gerardcarey
Veteran Member
- Time of past OR future Camino
- CFx2, CPx1
Andrew saw me on my knees, pushing and shoving, trying to get the bubble-wrapped parcel into my pack.
“What the heck have you got there?” he asked, “that's a strange looking thing for a pilgrim to carry.”
As today would be the last day I would carry it I told him what it was and what I intended to do with it.
He just nodded, didn't voice an opinion.
Perhaps he thought it was an over-reaction on my part.
Perhaps not.
And now we were there.
The great bulk of the monastery loomed behind us as we came round the corner of the building.
We stopped outside the door.
“You go in and do your thing,” he said, “it's nothing to do with me. I'll wait for you out here.”
I pushed open the door and walked in.
On a reception counter was a credential stamp and pad, and behind the counter a desk, at which a young lass sat busily typing.
I eased my pack off and set it on the floor, against the counter.
“Buenos dias senorita,” I said as she looked up, “Senor Santesteban, I would like to see Senor Santesteban, por favor.”
That was about as good as my Spanglish could manage.
The lass studied me carefully, critically, then, very politely, chattered away in Spanish.
Although I listened closely I couldn't make head nor tail of what she was saying.
I figured to just repeat my initial enquiry.
“Senor Santesteban, I would like to see Senor Santesteban, por favor.”
She thought for a few seconds, then held up her hand indicating that I should remain where I was. She disappeared out a side door returning a few minutes later accompanied by a lady who was both particularly well dressed and groomed.
I supposed her to be in her late thirties and obviously someone of importance about the place.
“Good morning sir,” said the new arrival in impeccable English, “how may I help?”
She handed me her business card which announced her as Conchi Roig, Sales Manager.
“Buenos dias senora,” I replied, “I wish to speak to Senor Santesteban. He is not expecting my arrival, but I have called on the off chance that he may be available to see me.”
She clasped her hands, pursed her lips, then answered in a solemn quiet voice.
“I'm sorry to have to inform you sir that Senor Santesteban died six months ago.”
Oh no. I'd expected that he may not be available, but not this.
So, six months ago. Coincidentally it had all started for me six months ago.
I was at home and filled with that excitable enthusiasm nearly all of us seem to get when the idea that we could actually walk the 800 kilometres of the Camino Frances first grabs us. I had decided on this great adventure, was investigating pricing, planning, routes and dates, eagerly looking at equipment and clothing.
I had been directed to this forum and was voraciously devouring information.
I couldn't resist going to Amazon and buying a copy of the Brierly guide book.
I was in the process of ploughing my way thru it when I first came across info regarding the wine fountain.
“That'll be fun!” I thought, “I'll put that on my 'must see' list!”
But, as time went on, for some reason Bodegas Irache continued to really grab my imagination.
“Who were these people?” I wondered, “these people who would give their wine away freely, generously, to pilgrims on the way to Santiago.”
When I considered the numbers leaving from St Jean, Roncesvalles and Pamplona, I figured it must be quite a financial burden on their family wine business.
What a kind act. A fine and noble act.
Then, as time went by, I noticed that they appeared to get little thanks for their gesture.
No, surely I overstate the situation.
I don't remember ever having read or heard of pilgrims acknowledging this hospitality.
But of course I couldn't think that without saying to myself, “well you can't go thinking that and then go and do exactly the same thing yourself!”
That meant I would have to think of some way to show my appreciation.
I tracked down the website for Bodegas Irache.
http://www.irache.com/
It was there I learnt how, at the tender age of 18, one Senor Jesus Arteaga Santestaban, had taken charge of the running of the family vineyard and developed it to the stage at which we find it today.
It was no doubt he who came up with the idea, and instituted the installation of a wine fountain in 1991, the fountain at which we pilgrims now happily partake at no charge.
But, as time went by, and the date for my departure for Spain approached, I became saddened and disappointed to hear of how pilgrims were abusing the hospitality of the Santestaban family.
I noted that signage at the fountain states as follows;
“Pilgrim, if you wish to arrive at Santiago full of strength and vitality, have a drink of this wine and make a toast to happiness,”
and,
"We are pleased to invite you to drink in moderation. If you wish to take the wine with you, you will have to buy it.”
And yet I read and heard of pilgrims guzzling from the spouts, of fights breaking out, of pilgrims emptying their water bottles and filling them with wine to take away.
On-line I even found them boasting of their behaviour.
Being a great fan of Geoffrey Chaucer's 'Canterbury Tales', I could imagine some of his pilgrims behaving in such a fashion. But I wanted to believe that our manners, our pilgrim manners, had progressed somewhat since the middle ages.
Unfortunately, it appeared they had not.
At the top of the South Island of New Zealand is situated the province of Marlborough.
A green and extremely pleasant land in the lee of a large mountain range that runs north/south and appears to be the spine of this longish narrow island. The island projects deep down into the South Pacific Ocean and the mountain range protects the countryside from attack by the northern extremities of the dread roaring forties weather systems that continually circle Antarctica. These southerly busters expend their force on the island's west coast. Down there they measure the rainfall in metres.
Over the other side of the range, to the north, in fine and fertile Marlborough, thrives the wine grape Sauvignon Blanc, from which is produced the wine of the same name. Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc. A fine wine from a cool climate. A wine for which the area is rightly renowned.
I bought a bottle.
I thought to present it to Senor Santesteban in way of acknowledgement and appreciation. Being a wine bufferoo I thought he might enjoy that. It appeared to me to be a suitable kiwi present from a kiwi bloke.
I bubble-wrapped it and stashed it in my pack.
It duly accompanied me from New Zealand to Spain, via Australia, China, The Netherlands, Belgium and France.
A real Marco Polo bottle this one.
I kept mum about it, until the day I met Andrew, the day on which it was to be delivered. I was afraid of being ridiculed by my fellow pilgrims for being so stupid as to carry such a lump of coal to such a distant Newcastle.
As we walked Andrew and I entered into discussion as to the behaviour of pilgrims at the wine fountain. He had heard of it also.
He was even more contemptuous of the miscreants behaviour than me.
“Theft!” he stated emphatically, “no other word for it.”
But now, sadly, I was never going to meet and thank Senor Santestaban.
What to do?
I asked Senora Conchi Roig if any other members of the Santesteban family were still involved in the operation of the vineyard. When she affirmed that indeed some were I explained my mission. I dug the bottle out of my pack, unwrapped it, and asked that she pass it on with the thanks of a grateful pilgrim.
She looked at the bottle with some surprise, but assured me that she would.
I thanked her, and then, my business being complete it only remained for me to get a stamp banged on my credential after which I closed my pack and swung it on.
I noticed immediately the difference in the weight of my pack. “Thank God for that,” I thought.
But Senora Roig had more yet to say.
“Mr Carey!” She called me back as I moved towards the door, “I feel somewhat at a loss. As the family will be unable to thank you personally, I feel I must extend thanks to you on their behalf. Please be assured they will be most happy to receive your kind and unexpected gift.”
Now she's embarrassing me.
“Happy to receive it? That's nice to hear,” I replied, “But let me assure you senora, they will not be half as happy to receive it as I am to be free of it."
We smiled at each other. Lovely lady. Thoughtful, elegant, well spoken.
I thanked her again, and the young lass.
I opened the door, nodded goodbye, stepped outside.
Andrew had waited patiently.
I informed him as to what had transpired and he nodded thoughtfully.
I didn't know him all that well. Maybe he was the type of bloke that needed to cogitate on things a bit before expressing an opinion.
“Right mate,” I said, “Now I need to go back around to the wine fountain.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head, “you're not going back around there. The only reason you'd want to go back there is in the hope of finding somebody you can get into an argument with. Who do you think you are? Batman or someone? Fighting to restore justice and decency?”
“Nothing wrong with pointing out when someone is behaving badly,” I replied indignantly.
“Yes there is,” he countered, “when it is done in the knowledge that it will inevitably and purposefully cause strife and ill feeling. Do you really think the Senor was unaware his kind gesture was sometimes abused?
Of course he was aware. Yet did he let the actions of a few colour his view as to the majority of pilgrims? No he didn't. Did he cut off the wine supply? No he didn't.
That shows the calibre of the man.
Don't insult him.
Let drinking dogs lie.”
Smart guy that Andrew.
Had me pegged.
I was itching to find somebody misbehaving at the fountain and give them a tune-up.
“Ok mate, point taken,” I replied.
Ah well. Never been backward in opening my big trap when I think it's warranted.
Even if I am a bit misguided now and then.
Not going to change the habits of a lifetime now am I.
All right cobber. Yes, I'm talking to you now pilgrim.
I need you to do one small thing for me.
If and when you're next at the fountain, what about raising your glass, or whatever type of container you are using, and drinking a toast to the Senor and the rest of the Santesteban family.
Not too much to ask is it?
Regards
Gerard
“What the heck have you got there?” he asked, “that's a strange looking thing for a pilgrim to carry.”
As today would be the last day I would carry it I told him what it was and what I intended to do with it.
He just nodded, didn't voice an opinion.
Perhaps he thought it was an over-reaction on my part.
Perhaps not.
And now we were there.
The great bulk of the monastery loomed behind us as we came round the corner of the building.
We stopped outside the door.
“You go in and do your thing,” he said, “it's nothing to do with me. I'll wait for you out here.”
I pushed open the door and walked in.
On a reception counter was a credential stamp and pad, and behind the counter a desk, at which a young lass sat busily typing.
I eased my pack off and set it on the floor, against the counter.
“Buenos dias senorita,” I said as she looked up, “Senor Santesteban, I would like to see Senor Santesteban, por favor.”
That was about as good as my Spanglish could manage.
The lass studied me carefully, critically, then, very politely, chattered away in Spanish.
Although I listened closely I couldn't make head nor tail of what she was saying.
I figured to just repeat my initial enquiry.
“Senor Santesteban, I would like to see Senor Santesteban, por favor.”
She thought for a few seconds, then held up her hand indicating that I should remain where I was. She disappeared out a side door returning a few minutes later accompanied by a lady who was both particularly well dressed and groomed.
I supposed her to be in her late thirties and obviously someone of importance about the place.
“Good morning sir,” said the new arrival in impeccable English, “how may I help?”
She handed me her business card which announced her as Conchi Roig, Sales Manager.
“Buenos dias senora,” I replied, “I wish to speak to Senor Santesteban. He is not expecting my arrival, but I have called on the off chance that he may be available to see me.”
She clasped her hands, pursed her lips, then answered in a solemn quiet voice.
“I'm sorry to have to inform you sir that Senor Santesteban died six months ago.”
Oh no. I'd expected that he may not be available, but not this.
So, six months ago. Coincidentally it had all started for me six months ago.
I was at home and filled with that excitable enthusiasm nearly all of us seem to get when the idea that we could actually walk the 800 kilometres of the Camino Frances first grabs us. I had decided on this great adventure, was investigating pricing, planning, routes and dates, eagerly looking at equipment and clothing.
I had been directed to this forum and was voraciously devouring information.
I couldn't resist going to Amazon and buying a copy of the Brierly guide book.
I was in the process of ploughing my way thru it when I first came across info regarding the wine fountain.
“That'll be fun!” I thought, “I'll put that on my 'must see' list!”
But, as time went on, for some reason Bodegas Irache continued to really grab my imagination.
“Who were these people?” I wondered, “these people who would give their wine away freely, generously, to pilgrims on the way to Santiago.”
When I considered the numbers leaving from St Jean, Roncesvalles and Pamplona, I figured it must be quite a financial burden on their family wine business.
What a kind act. A fine and noble act.
Then, as time went by, I noticed that they appeared to get little thanks for their gesture.
No, surely I overstate the situation.
I don't remember ever having read or heard of pilgrims acknowledging this hospitality.
But of course I couldn't think that without saying to myself, “well you can't go thinking that and then go and do exactly the same thing yourself!”
That meant I would have to think of some way to show my appreciation.
I tracked down the website for Bodegas Irache.
http://www.irache.com/
It was there I learnt how, at the tender age of 18, one Senor Jesus Arteaga Santestaban, had taken charge of the running of the family vineyard and developed it to the stage at which we find it today.
It was no doubt he who came up with the idea, and instituted the installation of a wine fountain in 1991, the fountain at which we pilgrims now happily partake at no charge.
But, as time went by, and the date for my departure for Spain approached, I became saddened and disappointed to hear of how pilgrims were abusing the hospitality of the Santestaban family.
I noted that signage at the fountain states as follows;
“Pilgrim, if you wish to arrive at Santiago full of strength and vitality, have a drink of this wine and make a toast to happiness,”
and,
"We are pleased to invite you to drink in moderation. If you wish to take the wine with you, you will have to buy it.”
And yet I read and heard of pilgrims guzzling from the spouts, of fights breaking out, of pilgrims emptying their water bottles and filling them with wine to take away.
On-line I even found them boasting of their behaviour.
Being a great fan of Geoffrey Chaucer's 'Canterbury Tales', I could imagine some of his pilgrims behaving in such a fashion. But I wanted to believe that our manners, our pilgrim manners, had progressed somewhat since the middle ages.
Unfortunately, it appeared they had not.
At the top of the South Island of New Zealand is situated the province of Marlborough.
A green and extremely pleasant land in the lee of a large mountain range that runs north/south and appears to be the spine of this longish narrow island. The island projects deep down into the South Pacific Ocean and the mountain range protects the countryside from attack by the northern extremities of the dread roaring forties weather systems that continually circle Antarctica. These southerly busters expend their force on the island's west coast. Down there they measure the rainfall in metres.
Over the other side of the range, to the north, in fine and fertile Marlborough, thrives the wine grape Sauvignon Blanc, from which is produced the wine of the same name. Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc. A fine wine from a cool climate. A wine for which the area is rightly renowned.
I bought a bottle.
I thought to present it to Senor Santesteban in way of acknowledgement and appreciation. Being a wine bufferoo I thought he might enjoy that. It appeared to me to be a suitable kiwi present from a kiwi bloke.
I bubble-wrapped it and stashed it in my pack.
It duly accompanied me from New Zealand to Spain, via Australia, China, The Netherlands, Belgium and France.
A real Marco Polo bottle this one.
I kept mum about it, until the day I met Andrew, the day on which it was to be delivered. I was afraid of being ridiculed by my fellow pilgrims for being so stupid as to carry such a lump of coal to such a distant Newcastle.
As we walked Andrew and I entered into discussion as to the behaviour of pilgrims at the wine fountain. He had heard of it also.
He was even more contemptuous of the miscreants behaviour than me.
“Theft!” he stated emphatically, “no other word for it.”
But now, sadly, I was never going to meet and thank Senor Santestaban.
What to do?
I asked Senora Conchi Roig if any other members of the Santesteban family were still involved in the operation of the vineyard. When she affirmed that indeed some were I explained my mission. I dug the bottle out of my pack, unwrapped it, and asked that she pass it on with the thanks of a grateful pilgrim.
She looked at the bottle with some surprise, but assured me that she would.
I thanked her, and then, my business being complete it only remained for me to get a stamp banged on my credential after which I closed my pack and swung it on.
I noticed immediately the difference in the weight of my pack. “Thank God for that,” I thought.
But Senora Roig had more yet to say.
“Mr Carey!” She called me back as I moved towards the door, “I feel somewhat at a loss. As the family will be unable to thank you personally, I feel I must extend thanks to you on their behalf. Please be assured they will be most happy to receive your kind and unexpected gift.”
Now she's embarrassing me.
“Happy to receive it? That's nice to hear,” I replied, “But let me assure you senora, they will not be half as happy to receive it as I am to be free of it."
We smiled at each other. Lovely lady. Thoughtful, elegant, well spoken.
I thanked her again, and the young lass.
I opened the door, nodded goodbye, stepped outside.
Andrew had waited patiently.
I informed him as to what had transpired and he nodded thoughtfully.
I didn't know him all that well. Maybe he was the type of bloke that needed to cogitate on things a bit before expressing an opinion.
“Right mate,” I said, “Now I need to go back around to the wine fountain.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head, “you're not going back around there. The only reason you'd want to go back there is in the hope of finding somebody you can get into an argument with. Who do you think you are? Batman or someone? Fighting to restore justice and decency?”
“Nothing wrong with pointing out when someone is behaving badly,” I replied indignantly.
“Yes there is,” he countered, “when it is done in the knowledge that it will inevitably and purposefully cause strife and ill feeling. Do you really think the Senor was unaware his kind gesture was sometimes abused?
Of course he was aware. Yet did he let the actions of a few colour his view as to the majority of pilgrims? No he didn't. Did he cut off the wine supply? No he didn't.
That shows the calibre of the man.
Don't insult him.
Let drinking dogs lie.”
Smart guy that Andrew.
Had me pegged.
I was itching to find somebody misbehaving at the fountain and give them a tune-up.
“Ok mate, point taken,” I replied.
Ah well. Never been backward in opening my big trap when I think it's warranted.
Even if I am a bit misguided now and then.
Not going to change the habits of a lifetime now am I.
All right cobber. Yes, I'm talking to you now pilgrim.
I need you to do one small thing for me.
If and when you're next at the fountain, what about raising your glass, or whatever type of container you are using, and drinking a toast to the Senor and the rest of the Santesteban family.
Not too much to ask is it?
Regards
Gerard
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