Behind the Albergue Door: Inspiration Agony Adventure on the Camino de Santiago

was wistfully fighting a losing battle with a punctured lung.
    Walking through the forest with chestnuts falling around us
    The Villafranca area turned out to be a good stretch for us as the very next day also warrants a spot among my Camino highlights. There were two choices for the hike out of Villafranca - a high route and a low route. The low route was shorter, easier and mostly followed a road the whole way, although all accounts promised it was a very quiet road, and that the valley scenery was still impressive. The high route, on the other hand, involved, not surprisingly, a lot more climbing, and a much rougher trail, but never approached anything resembling pavement and boasted all-star views from a high tree-lined ridge. After tackling the steep climb out of town that was tempered by the spectacle of the sun rising behind us to slowly but inexorably shed light and colour across the whole of the valley, we melted into a forest of overripe chestnut trees with sunlight filtering through the red, orange and yellow leaves like urine slowly dripping from a toddler’s untended diaper. The first time a chestnut fell, unbidden and unexpected, to the ground behind me I jumped in shock, as startled as a cow being milked for the very first time, feeling oddly uncertain, unsafe and unmanned all at the same time. As more and more chestnuts continued to make their fatal leaps ground-ward like bushy little M & Ms balefully determined to end it all, eventually familiarity begot ease and we found ourselves actually enjoying the exotic surrealism of walking through a vibrant forest on a perfect morning while fuzzy nuts rained down around us. The occasional groups of workers we encountered who were engaged in the relatively backbreaking labour of collecting the chestnuts by hand from the ground in burlap sacks did not seem to share our feelings of wonder and bliss, although they sure did smoke a lot.
    The moon leading us up over the pass at O Cebreiro in the dark
    The previous day had been particularly lengthy and we had debated long and hard (that’s what sheep said) about tackling the final hour up the hill to O Cebreiro before finally relenting and settling into a cozy little albergue in Laguna de Castilla instead. O Cebreiro, located on a cold, windy ridge with commanding views over the lush hills falling away in all directions, was frequently described as one of the best places to watch the sun crest the bleak, harsh ridge and slowly illuminate the lush green land beyond. But Castilla had a fireplace, and beer. And, as it turned out, we had no problem making it to the top before the sun surfaced for the day, although the real highlight came before that, trudging up the hill in darkness with a full moon hanging directly in front of us as though it was a giant wheel of cheese waiting patiently to reward us with yet more boundless dairy consumption at the everyday low price of a few more days of constipation. Meanwhile, the ghostly moonlight added an entirely different dimension to the serene rural surroundings and eerie solitude, tinged with just the faintest aroma of fresh cow shit, like it had been produced just this morning, just for us.
    Seeing church spires in the distance
    This could describe almost any church, in almost any town, and the resultant anticipation that accompanied that first spotting of tell-tale signs of human habitation and the promise of commercial transactions. Sometimes it was just a chance to rest for five minutes, maybe enjoying a can of Coke while glaring at your briefly jettisoned backpack with only thinly -veiled hostility. Sometimes we were ready to treat ourselves to a full lunch break with filling bocadillos, sumptuous chocolate pastries and stolen moments with our bare feet propped on restaurant chairs to cool in the breeze of pilgrims passing back and forth from the bathroom. Sometimes, though, it actually signified The End! Only the end of the day , of course, not the whole expedition, and only rarely even a milestone of any particular importance. And even though we knew it only meant a brief, teasing interlude before we would find ourselves back in the exact same position again the next day, plodding wearily along, longingly scanning the horizon for the next set of church spires and the resulting triumphant declaration – “Church!” – that would continue our cycle of pain, the anticipation of pain, and the occasional absence of pain, it was still just as exciting each and every