I confess I can scarcely recall yesterday, but I’ll give it a crack. We’ve had a lay day in the mountain town of Foncebaden and yesterday seems eons ago.
We farewelled the Shaman as he disclosed his Japanese friends 80km 6000m-ascent running achievements like someone who’s just quaffed three hot javas, hugged Hose, our host goodbye, (checked out the new born kittens in the cardboard box) and started up the gradual incline from 600 to 1400m.
Blue sky, alpine flowers, distant snow capped mountains, crisp cool air….perfect.
We passed through a small village, Santa Catalina and pushed on to El Ganzo for coffee and tortilla at roughly the 10km mark. Here Bill and Lisa from Vermont, who we’d met and dined with on our first day in Borda, climbing up the Pyrenees, rock up as we order coffees. Lisa, admiring Di’s scarf, held it to her face longingly and said, ‘Silk! Oh, I’ve been dreaming of high heals and gorgeous long dresses…’. They’ve found their gate, Bill and Lisa, felt their capabilities, how much territory they can cover, and have booked through to Santiago. They looked hearty and lean, filled with adrenilin and mountain air…we wished them well, finished our tortilla and moved on.
Rabanal, at the foot of the last 5km pinch to Foncebaden is a beautiful stone village and in hindsight it would’ve been good to stay here, but you shorten one day and lengthen another, so we stick to our Foncebaden finish but hatch a cunning plan to enjoy Rabanals rich pilgrim history on our lay day.
In Rabanal we grabbed lunch and met Canadian Pete whose high octane, non-stop, Ex-fundraiser consultant, mega energy left us breathless but in good spirits nonetheless.
It seemed many had planned to stop in Rabanal and we found ourselves in blissful silence amongst the wildflowers, afternoon sun and unfolding alpine vistas as we wound up the narrow rocky path to Foncebaden.
Foncebaden died in the eighties, became a ghost town, and the stone ruins of the town that was, seem like the shadows of an ancient civilisation against the burgeoning backdrop of the ski resort-new-stone-chalet albergues risen up on the back of the pilgrim trade.
El Convento is new and clean and affords views out over the mountains. The bossman, constantly tidying, adjusting, working, walks away when approached and calls for his wife. His surliness is a little offputting at first but the odd smile and extra full wine poors soon lets us know it”s just his way of being in the world.
At the pilgrims meal of lentil and chorizo soup and meatballs (I get chicken and chips in lieu of the balls) we met Jim and Carolyn, retired pastors from Idaho. It’s their third Camino, this time in the opposite direction, from Murcia and they spoke of their delight in walking together and enjoying the headspace and community.
I thanked the bossman for the trouble they went to with the GF meal in google-Spanish and he allowed himself a brief curl of the side of his mouth before ushering in his wife and pressing on clearing tables.
Today, we chilled; cut toe nails, washed undies, went for a stroll, booked forward accommodation, dozed etc. until mid afternoon when we caught a cab down to Rabanal for vespers (I know, right). Michael, the pom from the albergue in Villares de Orbigo had waxed on about afternoon tea and cake at the British run albergue then vespers with the Benedictine monks at the monastary…..so we did.
The albergue (el refugio hosteria), backs onto the monastary and has a large garden with some fruit trees and a pine. It was drenched in sunlight this afternoon giving some warmth and comfort as we sipped our tea in the cool of the afternoon (it snowed in Foncebaden this morning!).
In the square marked out by the monastary, the albergue and the small stone church, we bumped into many we’d met on the road, Wolfgang and Yania the Austrians, Marcus the German etc etc. As one of them said, the Camino is like a moving village where your community journeys with you as the long road unfolds.
Vespers, but for a few english words by the priest, is conducted, chanted, entirely in Latin. We’re given sheets with relevant language translations so we know we’re not committing to running naked under the moonlight covered in sheep’s entrails, and are expected to join the chant. In the plain stone church with candles burning and the chants of black habited monks and fellow pilgrims sonorous in our chests it was both incredibly moving and somewhat difficult not to conjur up visions of the monty python crew dressed as monks chanting “Pie Iesu domine, dona eis requiem,” (“Merciful Lord Jesus, grant them rest.”), whilst thumping their own heads with planks. But let me not detract from that which was truly a lovely evening.
We cabbed it home, grabbed a night cap at the El convento bar (the wife served while the bossman stacked chairs), and called it a day.