamos por un grupo de madrugadores que llevaba linternas frontales y que miraba a las caras de todos que lo pasaban, y hasta que Julio me alumbró la linterna suya… ¡qué conspiración! Cuando mis ojos estaban acostumbrados a la oscuridad, estaba nublado y la hora de astronomía se acabó.

Cruzábamos unas veces una carretera, el camino subía desde el asfalto para llegar a la cumbre de una colina en una linea recta y después bajaba hasta la carretera otra vez. Entre los arboles la oscuridad estaba total. Pasamos unas personas que dormían en sacos al lado del camino, hablábamos en voces bajas para no despertarlos.

Pasábamos por unos postes y luces del aeropuerto, no había aviones tan temprano pero había unos helicópteros iluminados en los plataformas de aterrizaje. Aun que era temprano no caminábamos solos. Un poco antes del amanecer encontramos un bar que parecía abierto, decidimos desayunar. Eran las 7h, Julio tenía ganas de continuar, no nos dijo así pero nos indicaba hesitación y miraba al reloj, llegar al próximo albergue antes de los coreanos se había convertido en una pequeña manía. Nos daba igual sobre los coreanos pero nos faltaba el café. Caminar todo el día después del desayuno es una cosa, caminar mucho antes del desayuno es otra cosa en total.

El bar acababa de abrir, la camarera nos atendió medio dormida. Desayunábamos con cafe y bollería y miraban mas grupos llegando. Todos pararon para desayunar, la mayoría supongo iría a Santiago aquel día. Ibamos a parar en Monte de Gozo, en la cabeza de la cola.

Había humedad, el camino subía constantemente, empezó lloviznar un poco (la única lluvia de la semana). Pasamos por unos edificios y repetidores de televisión, por eso pensábamos que casi habíamos llegado pero el albergue no apareció en la carretera larga y recta. Compramos una lata de coca-cola de una maquina expendedora encadenado a una verja de un centro de jardinería, esta nos dio un poco más energía. Al doblar la primera esquina después de un buen rato, vimos un señal que nos indicaba al albergue.

Nos quedaba un kilometro largo, Julio marchó, estaba decidido a quedar encima de “los chinos”.

Monte de Gozo se llama así porque es el primer lugar en el camino desde donde es posible ver la ciudad de Santiago. No es posible ver mucho de la ciudad, desde luego no mucho más que las agujas de la catedral. En el punto más alto hay una escultura que se construyeron para conmemorar la visita del papa (JPII) a Santiago en 1989. El no hizo el camino, que flojo (aunque un flojo de 70 años en aquel momento). La escultura tiene cuatro bajorrelieves, uno parecía como si el papa estuviera al punto de empujar al Santo Jaime por encima de la barandilla de un balcón, eso es el arte moderno.

El albergue esta debajo de la capilla y la escultura, forma una parte de un complejo de vacaciones que parece basado en un campo de detención, quizás por el efecto del granito lúgubre de Galicia.

Llegamos primeros. Julio parecía si quisiera hacer aspavientos –vencimos a los chinos, el dijo. Preguntamos a que hora se abriría el albergue, a la una dijeron, saque mi libro, eran las 8:15.

Porque era un complejo de vacaciones había tiendas y cafés, nos turnamos ir a tomar el “segundo desayuno” (soy un partidario de la tradición de los hobbits, sobre todo cuanto se levanta a una hora intempestiva). Mas peregrinos llegaban y la cola de las mochilas se extendía. No apareció ningún chino ni coreano.

El albergue es enorme, tiene cuatro o seis edificios, sitio para 400 (800 si sea necesario) entonces pudiésemos haber llegado a las 21h y cogiésemos sitio, pero tras el día anterior mas larga que habíamos esperado era un placer no caminar. Teníamos nuestros libros y salió el sol que hacía una mañana agradable.

Dejamos las mochilas en el dormitorio nuestro, nos duchamos y lavamos la ropa que dejamos secando en el sol cuando salimos a comer en un restaurante muy cerca, comimos el menú de 7€. El resto del día hicimos muy poco, dimos unas vueltas, tomamos unas cervezas, miramos a la gente, en resumen, descansamos.