gerardcarey
Veteran Member
- Time of past OR future Camino
- CFx2, CPx1
“Today I’d just like to get away and walk on our own”, she said, “to be off the Camino, away from the pilgrim hubbub. Just peace and quiet, and walking thru the countryside. Good idea?”
Now I’ve found that the best way to have an interesting life is not to plan too much, to wander through life, thereby allowing yourself the time to grasp opportunities as they unexpectedly present themselves.
Adventure. It’s an old fashioned word.
But it does gives great flavour and colour to life.
Sometimes it turns out to be not a lot of fun, but you have to balance this against the interesting people you meet, and the experiences you have.
And anyway, trouble itself is interesting, and always memorable.
That’s why I’ll agree to just about anything.
Not that this was anything extraordinary. Just a little different.
“Sounds like a plan,” I replied, “what do you have in mind?”
“Well,” she said, “We could take a bus out to one side of the Camino and get off at some bus stop from where we could walk back to the Camino. We’ll walk about the same distance as we usually do so it’s not like we’d be cheating or anything.”
We studied our maps, decided on a suitable route, then found our way to the nearest bus stop.
We had to lug our packs and walking poles and stuff up inside the bus, and it’s a bit of a performance holding everything together while digging out the fare, manoeuvring along the confines of a narrow aisle then getting sorted in your seat.
We descended from the bus at the appointed spot and set off.
We had a champion walk that day, along lonely country lanes that twisted gently up and down thru lush rolling farmland. Thru old heavy limbed forests, where the wind created a great symphony all around us as it gusted noisily thru the drying autumn leaves.
On our approach, farm dogs, unused here to strange wanderers, gave us a good woofing, sometimes following us up the road until they ensured we had permanently departed.
Country-folk waved and gave directions, thanks were proffered and best wishes exchanged.
Along the lonely lanes the lack of fellow pilgrims brought an unexpected melancholy air.
All in all a different and extremely pleasant days walking.
On arrival at our designated stop for the night we separated and did the usual end of day things.
We met again at the bar for pre-dinner drinks. I reached for my wallet to pay.
Not there. My zippered hidey-pocket empty.
Something grabbed my heart and squeezed.
I patted myself down. Nothing. Back to the dorm, emptied my pack for a thorough search. Still nothing.
My mind raced anxiously into the realm of the future, my brain delivering in a jumbled sequence, the series of problems that would now assail me.
On my return to the bar the expected question was asked.
“Where did you use it last?”
The albergue owner who had served our drinks listened attentively.
Thinking, thinking. “Buying the bus tickets,” I eventually replied. “Maybe I mislaid it whilst struggling with my gear up the aisle, getting organised in my seat.
“I know that bus line,“ said the albergue owner, “I’ll will telephone them and see if anyone has found it and handed it in. You must try not to worry.”
On his return he advised that the bus was now way down the line and parked up.
The driver had handed nothing in.
Well, that's that then.
“But they have asked the man on duty down there to give the bus a thorough search, then they’ll phone me back,” he said.
“Muchas gracias, thank you very much,” I replied.
He insisted on shouting the next round.
I felt a unnatural heavy calm slowly descend over me like a gentle flood.
Suddenly I wasn’t worried at all any more. Strange.
It wasn’t long before the albergue owner approached again.
“Good news!” he exclaimed, “it’s been found! On the floor of the bus. I have asked them to give it to the driver who is doing the return leg this evening. He’s about to leave. I know the stop where you were dropped off. I told them I would drive there to collect the wallet from him. I should be back about eight.”
Although I offered to accompany him, for whatever reason he went on his own.
But his return was an hour later than expected.
With a beaming smile, he handed me the wallet.
My thanks were delivered together with an enveloping bear hug.
“Sorry I’m late,“ he said, “but the bus never stopped, the driver forgot, went straight past, so I had to chase him 20ks down the road to his next stop.”
After checking the contents of the wallet I quietly offered him 30 Euros in way of thanks and compensation for his time and effort.
He initially refused, but upon being pressed, modestly accepted both my thanks and the money. The other staff gathered around to share in my relief and pleasure.
“Drinks all round,” I said.
I wasn’t sure whether 30 Euros was an acceptable amount for his efforts but I wasn’t very flush with readies anymore. I figured to start a party, use a card, liven things up a bit, get some money put into his cash register.
Being a ex-publican myself I can attest to the pleasure a fullish cash register brings.
The word went out. Pilgrims, staff, locals came to join in. We misbehaved until late.
“Wouldn’t happen anywhere else in Spain,” I was regularly informed by the locals as the evening progressed. “Not in Madrid or Barcelona. You would never have seen your wallet again. Good honest folk around here, helpful folk, kind folk. No place in Spain like this.”
I find I must readily agree with their comments.
Regards
Gerard
Now I’ve found that the best way to have an interesting life is not to plan too much, to wander through life, thereby allowing yourself the time to grasp opportunities as they unexpectedly present themselves.
Adventure. It’s an old fashioned word.
But it does gives great flavour and colour to life.
Sometimes it turns out to be not a lot of fun, but you have to balance this against the interesting people you meet, and the experiences you have.
And anyway, trouble itself is interesting, and always memorable.
That’s why I’ll agree to just about anything.
Not that this was anything extraordinary. Just a little different.
“Sounds like a plan,” I replied, “what do you have in mind?”
“Well,” she said, “We could take a bus out to one side of the Camino and get off at some bus stop from where we could walk back to the Camino. We’ll walk about the same distance as we usually do so it’s not like we’d be cheating or anything.”
We studied our maps, decided on a suitable route, then found our way to the nearest bus stop.
We had to lug our packs and walking poles and stuff up inside the bus, and it’s a bit of a performance holding everything together while digging out the fare, manoeuvring along the confines of a narrow aisle then getting sorted in your seat.
We descended from the bus at the appointed spot and set off.
We had a champion walk that day, along lonely country lanes that twisted gently up and down thru lush rolling farmland. Thru old heavy limbed forests, where the wind created a great symphony all around us as it gusted noisily thru the drying autumn leaves.
On our approach, farm dogs, unused here to strange wanderers, gave us a good woofing, sometimes following us up the road until they ensured we had permanently departed.
Country-folk waved and gave directions, thanks were proffered and best wishes exchanged.
Along the lonely lanes the lack of fellow pilgrims brought an unexpected melancholy air.
All in all a different and extremely pleasant days walking.
On arrival at our designated stop for the night we separated and did the usual end of day things.
We met again at the bar for pre-dinner drinks. I reached for my wallet to pay.
Not there. My zippered hidey-pocket empty.
Something grabbed my heart and squeezed.
I patted myself down. Nothing. Back to the dorm, emptied my pack for a thorough search. Still nothing.
My mind raced anxiously into the realm of the future, my brain delivering in a jumbled sequence, the series of problems that would now assail me.
On my return to the bar the expected question was asked.
“Where did you use it last?”
The albergue owner who had served our drinks listened attentively.
Thinking, thinking. “Buying the bus tickets,” I eventually replied. “Maybe I mislaid it whilst struggling with my gear up the aisle, getting organised in my seat.
“I know that bus line,“ said the albergue owner, “I’ll will telephone them and see if anyone has found it and handed it in. You must try not to worry.”
On his return he advised that the bus was now way down the line and parked up.
The driver had handed nothing in.
Well, that's that then.
“But they have asked the man on duty down there to give the bus a thorough search, then they’ll phone me back,” he said.
“Muchas gracias, thank you very much,” I replied.
He insisted on shouting the next round.
I felt a unnatural heavy calm slowly descend over me like a gentle flood.
Suddenly I wasn’t worried at all any more. Strange.
It wasn’t long before the albergue owner approached again.
“Good news!” he exclaimed, “it’s been found! On the floor of the bus. I have asked them to give it to the driver who is doing the return leg this evening. He’s about to leave. I know the stop where you were dropped off. I told them I would drive there to collect the wallet from him. I should be back about eight.”
Although I offered to accompany him, for whatever reason he went on his own.
But his return was an hour later than expected.
With a beaming smile, he handed me the wallet.
My thanks were delivered together with an enveloping bear hug.
“Sorry I’m late,“ he said, “but the bus never stopped, the driver forgot, went straight past, so I had to chase him 20ks down the road to his next stop.”
After checking the contents of the wallet I quietly offered him 30 Euros in way of thanks and compensation for his time and effort.
He initially refused, but upon being pressed, modestly accepted both my thanks and the money. The other staff gathered around to share in my relief and pleasure.
“Drinks all round,” I said.
I wasn’t sure whether 30 Euros was an acceptable amount for his efforts but I wasn’t very flush with readies anymore. I figured to start a party, use a card, liven things up a bit, get some money put into his cash register.
Being a ex-publican myself I can attest to the pleasure a fullish cash register brings.
The word went out. Pilgrims, staff, locals came to join in. We misbehaved until late.
“Wouldn’t happen anywhere else in Spain,” I was regularly informed by the locals as the evening progressed. “Not in Madrid or Barcelona. You would never have seen your wallet again. Good honest folk around here, helpful folk, kind folk. No place in Spain like this.”
I find I must readily agree with their comments.
Regards
Gerard
Last edited:
