Walking Towards The Ocean

Walking towards the Ocean-3

We walk along the pretty little houses for a few minutes and then take a country path that continues among tall trees with a thin and greenish trunk. From time to time some rudimentary wooden gates interrupt the path, but they open easily.

A guy in his sixties joins us and tells us that he reached Lourdes by motorbike from Brescia and started the Way from Saint Jean. He carries an eighteen-pound backpack, ours together don't exceed twenty, and he complains about his wife who forced him into useless stuff, but seems relieved when we suggest he ship something back. He intends to complete the Way in twenty days. He claims to be a sportsman and his physique, his pace, and his way of holding trekking poles confirm this.

In Zubiri we take a tour of the center to look for accommodation and we immediately realize that it is a town, larger than the towns we have crossed previously, and it is not difficult to find large shops, banks, vending machines for drinks, cigarettes and DVDs.

For dinner we stop at the Dux, a nice restaurant-pub; a big screen at the entrance shows a football match and many fans cheer for a great action that has just ended. A girl comes to meet us and asks us if we want to have dinner or something at the bar. She then takes us to the back room. There are some tables set for four and one for ten, where the guy from Brescia sits with nine other walkers we've never met before. We are sorry we cannot join them, but we still manage to have a chat before taking a seat at our table.

Strolling, while we are crossing a small square, we are met by a guy who is a little excited, perhaps he is drunk or perhaps he is not rigt in his head; he has a compact disc in his hand and, staring at it from time to time, claims to be the local CD player.

We smile at him amused and continue to see a worker from Berlin, known in Roncesvalles, further on. Alone and thoughtful he is leaning against a low wall. We exchange some impressions about the day, then we say goodbye and we go to our hotel.

Lying on my back, staring at the ceiling, I think of Marin; we haven't met her all day and I worry I won't see her again until Finisterre.

6.

We set out. It rained enough tonight and I'm afraid it will rain in the afternoon too. There are not many walkers, perhaps because we left later today. After a while we skirt a small factory. The factories don't look good, but they too belong to the route. The spaces we cross now are less fascinating than those we traveled previously and we get a little demoralized; we begin to fear that we will no longer see glimpses like those of the first stretch of the Pyrenees.

We enter Larrasoaña through its pretty medieval bridge. We skirt the church of San Nicola di Bari, which is closed, and continue along a road to the left. There is not a soul, we have the impression of being in a ghost town and we immediately decide to leave again.

Near a waterfall, sitting at the foot of a tree, we eat our lunch. Fortunately, the weather has improved and before long it will probably become even more beautiful and warm. Before returning to our pace, we have fun observing a herd of cows and not far away we see sheep grazing following their shepherd.

The streets of Burlanda teem with people and are full of stalls of all kinds. A piper dances alongside us, then an Indian sculptor shows us some statuettes in wood and crystal, and a new enthusiasm pervades us, recharging us with the necessary energy to continue.

Near the Magdalena bridge, which leads to Pamplona, a little man wishes us a ¡Buen camino! with a big smile.

We wander around this beautiful town, sit down for a few minutes in front of the Regional Parliament Building and then decide to reach Cizur, a place about five kilometers from here. It is a traffic policeman who gives us directions to get back on the road.

Cizur is divided into two parts: Cizur Menor and Cizur Mayor. In Cizur Menor there is the pilgrim's hostel; we enter to ask for information and we meet our Spanish friend who, sitting on a low wall, stares at his blistered feet. St smiles with joy when she meets his gaze, while I burst into a loud laugh as I witness that funny foot scene. He explains that he just can't get them down and hopes to be able to leave tomorrow.

While he and St are chatting, I wonder why people don't prevent these inconveniences with simple precautions and a little goodwill: it would be enough to sprinkle your feet with talcum powder after washing them, put on some clean socks and repeat the operation. during the day if your feet start to sweat again: sweat, in fact, is the best ally of blisters. You should then walk at a pace appropriate to your body. However, if the blisters pop up anyway, they should be treated promptly and not left as they are or only covered with patches, as many normally do, out of laziness or because they think it is right.

«Why don't you slow down?» I ask him without having the courage to add more.

He smiles at me and with a pleased expression explains to us: «The pace must go in tune with the rhythm of the soul, otherwise it's like being at a concert where the vocalist doesn't go to the beat of the music».

We like this concept, although it doesn't quite convince us.

The manager of the facility tells us that we have to reach Cizur Mayor for a room, because there are only dormitories here, and therefore we have to walk another kilometer.

Outside the hostel I receive a call from Bruno Silvio known as il Saccarosio, a dear childhood friend of mine; he asks me how the Way is going, while La’, his girlfriend who is with him, hums: «Come on, guys, you are great». They are in a sanitary shop, not far from my house: Bruno is measuring toilets for his new apartment. I confirm to him that everything is going well and summarize what has happened in these first days; I also tell him that it is my intention to update him two or three times a week, then the call drops and I can't call him back. I remember that in that area cell phones hardly ever pick up. I tell St that Bruno and La’, like many others, are really happy for what I am experiencing, unlike others who even doubt that I am doing the Way.

«These people belittle certain undertakings because they are envious or because they have removed from the heart the desire to dream, which is the engine of Life, and for this reason they do not believe that certain things are achievable»says St.

I agree with her; it seemed to me Pirello, a great friend, my teacher of life, philosophy and meditation: a special person with great culture. I talk to her about him and I also tell her some anecdotes.

At the pub where we have recently arrived there is good music and a big screen shows the images of Real Madrid-Valencia.

«Are you pilgrims?» asks the waiter handing us our toasts.

«Walkers, we are walkers» we specify almost in unison, believing that a pilgrim is more suitable for those who make this journey for religious reasons.

«I saw you arrive at the hotel with backpacks. Generally you won't find other walkers here, they usually stop down at Cizur Menor» continues the waiter, without saying anything about our clarification, but correcting the imperfection.

I ask him what time they close but he doesn't hear me, distracted by two guys who have just called him out loud.

I stare at the screen for a few moments, pleased with the beautiful action that has just taken place.

«Do you root for any particular team, Rich?» asks St.

«No: my friends and I sometimes watch matches just to spend time together and possibly watch a good game; we don't want to risk getting bad blood because of a disadvantage or referee or player mistakes. Then to think that many of these mistakes can be committed intentionally, in exchange for money or favours - and the news, unfortunately, easily lead us to think so - would disturb us even more.»

St shrugs and nods with a bitter look.

At the next table, a brunette in her 20s is staring at me, oblivious to what the guy sitting next to her is saying.

7.

It is almost noon when we arrive in a small square with a fountain and some benches. Marin is sitting on one of these. My soul leaps into the sky and I immediately sit next to her. We smile and tell each other about the time spent without meeting. It is hot and the sun reigns supreme in this clear and intensely blue sky, unlike when we left Cizur, where it was cool and drizzling. Two elderly women, sitting on the bench next to them, are eating. While one of them picks up a piece of bread that has just fallen off the ground and continues to eat it, the other jumps up shouting and kicks the bench: a trickle of water produced by St that refreshes her feet , reached her backpack. In a moment the two take their things and, with a glare at us, they go away singing in French: «O Holy Virgin, pray for us». The three of us burst out laughing and Marin, shaking her head, says something in German that we don't understand.

We continue our journey towards the Silhouettes, sculptures representing various types of pilgrims, and towards the Mills, of the wind turbines that we were told about in Orisson.

«See you later, I'll join you anyway» Marin jokes.

After a while, in fact, she joins and surpasses us.

We then meet her again, with a tired face, sitting under a tree. St notes that the end of a hammock is tied to that tree, while the other is fixed to the next tree. She doesn't think twice about dropping her backpack to the ground and getting on top of it, and after a few moments she falls asleep. I sit in front of Marin and take off the sweaty t-shirt on which a sentence of mine is written: Many people live looking no further than the tip of their nose, I want to fly higher than an eagle: to the little men the daily life, to those like me the sublime!

After a while she takes off her shirt too, caresses my chest, we stare at each other and, overcome by an intense passion, we take each other by the hand as we enter the countryside. We kiss, her lips are plump and voracious; we are a vortex and nothing stops us anymore.

Marin moans, tearing blades of grass from the damp ground, until we are satisfied and remain still, one on top of the other, for endless and magical moments. Then I get up and offer her a hand inviting her to dance a long slow dance, naked and accompanied by the sounds of nature.

It is time for us to go; Marin, on the other hand, decides to stay to rest a little longer.

She joins us near a village about six kilometers from Puente la Reina; she drinks a cold drink with us and picks up quickly. An English guy joins us and asks where to buy hot wine, but we can't give him an answer. We take a look at ads of guest houses. We are tired and immediately check if a room is available for us.