Today was only a 20-kilometer walk from Hornillos to Castrojeriz, but I still left long before sunrise.
There is something primal about walking alone in darkness, assisted only by a headlamp or the full moon.
As the sun came up, the recently harvested fields on either side of the path showed a surprisingly rocky soil. Small rocks, not boulders or fence-building sized rocks.
The word “fertile” or “fecund” did not come to mind.
What did come to mind was a remote beach on the Caribbean island of St. Lucia some years ago.
The beach was flawless. And every palm tree was surrounded by a cylindrical base made of rocks. There was a long and stately rock wall, back where the beach ended and the jungle began.
Passing through Hontanas, with its Santa Brígida cafe and Iglesia de la Inmaculada, a stately church that honors some very good human beings:
This was all the work of The Stone Man. He could have been old, he could have been young. He was weather aged and beaten into undefinable timelessness.
Every day, The Stone Man came to the beach to pick up rocks uncovered by the tide. Sometimes he had to repair his handiwork, undone by strong waves.
Leaving Hontas and arriving at the spectacular ruins of the Convento San Anton. there is a hostel inside the ruins for 12 people and a cafe with light drinks and snacks. A great place to sit and contemplate the majestic structure that once stood here:
Like the field of Spain, the Stone Man never lacked for material.
As I watched him working, I assumed that the daily repetition must have freed his mind to explore paths of ancient wisdom. Like a seven level Buddha of the beach.
I actually asked him what thoughts he channeled as he picked up rocks.
The Stone Man looked closely at me for an uncomfortably long time. Then he burst out laughing.
“I don’t think nothing, man! I only pick up rocks!”
The final walk, into Castrojeriz is stunning — castle ruins above, churches and townspeople below.
I kept prodding him and he finally acknowledged thinking about what movies were playing at the local cinema.
“I love seeing American movies,” he offered.
So walking the Camino Frances, as I near the halfway mark, has sort of been a Stone Man experience.
Insights? None so far.
Earned wisdom? Haven’t seen it.
Profound thoughts? Not in this head.
Mostly the thoughts have been about what I can jettison from my backpack, how are my feet holding up, did I bring enough snacks and water to make it to the next town, why didn’t I get a coffee in the last town, am I booking auberges far enough ahead, what if it rains, what was the name of the pilgrim I just talked with for the last 29 minutes?
And nearly every morning: How is it that I know so many songs from the musical “Hair”?
Went to Mass this evening:
“Good morning, Starshine, the earth says hello!”
“You twinkle above us … we tinkle below…”
Anyhow.
I am at the beginning of the Maseta, a long stretch of … not much. Vast tracts of agricultural land, which in our case have long been harvested.
The people who know, say this is when thoughts turn inward. The lack of distractions forces the mind to search elsewhere for stimulation. Usually inward, to mull that thing you did in your twenties and you got away with it except it eats at your conscience every day.
If you know what I mean.
Who is to say? At my age, I don’t know how much more insight or spiritual revelation will be useful. I don’t even buy t-shirts without calculating cost versus amount of time I have left, divided by wear and tear.
Meanwhile, I am in a 500-year-old building that once was a way-station for royalty on the Camino. Maybe they cleaned up, ate mutton, and played with wenches while waiting for the rain to stop.
The beams supporting the ceiling are incredible.
And really, I’m not worried about discovering insights or having grand thoughts right away. The Camino isn’t like a cruise ship with major plumbing problems.
We didn’t sign up for anything other than the intention to walk 500 miles across Spain. What happens on the Camino, happens on the Camino.
Consciousness don’t come easy.
The writer Michael Pollan spent three or four days alone in a cave in New Mexico while researching consciousness for his new book, A World Appears: A Journey Into Consciousness.
And you know what? I’m not so sure he could recite the lyrics to songs from “Hair.”
