Navarra

Camino XII: Tormentón

/ Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

Albergue Parroquial de Santiago, Logroño. 19.20.

Last night, quite out of nowhere, a summer storm swept across the north. No rain, no hail; nothing but the unfettered might of the wind. One moment the sun was shining, the next the wind had reached gale force and the shutters were slamming against the windows as a dirty vortex of dust, leaves and debris slammed into Sansol like a hurricane.

It didn’t last long – five minutes, tops – but it darkened the sky, and lightning bolts fell in silent flashes all through the night.

When I left Sansol the following morning, after a long night of waking dreams, it was to a battered world. A pool full of leaves. Branches uprooted and cast across the path. Trees felled. A solitary stone curlew cried its mournful call in the darkness amid the devastation. Perhaps it’s the same bird I heard six years ago. As I tiptoed through the debris, I nearly stepped on a baby toad, almost invisible amid the scattered stones.

It’s a fair hike from Sansol to the next town, Viana, but it is the last stop before Logroño, which you can see from the hills long before you get there. This is also where we say goodbye to Navarra and the last glimpse of far-off Aragón, before they disappear behind the hills for good.

We’re now in the wine country of La Rioja – the rolling fields of wheat are still with us, but they’re interlaced with green vineyards now. Rioja wine is famous the world over, so it should come as no surprise that one of Spain’s smaller regions can’t handle the demand all on its own. In fact, most of the grapes that make a good Rioja actually come from neighbouring Castilla La Mancha, one of Spain’s largest regions, before being processed here. La Mancha produces its own incredible wine (which, realistically, should be up to the same standard), but it isn’t quite as famous as the world-renowned Rioja. One day, perhaps.

The wind picked up again as I reached Logroño. I didn’t much like the look of the clouds, and it looked like the storm had done even more damage here than in Sansol. Several of the trees lining the Ebro river had been ripped up by the roots and lay where they had fallen across the pavement. A quick glance at the Spanish news implied that it had looked even worse this morning, so perhaps they just hadn’t got around to fixing the park yet.

A flash of electric blue caught my eye as I crossed the bridge – a kingfisher. Who could ever lose that sense of wonder at such a sight? It didn’t hang around for long, but long enough for me to see it dive into the river in a halcyon blur before speeding away downriver.

It was still a good three hours until the Albergue Parroquial opened its doors, so I stashed my luggage in a locker which I hired for 6.50€ and set out to explore, unencumbered. It costs about the same to have the Jacotrans couriers deliver your rucksack to the next town for the day, but I felt a lot less guilty about this minor transaction. It’s difficult to justify lugging a whopping great backpack around a museum, after all.

The rain came down while I was in the Museo de La Rioja, so I managed to dodge the worst of it. It wasn’t as impressive as the collection in Jaca or Santa Cruz de Tenerife, but I was rather taken with one of the paintings, which featured a blonde Virgin Mary. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her painted with blonde hair before. Jesus seems to have more colourings than a Pantene catalogue, but Mary is pretty consistently dark-haired, so this one stood out for… well, looking so odd. Beautiful, but… odd. Like an understudy. Was she the artist’s unrequited love, I wonder?

Once the rain had cleared, I grabbed my bag and checked in, before nipping back out for another wander. A tuna band was in town, dressed in their usual medieval splendour and serenading ladies left and right.

I’ve always loved tuna bands. If I’d done an Erasmus year or studied abroad, which was my original intention, I’m pretty sure I’d have launched myself at one. My uncle Rafael was in a tuna in his university days, and I suspect my grandfather and great-grandfather were also involved to some degree. It’s a tradition that goes back to the 13th century, so it’s a little bit grander than the a cappella groups that have taken the university music scene by storm. However, it is limited to Spain, and it is fundamentally a social and busking enterprise, so it’s not likely to break into a world championship anytime soon. After all – surely the real prize is a smile from the serenaded lady in question, be she twenty-one or seventy-three!

Logroño’s tapas street was absolutely packed, and with good reason: it’s famous for its gastronomy (not just the wine), with around fifty bars serving tapas and pintxos all within the city centre. There were at least six stag/hen do’s in town, all with matching t-shirts (together with one fairy godmother and one Jafar) so I was quite relieved to have a communal dinner with the other pilgrims at the Albergue Parroquial.

Dinner was a lovely affair, and a linguistic hurdle for me, constantly switching between English, French, Italian and Spanish. Sometimes I get bugged by the language barrier (I’m not fluent in Italian), but it does me a lot of good to listen and learn as I walk.

Tomorrow is still up in the air. I have in mind a rest day of sorts, going only as far as Navarrete. I’m not a huge fan of rest days, but I figure I might need it if I’m going to stay fit and healthy on my feet for the next four weeks. It might also be nice to shuffle the pilgrim pack a little. I haven’t really found my scene yet.

It’s gone twenty past ten. The Slovak flirt in the next bunk has finally stopped yapping away with the American girls and gone to bed. I should head, too. I might change my mind and make for Nájera tomorrow, or I might not. I’m still undecided. And that’s the best thing about the Camino. It allows me to be free. Every day. If only every day could be like this. BB x

Camino XI: Not Here

/ Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

Albergue de Sansol. 16.38.

Well, so much for Plan A. The American pilgrims I set out with this morning were in such a tearing hurry to beat the heat that we reached Los Arcos shortly before 10am. I’ve done the Camino a few times before, and my instincts tell me that – shy of the discovery of a true marvel – it’s nothing short of ridiculous to call it a day before the hour has even reached double figures. So I excused myself, picked up my sticks and set out, as I did all those years before, for Sansol.

Estella is pretty much an essential stopover on the Camino de Santiago, but the primary disadvantage of doing so is the fact that the famous wine fountain of Iratxe is hardly a forty minute walk from the city. If you save your visit for the small hours of the morning, and expect the wine to flow like water, you will be disappointed. At least today it was running – the last time I came by it wasn’t operating at all – but it hardly gave more than a few drops when we reached it at around 5.50am.

I can’t think of many places in the world that have actual wine fountains, so it’s definitely worth checking out, but for those who want a little more than a few drops, this may be one to investigate via an afternoon sortie from Estella.

I walked with the Americans for a bit, but I stopped for breakfast in Azqueta and let them press on. It was easy to seek them out for a laugh and good company, but even easier to forget the gulf in age between us (I am about ten years older than all of them), which became steadily more apparent as the conversations went on. I was also missing the solitary aspects of the Camino that had become so deeply ingrained since Oloron – as I suspected I might – and the distance did me good.

My DNA Heritage tests results came back today. Turns out I’m actually more Spanish than English, if the test kit is gospel (which I would very much like to believe!): 37.5% Iberian to 26.4% English. Either the Spanish genes on my mother’s side are ridiculously strong or the English genes on my father’s side are a lot more varied than I thought. As it turns out, as well as the obvious Spanish genetic indicators (I didn’t really need a box kit to tell me that), I apparently have a not inconsiderable amount of French and Breton ancestry (6% each).

This last detail is really very interesting, as I’ve latterly developed something of a soft spot for Bretagne after spending the summer in Saint-Malo last year. Granted, the Breton genome encompasses most of Normandy, too, so it’s just as likely a relict trace of Norman (aka British) DNA, but still – I’ll take it. I’ll take any connection to that beautiful part of the world.

Now I’m on the Camino Francés, pilgrim junk is much more of a feature of the Camino. Stones piled in cairns upon the trailmarkers, obnoxious stickers plastered all over the signs, clothes and prayer flags left hanging in the branches of low-hanging trees… Even if the yellow arrows weren’t there, it would be hard to lose your way for all the detritus.

It’s very easy to criticise, and perhaps I shouldn’t. After all, as is so often repeated in hostels and on the Camino Facebook groups, everyone walks the Camino in their own way. But I do think we forget that this is a country, with real people getting on with their lives, long after we have come and gone.

Do the piles of stones left behind really make a difference, even to those who choose to do so, or are you just following a fad you’ve seen? And what happens when they start to change the landscape, as at Cruz de Ferro, and need to be removed by heavy machinery to prevent further damage?

Do the stickers you leave on signs actually contribute to the experience of the Camino for those who come after you, or are you just creating one more labour-intensive task for some local official who will have to spend hours scraping them off – or even using local funds to buy new signage?

Do we really need to be reminded to visit Baden-Würrtemberg? For the record, I thought Baden-Würrtemberg was bloody beautiful when I stayed in Karlsrühe in 2019, but after seeing the “Nett hier” stickers once too often in a place of spectacular beauty, I have developed a profound dislike for the name and the arrogance implied by the stickers. There is such a thing as overadvertising!

At the root of my consternation in today’s post is this. It’s been eleven days on the Camino de Santiago and I’ve yet to encounter somebody who’s here for reasons of faith. Everyone – everyone – is here for a walk. Because they’ve heard of the Camino. For a challenge. A holiday. An adventure. And the pilgrim community, like a hive, is very quick to turn angrily on anyone who voices the opinion that somewhere, underneath the spirit of free and individualistic adventure, might be found the bones of a genuinely spiritual journey.

Maybe I’ve just not had much luck. But it would be nice to share the road with another believer, in a place where you might have thought it so much more likely to find one.

I’m still stopping in every church I pass. I still say a prayer to God on behalf of my grandparents and my dear friends’ father before every cross, every chapel, every shrine. I don’t feel “holier” than my fellow pilgrims, because I’m just as guilty of using the Camino as an affordable excuse to spend my entire summer holiday in Spain. But still – it’d be nice to meet someone who has come to the Camino for a genuine reason beyond “I heard about it and it sounded pretty awesome”.

Perhaps the Koreans are the answer. The trouble is, they don’t speak much English, and no Spanish at all beyond Buen Camino, so conversation is something of a non-starter.

Spain needs pilgrim money now as much as it did when the wars against the Muslims were still raging on and cash was hard to come by. But I do wonder where they all are, those walking the Camino with spiritual intent. Maybe I’ll find them out on the Meseta. It truly is a magical place.

England is experiencing another heatwave, but out here, the weather is mild. The hospitalero is cooking up an enormous paella to share between us tonight. That is, me and the five other pilgrims who made it out here: a quiet German lady, an ageing Italian who talks to himself a lot and snores like it’s an Olympic sport, a Tuscan with a strong accent and a couple of very lovey-dovey Romans. The least that can be said is that English is no longer the lingua franca and that is such a sweet relief. I was almost starting to feel I’d left Spain behind! BB x

Camino IX: Switching Lanes

/ Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

Albergue de Peregrinos de los Padres Reparadores, Puente La Reina. 17.00.

At last, after nine days of having practically the entire Camino Aragonés to myself, I have joined up with the pilgrims on the Camino Francés. What a change it’s been! Puente La Reina is much the same as it was when I was last here, some six years ago, but it is a lot busier. A lot. There must be nearly a hundred people in this albergue alone, and it’s not even the only one in town. Still – it’s good to see other people again!

I left Monreal shortly before six this morning, which, in retrospect, was a mistake. I probably should have left half an hour earlier, given the distance (another 31km day today). It was quite a trek, and most of it under the sun.

I bade farewell to Aragón two days ago when I crossed the border into Navarra, but today was the “real” goodbye, as the mighty peaks of the Pyrenees slipped beyond the horizon for the last time. I shall miss them. I overtook the seventy-eight year old pilgrim Mari Carmen for the last time and then the road was mine, for perhaps the last time in many weeks.

I was not entirely alone. A fox raced along the path ahead of me for a short distance, and a small herd of deer had come down from the sierra to feed. They looked up as I walked by but didn’t seem all that bothered. I guess they’re more used to pilgrims in this part of the world.

The Camino skirts the northern edge of the Montes de Valdorba, the last of the pre-Pyrenean sierras before the great open fields of the Ebro floodplain. Along the way, it passes a number of immense limestone quarries, like the Canteras de Alaiz: great, gaping wounds in the mountainside, sometimes laddered like a pyramid, sometimes sliced in a perfect square, and sometimes belching great pillars of dust into the morning light like something out of Tolkien’s fiery pits of Utumno.

A similarly industrial hellscape met me on the other side of the AP-15, the busy highway connecting Pamplona and San Sebastián with Zaragoza. It looks like they’re extending the road out west, so I was glad to have the company of Robert Harris’ Conclave for a time.

The final two-and-a-half hour trek across the fields west of Tiebas were tough, as the sun was already high and the forested slopes of the sierra were quickly becoming a distant memory. There were butterflies absolutely everywhere: little blues, skippers, commas, red admirals, painted ladies, marbled whites and the odd swallowtail. I suspect they were less troubled by the heat than the birds, who were keeping mostly to the shade, their beaks open and their chests rising and falling quickly.

La Iglesia de Santa Maria de Eunate was noteworthy in that it was the first albergue of the Camino so far which was A) open and B) had a stamp for the credencial to offer. I made a promise before setting out on this pilgrimage to pray for one soul in particular in every church I found, so it’s a tremendous source of relief when I can go inside, rather than having to genuflect before the door, under the sun.

After what seemed like an age – and with the audiobook reaching its final line only just in time – I suddenly realised that I recognised the Camino I was walking, because I’d done it before. The Caminos converge just after Óbanos (where I picked up another stamp), and from there it was a relatively easy march to Puente La Reina. My legs were beginning to tire, which is not entirely surprising after two 30km+ days back to back, so I was greatly relieved to reach the albergue merely minutes later.

And here we are! I’ve already met a number of interesting pilgrims: Ruby, a gap year Physicist from Kent; Max, a Salzburger who set out from his front door three months ago; an Irishman who teaches English in Shanghai; a Finn with a penchant for Spanish girls; and Amaya, a Basque girl bound for Logroño.

And Puente La Reina put me right, food-wise. One of the bars offering a menu peregrino had sopa de ajo on the menu, so I was drawn right in.

There’s a pilgrim’s mass at 7.30pm, so I’ll try to make for that – I remember it being very friendly the last time I was here. Here’s to a highly sociable few weeks! BB x

Camino VIII: A Hundred Eyes

/ Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

Albergue de Peregrinos, Monreal. 15.10.

One of the best things about the Camino – at least, for somebody who does not particularly enjoy sticking to a strict plan – is its absolute freedom. You can aim for a particular destination at the end of the morning, but if you overshoot, or find a place you like along the way, you can always change your plan. And – it goes without saying – there is no “true” Camino. There never has been. There is simply your route to Santiago, wherever that may lead you.

Today, I decided to take a major detour through the Foz de Lumbier, deviating from the “official” Camino by some six kilometres, in search of one of the most striking landscapes to be seen on all of the routes to Santiago de Compostela.

Google Maps suggested the detour would take around eight hours, so I set out early, leaving Sangüesa’s albergue at around 5.15am (5.20, technically, as I left my sticks behind and had to double-back to get them). The Camino turns off about half a kilometre north of Sangüesa, just before the Smurfit industrial complex, but I pushed on along the road towards Liédana. There was quite a bit of traffic at first, but it was mostly workers going to the factory: after leaving the complex behind, I hardly saw anyone on the road.

There were a few scattered yellow arrows west of Liédana, indicating that this must once have been one of the many Camino routes, if not perhaps one of the more commonly known alternatives. I had timed my arrival at La Foz for sunrise, knowing that any earlier would have been far too cold and dark and any later would risk a merciless march along the roads later on. Plus, in the first hour after dawn, it’s always possible you’ll find something unexpected, as the animals of the night make their final rounds before retreating into the dark places where they hide during the day.

I had not counted on the wind. A fierce north wind was blowing this morning, almost strong enough to knock the sunglasses off the top of my head, and easily powerful enough to make it impossible to listen to the audiobook I had on (Robert Harris’ Conclave – a little late to the party, I know).

La Foz de Lumbier is one of two major canyons that can be found in the Sierra de Leyre, formed by the southwest passage of two rivers, the Irati and the Salazar. The other, La Foz de Arbaiun, is even grander still, but stands some twelve kilometres to the east of Lumbier, putting it well out of reach of even this overambitious pilgrim for today.

The north wind was still howling down the canyon when I arrived, which made the tunnel access all the spookier: the only way in and out of the canyon is via two long tunnels cut into the cliffs, neither of which are lit. The southern tunnel curves around to the right, pitching you into total darkness for half a minute or so.

Once inside, a gravel track known as a Via Verde (a converted railway line) leads you along the gorge. Had I arrived later in the day, perhaps, I might have seen some of the canyon’s famous Egyptian Vultures: bizarre, chicken-faced creatures with white plumage and diamond-shaped tales that migrate to Spain from their winter quarters in Africa each year. However, they were nowhere to be seen this morning, presumably sitting on their nests deep in the many caves within the cliffs.

The gorge’s other resident vultures, however, were everywhere.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that my passage through the canyon was being very closely watched, as though hundreds of eyes were following me along the river. My guess wasn’t far off the mark: once my eyes adapted to the twilight of the canyon, I realised that many of the bushes atop the canyon walls were in fact a great host of griffons, staring down at me with bobbing movements of their snakelike necks.

Every so often one or two of them would spread their monstrously huge wings and take off into the morning, before returning, feet dangling, to land on some other outcrop downriver, before turning their hulking shapes to see how much progress I had made.

I make no secret of my love for vultures. They are far and away my favourite animals on this planet, and especially griffons. I have never recovered from seeing one for the first time during that first trip to Spain: never accustomed to anything larger than a herring full, I was spellbound by the sheer size of the beasts, with their hulking shape, their silent circling flight and the long, trailing fingers on the end of each wing. That obsession only intensified when I came face to face with them during a solitary climb up the misty mountain of El Gastor, where I spent an incredible hour watching the giants appear suddenly out of the mist at eye level, merely feet away from my perch at the edge of the mountain.

So perhaps you’ll understand why I was so quick to slap an extra six kilometres onto today’s 27km hike, if only to spend some time in the presence of these magnificent creatures. They truly take my breath away.

But Lumbier had more than just vultures to sling at me. Just before leaving the gorge, I noticed something moving in the water below. It might have been the wind, which had been making shapes across the surface of the river all morning, but this was moving slowly against the current. Something long, snake-like, with a white-whiskered face: an otter. Talk about a stroke of luck! Just like the lynx I encountered in Doñana earlier this year, this was a first: I have never seen an otter in the wild before, or at least, one that I could call with any degree of certainty. iPhone cameras are good, but they can’t zoom and they’re not brilliant at moving objects in low light, but if you look closely you can just about tell what you’re looking at!

Really, I ought to have hung around at the other side of the tunnel to see if it reappeared, but I wasn’t entirely sure how long it would take me to get back to the Camino, so I played it safe and left the otter to his morning swim. I certainly couldn’t have done an awful lot better with my phone camera even if it did return. I’ll just have to come back someday with the rest of my kit.

Instead, I skirted the town of Lumbier and made my way back to the Camino. This was easier said than done: the “official” route meanders through the turbine-topped hills on the other side of the roaring A-21. Getting back to it was no easy feat, so I followed the old concrete road to Jaca for about 8km.

Normally, road stretches along the Camino can be quite hairy, with grim or even challenging looks from drivers. A spate of pilgrim deaths on the “original” Camino, now overlaid with concrete highways, led to the move toward the current network of tracks and footpaths. However, thanks to the A-21, which runs parallel, there was hardly anyone on the road at all, which made for a very peaceful (if monotonous) walk.

The sun was well on its way to its throne in the Castilian sky by now, and with it, the vultures of La Foz de Lumbier came drifting out on the thermals, as though to see me off.

I had a veritable fleet of raptors to keep me company today. As well as the vultures, a few kestrels, buzzards and booted eagles were circling the hills around Izco, along with the usual red and black kites. Today added two new encounters to the mix: a pair of short-toed eagles – exceptional snake-hunters – and a young hen harrier, my first (and hopefully not last) of the Camino. I have an especial fondness for harriers, especially the ghostly grey males, whose long, tapering wings and bouncy flight always conjure up images of the endless meseta in my head.

The cattle-crowded foothills of the French Pyrenees seem like an age ago. We are now very much in crop country. It hasn’t had much of an impact on the flies, which are everywhere this summer (I suspect the two months of rain Spain had this spring has caused their numbers to explode this year), but it does make for considerably easier terrain.

Contrary to what the guidebooks say, Monreal does have a working bar/restaurante. The hospitalera should know – it’s her husband who runs it! So I will grab a pizza there tonight, before the last long march of the Camino Aragonés tomorrow toward Puente La Reina and the start of the next stage of my journey: the busier Camino Francés. At least, I hope it will be busier! There’s no guarantee in July, but it should at least have more than one pilgrim in the albergue from night to night! BB x

Camino VII: Out of the Woods

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Albergue de Peregrinos, Sangüesa. 16.06.

I overslept today – by Camino standards, anyway. I’m pretty sure I set both alarms last night, but I have a habit of turning them off and falling straight back to sleep. Either way, it was gone six o’clock when I woke up today. Mari Carmen, the seventy-eight year old Valencian who is the only other pilgrim on the road, had already packed and gone. I dressed quickly and had breakfast, which had been left out for me in the dining room. I wouldn’t exactly call two slabs of bread with butter and jam and tea-making facilities a bargain – that cost me 6€ yesterday – but Ruesta is so cut-off from everything and everywhere else that there were no other options, and beggars can’t be choosers.

Gronze (the Camino website I’ve been using to map out the Voie d’Arles and the Camino Aragonés) describes today’s stage as “melancholic”. I thought that was probably a bit melodramatic, but it’s actually a pretty accurate adjective for the first hour and half. Leaving the abandoned village of Ruesta behind (I was genuinely the only person in the entire village when I left), the Camino snakes downhill to ford a narrow stretch of the Embalse de Yesa before climbing slowly back up the other side over the space of an hour. I usually like the forested stretches, as they can be more mysterious and refreshing than the unforgiving plains, and yet… something was off about this forest. It was far too quiet. There’s usually some birdsong in the early hours before the sun crests the hills, but over the space of an hour, I only heard one sound, and that was the screech of a jay far off.

I’ve often experienced this feeling in the presence of Spain’s false lakes. The Embalse de Yesa and its surrounding pine forests are entirely artificial. I saw a doe racing through the trees near the summit, and a red squirrel high up in the branches of a tree, but the lack of birdsong was chilling. It’s as though they keep a mournful silence for the drowned valley below, unwilling to disturb the rest of the watery dead.

I sometimes wonder if nature is laughing at us when we try to shape the world like her, or if she is just quietly disappointed.

As for me, I was quietly relived when the trees cleared and I was in the sunlit fields once again. The quails had returned, along with a host of finches and larks, and with my spirits restored, I set off toward Undués de Lerda.

Undués looks like many Aragonese hillside towns: built of the same stone upon which it stands, it has a habit of vanishing from sight under the cover of cloud, becoming obvious to the eye only when the sun reveals the shadows of its doors and windows. I arrived shortly before nine, but the town was still fast asleep, and everything from the bar to the church was shut up tight. So I moved on.

Near the Aragonese frontier, I saw something in the grass at my feet that made me pause. It was a swallowtail, and it wasn’t leaping into the air as they are wont to do when people draw near. On closer inspection, I think it must have had a run-in with a predator, because one of its swallowtails was missing and part of the same wing was damaged.

Known in English as the scarce swallowtail (on account of its rarity as a migrant in the British Isles), this species is actually fairly common in Spain. It’s not often you get to see one so close outside of a butterfly sanctuary, however, and the markings on its wings are really remarkable. They’re actually made up of thousands of scales, each one containing pigments like melanin or papiliochromes, that create a vivid array of colours used for sending messages, either to potential predators or partners. I saw a sign in a butterfly sanctuary on Tenerife where somebody had managed to make an entire alphabet just from close-ups from butterfly wing patterns. With nearly 20,000 specified of butterfly in the world, perhaps that’s not surprising.

This little fella was in a dangerous spot, right in the middle of the road, so I gently coaxed it onto my hand and then found a more sheltered spot in the verge where it might be out of harm’s way. Unless it recovers the ability to fly, it will probably end up as a snack for an enterprising bee-eater – a bird both large and nimble enough to deal with a swallowtail – so I hope it finds its strength.

A small stone marker in Basque lettering indicated that I had left Aragón and was now in the former kingdom of Navarra. The landscape has changed: the high mountains of Aragón, ever at my side for the last few days, have been replaced by a series of endlessly rolling hills, a patchwork of gold and olive green. This will be the scenery for the next week and half, until I reach Burgos and the meseta begins in earnest.

I was lucky to see one of Spain’s oldest traditions in action shortly after crossing the border. One of the cañadas reales crosses the Camino here, specifically the Cañada Real de los Roncaleses. These are the old migration routes across the country, where shepherds have led their flocks from north to south in search of fresh pastures since the medieval period. A source of milk, cheese and the precious merino wool, Spain’s sheep were a highly valuable commodity and the cañadas received royal protection and their own guild, El Honrado Concejo de la Mesta, which had tremendous privileges.

Nowadays, of course, merino wool can be found all around the world – you can thank Napoleon’s invasion of Spain for breaking that monopoly – but the shepherds still use these ancient pathways, as their ancestors have done for over a thousand years.

It’s been a pretty mild walk today, so it was surprising to see a mass of estivating snails on the way in to Sangüesa. They must have done this during the heatwave, when temperatures in some parts of Spain soared into the forties. They’re not dead, as such, but in a state of dormancy, waiting out the worst of the summer until they can return to life when the temperatures cool down.

Well, Sangüesa is the busiest town I’ve seen so far. The albergue is nearly full, though not with your usual pilgrims: these are almost entirely Spanish bicigrinos, a term used to describe pilgrims who travel by bicycle. It’s a portmanteau, but one can’t help the feeling that it’s almost always just a little pejorative, with many pilgrims feeling that their lycra-clad one-night companions are not true pilgrims in the strictest sense. The decibel count in the albergue has certainly gone up since they arrived, just in time to replace the building site next to the albergue and the slamming windows.

Still – it’s a good ease-in to the popularity of the Camino Francés, the most popular of all the roads to Santiago. I’ve enjoyed my own company for the last week, and though I’m looking forward to meeting all sorts of interesting people on the road, I will miss these long stretches of quiet. BB x

Where to next…?

/ Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

It’s getting mighty cold here in Tierra de Barros. I went to sleep clutching at my knees and somehow managed a decent night’s rest, only to wake up and find I’d left the window slightly ajar. I think I need to invest in a winter duvet more than a bike. I’m still not used to this system of alternating between summer and winter duvets. I almost miss the English climate. Almost…

We’re now three weeks away from the end of term. Yes, term ends on the 22nd December, and this year that falls on a Friday. Late, but not too late. Today’s a regular Monday. I’m sitting in the living room, easily the warmest room in the flat, having just turned the heating off after a generous couple of hours’ life-giving warmth. I have a private class with the kiddos at six (hopefully they’ll behave better this week – but then, they are only three years old), and I need to go shopping, as when I went this afternoon it took picking up the first item in the fruit and veg aisle for me to realise I’d left both my cash and my card at home.

So what’s to do? Well, it’s the time of year when I need to start thinking about where I’d like to be next year. Amongst other cards I have on the table – up to and including the JET programme in a few years’ time – the original plan still stands, which is to carry on with the British Council assistant jig for another year, albeit this time not in IES Meléndez Valdés, 06220 Villafranca de los Barros, Badajoz. The school has been wonderful to me and I could hardly have asked for a better host for two years, but I ought to spread my wings and discover somewhere new whilst I can. After all, Spain is a kingdom of many worlds: Extremadura may be one of her most beautiful, but there are other jewels in the crown!

So, for my own benefit – and for those who are interested in applying for the programme – I’ve decided to go through each region, in alphabetical order, to assess the strengths and drawbacks of working in each. Coming back to Villafranca was easy… it’s time to step back into the unknown!

(Ed.: I’ve used my own photos where possible – Andalucía, Cantabria, Extremadura and Madrid – but the rest are various stock images!)

Andalucía

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Where: South
Weather: Hot
Dialects: No (though Andalú, the regional accent, might as well be)
Visited?: Yes (far too often)

Ah, Andalucía. My old homeland! And, until recently, the region of Spain I knew best. In many ways the ‘classic’ Spain that comes to mind, Andalucía is – understandably – very oversubscribed as a destination. The Americans tend to have their eyes on it, and thanks to their system, which allows preferential treatment to consecutive-year assistants, they tend to end up there eventually, too (after doing time in equally beautiful backwater regions). Andalucía isn’t necessarily more spectacular than any of the other regions, but it offers a lot more bang-for-your-buck over the distance it spans: cities like Granada, Córdoba, Cádiz, Ronda and Sevilla ooze Romantic charm, and then there’s the natural beauty of the Alpujarras, Doñana National Park, the Sierra Morena and the all-too-often-overlooked beaches of the Costa de la Luz. It’s a fantastic region in which to fall in love with Spain, but because it’s so well known, it can be difficult to escape… unless, of course, you end up in somewhere like Olvera.

Probability: 7/10

Aragón

Where: Northeast
Weather: Cold
Dialect: Aragonese, Catalan (only in the high north and west)
Visited?: Yes

Alright, so a service station and a brief visit to Calatayud don’t exactly count as visiting Aragón per se… Aragón is a lot like Extremadura. Lots of people pass through it on their way to somewhere else. Zaragoza is probably its most famous city, but what of the rest of the region? Huesca in the north plays host to some of the most beautiful Pyrenean landscapes out there, and Teruel would kindly like to remind you that it does exist, despite what the rest of Spain will tell you. Aragonese, a local dialect, survives to the present, but as Spanish is the only ‘official’ language, there’s no cause for concern. High on the Spanish plateau, it gets mighty chilly in winter, but it is also the home of the Comarca de Monegros, a vast expense of semi-desert. And, like Extremadura, its comparatively unknown status makes it a very good place to go native.

Probability: 8/10

Asturias

Where: North
Weather: Cold
Dialects: No
Visited: Yes

A popular choice amongst second-years, Asturias is where modern Spain was born. With pretty seaside towns, Alpine comforts and forested hills that actually go brown in autumn, in some ways it’s the perfect antidote to the Spanish south. For those used to endless heat, readily available paella and Moorish castles, it can seem like a very different world… which it is. The Spanish is very clear here, and it has some of the most beautiful beaches on the peninsula, even if they aren’t exactly the warmest. It’s a little harder to get to, but Santander’s airport offers cheap flights and is only just across the border. It is, however, a little on the expensive side.

Probability: 8/10

Cantabria

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Where: North
Weather: Cold
Dialects: No
Visited: Yes

Cantabria, after Andalucía and Extremadura, is the region of Spain I’ve visited the most. No, scratch that. Technically speaking, Santillana del Mar is the third region of Spain I’ve visited the most, as for some reason I ended up there on all three occasions. A marginally less mountainous version of Asturias, Cantabria is a good choice for the British auxiliar who doesn’t want to leave behind too many creature comforts. Quesada pasiega, a local speciality, is unheavenly good (like most of the Iberian peninsula’s takes on the custard tart), and the stereotype is true: I’ve seen more cows and tractors here than in any other part of Spain. It doesn’t have the quasi-African feel of the south, but what it does have is a cheap and reliable train network, which is a huge plus in any world.

Probability: 5/10

Castilla La Mancha

Where: South-central
Weather: Hot/cold
Dialects: No
Visited: Yes

Like Aragón, Castilla La Mancha is a region I can hardly claim to have visited, having spent just a few days in Toledo a few years back. If Andalucía is the Spain sold to tourists, Castilla La Mancha is the one you find in picture books. It’s Don Quijote country, and any bus ride from Madrid to the south will show you that: seemingly endless fields stretch as far as the eye can see, dotted in various locations with mountain ranges and the iconic windmills (see Consuegra, above). It’s also, coincidentally, the land of my ancestors; my grandfather was from Villarrobledo, a town near Albacete. An immense region where it is very easy to go native, but perhaps not the most awe-inspiring on offer. Toledo, however, is easily one of the world’s most beautiful cities…

Probability: 4/10

Castilla y León

Where: Northwest
Weather: Cold
Dialects: Leonese (in León province)
Visited: Yes

Make no bones about it. Castilla y León is gorgeous. It has its less interesting parts (the Camino de Santiago goes through them), and is in part a mirror of sister-province Castilla La Mancha to the south, but drawn across the meseta are some of Spain’s most striking landscapes. The Duero river gorge is breath-taking, as are the old Roman gold mines of Las Medulas (see above), and the granite-strewn scenery to the north of Burgos looks like something out of a Lord of the Rings film (but then, this was where El Cid was born). Here they speak the ‘purest’ Spanish, so you’ll have absolutely no problems with the language here. It’s clear, crisp and, whilst no slower than the usual Spanish machine-gun delivery, easier to understand than, say, any of the southern accents. The cuisine is also spectacular; in my humble opinion, most of Spain’s best food is its earthy, country food, and you’ll find a lot of it here. The cities of León, Burgos and especially Salamanca are wonders in their own right. Just watch out for the slow-burning Leonese separatist movement.

Probability: 8/10

Cataluña

Where: Northwest
Weather: Warm
Dialects: Catalan (official language)
Visited: Yes

This year would have been a very interesting year to be working in Spain’s black-sheep region. Even after the failure of Puigdemont’s half-hearted rebellion, I suspect it’d be worth a punt for the next few years. I’ve been to Barcelona a couple of times; school trips on both occasions, so I’ve barely begun to scratch to the surface of the place. The Costa Brava is undeniably beautiful, with stunning Mediterranean coves and sparkling white beaches. The Catalonian interior, however, is what grabs me: like neighbouring Aragón, Cataluña has some spectacular mountains. This is Serrallonga’s country, and I’d sure like to find out some more about the gang warfare between the Nyerros and the Cadells of old… if it weren’t for the language barrier. Now more than ever do I regret taking a Persian module over Catalan at university! You should bear in mind that Cataluña’s relative affluence makes it a little more expensive than the other comunidades, especially so in Barcelona itself. But if you’re after a more cosmopolitan experience, this is the place for you!

Probability: 6/10

Ceuta and Melilla

Where: North coast of Morocco
Weather: Hot
Dialect: No (though strong Arabic presence)
Visited: No

Despite the fact that I lived in Tetouan for an entire summer last year, I never did visit Ceuta. For one reason or another, something always came up to stop me going. Which is a shame, really: as the Spanish territories go, they’re pretty unique. Expect a very Moroccan vibe, with the North African kingdom literally within a stone’s throw at any given moment. If it weren’t for their size and the general cost and difficulty in getting to and from them if I ever wanted to travel, I’d probably sign up right away. It would, at the very least, give me an excuse to keep my Arabic polished. Most of the placements are in the two cities, though, which is a bit of a turn-off for me.

Probability: 4/10

Extremadura

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Where: West
Weather: Hot/cold
Dialects: No
Visited: Yes

Of course, I could always stay put, but ask for a more northerly location: specifically, the green hills of Cáceres. There’s no denying Extremadura is by far my favourite region, and with good reason: it’s wild, it’s still relatively undiscovered, it’s lacking in other guiris and the people are some of the friendliest I’ve ever met. Plus, La Vera. Plus, Hornachos. Plus, the book. Heck, I’d stay just to be closer to Tasha and Miguel, who were pivotal in my return to Villafranca this year. With its welcoming vibe and its off-the-wall auxiliares, it’d be my top recommendation to anybody, though I’d concede you have to be prepared to be out in the sticks to be here. For me, however, it’s something of a safe option, and I’d much rather use this chance whilst I have it to explore some more of my grandfather’s beautiful country. Even if Extremadura is the best. Period. I’ll be coming back to this place for the rest of my life.

Probability: 7/10

Galicia

Where: Northwest
Weather: Cold
Dialects: Gallego (official language)
Visited: No

It rains a lot. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s look at Galicia. Galicia is the Ireland of Spain, where the country’s Celtic roots are strongest. I mean, when their folk bands deliberately cover songs made famous by The Corrs, the ties are hard to miss. Galicia is about as far from the Spanish south as you can get on the mainland, in both distance and culture. Gallego is a thing, but I’m not above learning a new language. The word on the street is that the auxiliar programme there is one of the best in the country, if not the best. That, combined with the cheapness of living and otherworldliness that this region offers, make it the standout competitor for my attention this time around. And I never thought I’d consider it, which makes it all the more appealing. After all, I had no idea what or where Extremadura was, once upon a time. I’d very much like Galicia to be my next miraculous discovery.

Probability: 9/10

Islas Baleares

Where: Mediterranean Sea
Weather: Hot
Dialects: Catalan
Visited: No

Mallorca, Menorca and Ibiza. Party destinations in summer… and for the rest of the year? Well, EasyJet and Ryanair are always offering such cheap flights that there must be something to do there in January… right? If it weren’t for the fact that they’re islands, I might seriously consider the Baleares. But I like having room to manoeuvre, and I don’t know whether I’d feel trapped on an island. Plus, they speak a lot of Catalan there. Once again, I wish I’d not gone chasing Persian down the rabbit hole.

Probability: 2/10

Islas Canarias

Where: Off the west coast of Morocco
Weather: Hot
Dialects: No
Visited: No

First things first: it’s quite a long way from Spain. The Canary Islands, like the Baleares, can seem a very remote posting. Cheap flights are readily available to the UK and elsewhere, thanks to a steady flow of tourists, but I’m not sure I’d be thrilled if I were posted there – not least of all because it’s quite difficult to distance yourself from the touristic side, upon which the Canary Islands depend. I wouldn’t mind going in search of the islands’ Houbara bustards though, or taking a stroll in the misty laurel forests of the Garajonay National Park.

Probability: 3/10

La Rioja

Where: North
Weather: Warm
Dialects: No
Visited: No

I’m going to be perfectly honest. I know next to nothing about La Rioja, except for the fact that it’s a small region with a justifiable fame for its wine. Given its positioning, I expect it’s a little more pricey than what I’m used to, but don’t hold me to that. I’ll leave you to discover La Rioja in my stead.

Probability: 2/10

Madrid

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Where: Central
Weather: Hot
Dialects: No
Visited: Yes

One word. No. The surrounding countryside of Madrid is unquestionably beautiful, no doubt about that, but I would rather leave the country than work in Madrid itself. As cities go, Madrid’s not so bad, but I’m a country boy; cities are for visiting, not for living in. Auxiliares posted in Madrid earn 1000€ instead of the usual 700€ to compensate for the higher living costs and also work 16 hours per week instead of 12, though after calculating the going rate for private lessons and such, I don’t half wonder whether that’s entirely fair – or even financially viable. No; for me, Madrid is just too big a move. I’d recommend the Sierra de Guadarrama, El Rey León and the Parque del Retiro, though (pictured).

Probability: 1/10

Murcia

Where: Southeast
Weather: Hot
Dialects: No
Visited: No

This year’s auxiliares are complaining about the fact we haven’t been paid for October and November yet. If what I’ve heard about Murcia is true, the auxiliares posted there are never paid on time. Murcia is one of Spain’s hidden gems: like Aragón and Extremadura, it often gets overlooked because it has more glamorous neighbours that have more of what it has and better. In Murcia’s case, that’s Valencia and Andalucía. I know a few lovely people from Murcia and I’d love to visit one day, but as year on year it becomes a larger wing of Almeria’s enormous European greenhouse, I find myself drawn to the greener, wilder parts of Spain.

Probability: 4/10

Navarra

Where: North
Weather: Cold
Dialects: No
Visited: No

A former kingdom in its own right (which, you could argue, is an accolade held by most of the Spanish realms), Navarra sits at the feet of the Pyrenees as a less extreme though equally wondrous region in the Spanish north. A friend of mine was based in Tudela last year and had a great time there, so it seems to be to be a good place to work. Like the Canary Islands, it’s also more popular with Brits than Americans, so expect less encounters with scotch tape, candies and Fall. It’s also rather well situated, allowing easy access to several of Spain’s more attractive destinations.

Probability: 6/10

País Vasco

Where: North
Weather: Cold
Dialects: Basque
Visited: Yes

The Basque Country got a positive makeover recently in the film Ocho Apellidos Vascos and its sequel, not doing away with but helping to redirect attention from the ETA bombings of the past to the more attractive aspects of Basque culture. If the Catalans are independent, it’s nothing compared to the Basques, whose regional language – Euskera – is so far removed from Spanish that it feels as though you’ve skipped five countries rather than one region. Situated in the industrial north, the Basque Country plays host to much of Spain’s industry (just look at all the Basque banks), and is therefore afforded a more affluent lifestyle. That makes it more expensive, which is a drawback, but many would argue it’s worth it. The Basques are, after all, the stuff of legend…

Probability: 5/10

Valencia

Where: East
Weather: Hot
Dialects: Valencian
Visited: No

There’s a good deal more to Valencia than the corruption and the coast, even if that is the image most people have. I’ve never made it to El Cid’s triumphal city, it never having been quite on my radar, and though I have many friends who have been up and down the coast, I’ve never quite felt the pull to go. Another more costly region, Valencian – a variant of Catalan – is widely spoken here, though Spanish is also used in its capacity as the kingdom’s official language. It played a large role in the expulsion of the Moriscos though, and that’s something I’d like to look into, albeit over a short period of time. Maybe for holidays, but for me, not for work.

Probability: 3/10

I’m more or less decided on the northwest, but I’m still open to ideas. Now that Senegal is an option for language assistant placements, it’s that little bit harder to say no to the world beyond Spain (that would have turned my world upside down if it had been an option in my second year. I would very probably have dropped Arabic, studied French and continued to wing it with Spanish). However, a promise is a promise, and I’m determined to do what I can to become truly fluent in Spanish, however long it takes, wherever it leads me.

The deadline for next year is 12th February 2018. I have a couple of months to decide. BB x