September 20, 2022
- Route: Bolívar to Eskerika
- Distance: 28.7 kilometers (17.8 miles)
- Cumulative Distance: 130.4 km
After finishing my super early dinner in Iruzubieta yesterday, I had to walk the 2.3 kilometers back to my empty albergue. It wasn’t even 5 pm by the time I returned, though, so I decided to make a loop around Bolívar just to see if there was anything of interest that I’d missed on my initial pass.
There wasn’t. The Simón Bolívar museum was still closed. The restaurant was still closed. The local bar was still completely gutted and under construction (i.e., definitely closed). And honestly, there wasn’t much else to see or explore. The town was dead quiet on this Monday evening.
When I eventually returned to my Airbnb-style albergue, I was pleasantly surprised to see that a few other people had arrived during my absence. A trio of French cyclists was in one of the other bunk rooms. Plus, two other pilgrims with large packs arrived just before dark. None of them spoke much English, though, so after some rudimentary niceties, I retired to my room to read and surf the internet.
As I lay in my bunk, I was completely unsure how to proceed. A few days ago, I made the mistake of not booking an albergue at all. That omission left me scrambling for lodging and paying an ungodly amount. Then I’d let the pendulum swing in the opposite direction, and I quickly booked this albergue online – just make sure I had a roof over my head. But, had that reactionary approach really been the best choice??
As I thumbed through my guidebook, I saw that the Monasterio de Zenarruza was just another kilometer up the road. The monastery had a 20-bunk albergue, but I’d originally eliminated it during my hasty internet search because: (1) they didn’t take reservations; and (2) I thought I wanted to stay the night in a town with somewhere to eat.
However, given that Bolívar had no open amenities, had it really been worth it to make a reservation here? Sleeping in an actual monastery would have been a really cool experience to look back on.
And now I was completely unsure about what I wanted to do regarding my upcoming lodging. Should I make another reservation for tonight? Or should I just wing it? What was the right answer on the Camino Del Norte? I’d been wildly off base for 50% of my overnight lodging choices thus far, and I was feeling completely overwhelmed by the whole situation. I didn’t want to repeat my mistakes.
Ultimately, I decided to split the difference. There were multiple albergues at 28, 33, and 36 kilometers into my day. I’d settle on how strong my body was feeling this morning, and then I’d find a place with wifi and lock something down when I got to Guernica (20 kilometers ahead).
And with that, I went to sleep last night, hoping for the best.
The monastery
Despite having an entire bunkroom completely to myself at the albergue last night, I didn’t sleep well. I kept waking up for no apparent reason.
By 7 am, my stomach was rumbling with a fury, but I had nothing to quiet it down. My food bag was empty. I had no snacks left. I had no change for the vending machine downstairs. The sole restaurant in town wouldn’t be open for hours. If I wanted to cure my hunger pangs, I’d have to get up and start hiking until I got to the next town.
And that’s how I ended up out on the trail before sunrise. Was I suddenly becoming one of those “early bird” pilgrims I’d so easily mocked just a day ago?
It was still dark when I departed the albergue, and I needed to don my headlamp to find my way out of Bolívar. I’m glad I did my quick walk through town yesterday to reconnoiter where the Camino left the main road, because otherwise, I might have missed the arrows entirely. Yellow might be easy to see in the daytime, but it isn’t the most conspicuous color in the dark.
The electronic kiosk in the town square informed me that it was barely 13°C (or 55°F) now. What a difference from yesterday’s hot afternoon. It was so chilly, compared to the past few mornings, that I even layered up by donning my rain pants and jacket.
Of course, that decision was a foolish one. The Camino began climbing uphill almost immediately once I left town. And I was stripping my jacket off after a matter of minutes because I was overheating. Dammit. I knew better than to overdress.
Another 20 minutes up the trail, I encountered the Monasterio de Zenarruza perched on top of a hill. The Camino’s path actually went inside the monastery’s walls and continued past the chapel before exiting the walls once again.
A warm glow from some lights lit the way as I crept into the monastery’s courtyard. It was so completely quiet at this early hour that I felt the need to tiptoe, so as not to disturb the silence. The chapel door was open already, and I wanted to poke my head inside to take a quick look at the empty but impressive sanctuary.
I was just heading back outside again when I encountered two pilgrims approaching. I immediately recognized them as Charles (the jovial older man from Luxembourg) and Renato (the Italian who always seemed to be on his cell phone).
I’d assumed some of my fellow pilgrims would have stopped here, but I didn’t know who’d made it this far and who’d remained back in Markina-Xemein. Charles broke the silence and greeted me with enthusiasm before asking me where I’d come from this morning. Only three pilgrims had stayed at the monastery last night, and there’d been plenty of room.
As the two of us stood there waiting for Renato to visit the chapel, Charles told me all about their experience last night. They ate dinner with the monks and discovered that the monastery brewed its own beer (though that wasn’t on the menu). The monks also held an evening vespers service for all the pilgrims. Darn it. I knew I’d missed out on something good by staying in Bolívar.
After Renato returned, the three of us left the monastery together. The sun was cresting the hills beyond the monastery, and the horizon was turning shades of orange and yellow. That’s two mornings in a row now that I’ve been able to catch the sunrise out here in the Basque countryside. And it was just spectacular!
Charles, Renato & Simon
As we walked along the mountain roads toward Muntibar, I started to fantasize about a giant cup of café con leche. My stomach was still grumbling for food, but what I wanted most was a nice, steaming cup of coffee and warm milk. Muntibar was still four more kilometers ahead, though. Just one short hour of walking, I told myself.
I tried to distract my stomach by focusing on the countryside surrounding me. I could hear the clang of the bells somewhere ahead. And I knew the sound had to be coming from some livestock nearby, but I couldn’t see the source. Was it cows? Or sheep? They had to be just out of my sight.
Sure enough, right around the next corner, I spotted a series of horses grazing in a field. Two of them seem to have bells around their neck. And I wondered (not for the first time) how these Basque farmers decided which animals to put the bells on.
Did the farmers choose the most dominant animal in the herd? Or the one who was most likely to wander off and get separated? Were the unlucky animals (i.e., those who had been chosen to wear the bells) annoyed by that constant clanging every time they moved their heads? Or did they eventually tune it out as background noise — in the same way most of us can ignore the sounds of cars or the other mundane noises in our day-to-day lives?
As the trail got closer to the town, it cut between a cluster of homes. Then it transitioned from a dirt trail to a long series of wooden stairs.
I assumed these stairs would be a short run that a private homeowner built on the hillside to access their garden more easily. However, these stairs continued for several flights. And then it turned into a wooden boardwalk. And then a wooden bridge over a creek. And then even more stairs!
So, rather than walking down another insanely steep dirt or paved slope into a town, Charles, Renato, and I had the pleasure of descending down a display of wooden craftsmanship for at least half a kilometer! I swear it saved all of our old knees from some serious pain, and I was so grateful to whoever decided to take the immense time (and effort) to build all those stairs here.
Once our little pilgrim trio turned into Munitibar, we ran into Simon (the Englishman I’d sat next to at the cult coffee stand). I hadn’t seen him since the albergue in the old dairy farm two days ago.
Simon stayed at the monastery last night too, but he’d left before Charles and Renato were up. And now he was wandering around town looking for an open bar or restaurant. Unfortunately, we soon learned from one of the locals that all the bars and restaurants in Muntibar were still closed for another hour. Aw, C’mon. What’s going on with all these places being closed?
Rather than hanging around Muntibar and waiting for something to open, Simon joined up with our small pack. And now we were four pilgrims heading back into the Spanish countryside – with Charles and Renato walking in the lead, while Simon and I reacquainted ourselves behind them.
Fifteen minutes later, when we were literally out of the middle of nowhere, we spotted a solitary building with tables outside. It was a bar. And it was open! We could finally have breakfast. Oh man, I was so ready for this. I hadn’t had a thing to eat since I finished my late lunch around 4 pm yesterday.
A walking partner
Sadly, the food at the bar was only so-so. I ordered the tostada con tomate (toast with tomatoes), to try something new. In my mind, it was going to be something you might find on a menu in Southern California right next to the avocado toast. A nice, thick toasted farm bread with sliced tomatoes on top.
But what I received was much less artisanal. It looked like half of a toasted baguette with some crushed tomato paste spread on each side, similar to jam. I was hungry enough that I choked it down, but tostada con tomate would not be a repeat breakfast, for sure. I should have stuck with the croissant or napolitana.
On the other hand, the coffee was great, and I ended up even ordering a second cup (which Simon kindly treated me to), plus the company was fantastic. So overall, I’m putting the breakfast stop in the “win” column for this morning.
Once we finished up, Charles and Renato took off again, while Simon and I decided to walk together for a bit longer. We spent the next few hours getting to know each other better, discussing our respective families and countries, and essentially solving all the world’s problems (just kidding!).
All told, it was quite an enjoyable experience walking with someone else for a change. We moseyed along at Simon’s pace, which was considerably more relaxed than I might have walked if I’d been on my own. However, the conversation was greatly appreciated, especially with a native English speaker.
We also got a little bonus treat this morning when we passed a bunch of random trees lining the dirt path. The ground in front of us was covered with fallen, rotting fruit, and when I looked up toward the sky, I could see this particular tree was filled with hundreds of ripe figs!
Simon wasn’t familiar with fig trees and hadn’t ever seen the fruit growing before. His knowledge of the figs mostly came from fig jam or cakes. What a shame!
I plucked one of the fallen figs off the ground and broke it open to show him the succulent fruit inside. Then I taught him how to discern a ripe fig from an immature one based on feeling some of the existing fruit that was still on the tree. And so, we got a sweet bonus snack of a few ripe figs this morning too!
Guernica
About ten kilometers later, Simon and I rounded a bend to see Charles sitting by himself on a bench, enjoying the warm morning sun. I asked him where Renato had gone, and he shrugged, pointing to the church just beyond him. Renato was a pretty devout Catholic and had a habit of stopping to go inside every open church he passed. So Charles was sitting there waiting for Renato to finish up so they could walk into the upcoming town of Guernica together and have lunch.
Simon and I sat down on a nearby bench for a quick rest, but when Renato still hadn’t appeared five minutes later, it was apparent to me I needed to get going. I wanted to stop at one of the markets in Guernica to pick up some snacks, and I was sure I’d see these guys again. So I bid them all adieu and decided to head off on the trail by myself.
It was barely 300 meters later, though, when I rounded another bend and saw Renato sitting under the shade of a tree! He was relaxing in the grass and waiting for Charles to show up. The church we’d just passed hadn’t been open, so he’d just continued on.
So, now Charles was sitting back there at the church, thinking he was waiting for Renato. Meanwhile, Renato was ahead of him, thinking that Charles was slowly sauntering behind him! What a mess. That’s one of the downsides of hiking with a partner!
I briefly stopped to apprise Renato of the mix-up before continuing into Guernica in search of food and a famous black-and-white Guernica mural.
The sleepy Basque town of Guernica remains part of mainstream knowledge, largely in part to Pablo Picasso. In 1937, the Spanish government commissioned Picasso to create an artwork for the Spanish Pavilion at the World’s Fair in Paris.
Spain was currently in the midst of the Spanish Civil War (1936-1939) between the Nationalists (fascists), led by General Francisco Franco, and the existing Spanish Republican government, led by President Maneu Azaña. Franco allied himself with the Nazi party in Germany and requested Hitler’s assistance in the war effort.
The town of Guernica was selected as a strategic target on Spain’s northern coast in April 1937 because Franco sought to overwhelm the Spanish Republican forces and capture Bilbao. However, the route through Guernica allowed Republican troops to retreat eastward easily. Thus, Franco and Hitler decided that destroying the town might render that escape option impossible.
There wasn’t much of a military presence in Guernica at the time of the Luftwaffe’s preemptive airstrike. Thus, the majority of the 300+ people killed by the Nazi bombing were women, children, and elderly non-combatants. The atrocity of this controversial attack sparked widespread outrage, and Picasso abandoned his original idea for the commissioned artwork and chose to depict this powerful political subject in his contribution to the World’s Fair instead.
Picasso’s original painting now sits in the Reina Sofia Museum in Madrid, but a mural of his infamous black-and-white anti-war painting also adorns a large wall in Guernica itself. And, as a former JAG officer who taught thousands of U.S. soldiers about the law of armed conflict, that mural was a ‘must-see’ destination on my walk through Guernica this afternoon.
Another hot afternoon
After visiting the Picasso mural and restocking my food supplies, I decided to forego a traditional lunch in town in favor of a picnic in one of Guernica’s local parks.
I’m still trying to rebalance my Camino budget after blowing so much on lodging on day two of this adventure, and a picnic lunch seemed like an easy way to cut costs. Besides, it was a lovely, warm afternoon to enjoy my recent finds of fresh fruit, warm bread, and cheese.
Unfortunately, leaving town after lunch brought the same challenge I’ve encountered over and over again these past five days. Guernica is like every other town in Spain – situated on a river at a low elevation. So I had to climb back up to the surrounding hills to continue my Camino.
The afternoon continued to get warmer and warmer, until sweat was rolling down the sides of my face and my wet shirt clung uncomfortably to my chest and stomach. But at least, I had some trees blocking the sun and providing me a little shade today rather than walking on an exposed ridge above the ocean.
I had my sights on ending in the town of Larrabetzu, 17 kilometers past Guernica. I’d certainly gotten up early enough to hike a 36-kilometer day. But honestly, as the afternoon wore on, I wasn’t feeling it. My motivation to hike seemed to disappear with each step.
I’d hiked slower than normal while walking with Simon this morning. And although I didn’t regret that decision, that leisurely pace didn’t bode well for an ambitious mileage day. I’d probably have to walk until well after 5 pm to get to Larrabetzu. Did I really want to do that to myself today?
Charles told me, at least three times today, that he and Renato were heading to a private albergue in Eskerika, which was only 10 kilometers past Guernica. As the balls of my feet started to feel sore from the miles, I began to see the wisdom of stopping in Eskerika, too.
I’d been on the fence about whether to make a reservation today, and I still hadn’t made one while I was in Guernica (where I’d access to wi-fi), so I was going to roll the dice. If the albergue in Eskerika had beds available there, I’d stop after just 29 kilometers for the day.
If not, I’d keep walking to Larrabetzu. I’d let the Camino decide my fate.
The albergue in Eskerika was an isolated farmhouse well off the beaten path, so I had to walk a solid half kilometer (or more) off the Camino just to see if I was in luck. I was rewarded for my efforts, though. The albergue had plenty of beds available, even without a reservation.
After half an hour of relaxing in the stone farmhouse’s cool upstairs bunkroom, I set off to my chores – showering up and then washing my hiking clothes by hand in the outdoor laundry sink. I was just hanging my wet clothes up on the albergue’s clotheslines when Charles and Renato showed up.
Charles raised his arms up in surprise and glee at seeing me. Meanwhile, Renato was on his cell phone (again!) animatedly speaking Italian to someone back home. Clearly they’d found each other after their brief separation before Guernica. That was good news!
Later, during dinner, Charles would tell me that he and Renato had only met a week ago. They’d both come out to the Camino expecting to walk it on their own. But they arrived at the church in Hondarribia about the same time on their very first day in Spain and had been walking together ever since!
In reality, all three of us had been keeping a similar pace and distance each day. I just hadn’t known it.
- On day two, they were the two men I’d seen in Askizu right before I learned the albergue was full and I’d to backtrack to Getaria.
- On day three, we all spent the night at the Basque dairy farm albergue together.
- On day four, they’d stopped at the monastery just a kilometer beyond where I stayed in Bolívar.
- And, now here we were again at the same albergue on day five.
If things stayed the same, there was a good chance I might be seeing them over and over for this entire Camino!
