Victoria Castillo

Tag: Estella

Camino de Santiago – Days 9-10: Estella to Viana

Day 9: Estella → Los Arcos (21.4 km)

I was startled awake in the donativo that night by a noise and voices. I thought maybe someone had fallen out of bed, but decided it was none of my business and promptly fell back asleep.

In the morning the vibe was not good. The disturbance in the night wasn’t someone falling out of bed; it was the scary pilgrim (“la jefa”) purposely waking Michelle up and berating her for snoring, even going so far as to tell her that, since she snores, she should get a private room. I don’t think I need to point out the incredible hypocrisy that took place here.

It is tempting, in the face of this hypocrisy, to get up on a soapbox and become a hypocrite myself. When we were teenagers, I used to use a white noise machine to drown out the sound of my sister breathing at night. So I was surprised to find that, on the Camino, a nightly symphony of snores did not bother me. The reason was simple: I had changed my mindset. I had read and taken to heart the advice of an ancient dead guy by the name of Epictetus. He said this:

“If you intend to engage in any activity, remind yourself what the nature of the activity is. If you are going to bathe, imagine yourself what happens in baths: the splashing of water, the crowding, the scolding, the stealing. And like that, you will more steadily engage in the activity if you frankly say ‘I want to bathe and want to hold my will in accordance with nature’. And do the same for every activity. So if any impediment arises in bathing, readily say ‘I did not only want this, but I also wanted to hold my will in accordance with nature; and I will not hold it like that if I am annoyed about what happens’.”

—Epictetus, Enchiridion

Replace “bathing” with “sleeping in an albergue”, and “the splashing of water” with “snoring” and the 1,800 year-old quote applies perfectly. For anyone who finds this advice to be easier said than done, he also wrote extensively about what is and isn’t in our control, viz. you can only control yourself, not other people. Scary pilgrim couldn’t put Michelle in a private room, but she could have put herself in one. The last thing I’ll say about this is that, for the record, Michelle only snores a little and not loudly. I will now step down from my soapbox and continue the story.

I slipped my donation in the slot and got out of there fast, because I had something important to address. Today was Archer’s twelfth birthday! I didn’t know if I was going to see him and his mom, so I recorded a birthday message in front of the church and stood on the municipal’s doorstep to send it using their Wi-Fi.

On the way out of town there was a slight detour around some road work that took the Camino right past a little café/convenience store. I picked up some zumo de naranja to-go and was surprised that it was half the usual price and had an ice cube in it.

Next up were a couple of attractions so famous even I had heard of them: a blacksmith’s shop and a wine fountain. The blacksmith’s apprentice was practicing his craft right there in front of the shop. The shop is full of interesting souvenirs, as well as larger art pieces. My mom has a shell necklace that she bought there.

Just up the hill from the blacksmith’s is the wine fountain. I didn’t want my water bladder to taste like wine for the rest of the pilgrimage, so I used my shell as a cup. The consensus about the quality was that “it could be better”. Makes sense that they don’t give the good stuff away for free.

It must not have been much later that I first heard the cuckoo bird. When I was a kid my mother had a cuckoo clock (she probably still has it somewhere), and we would occasionally set it and watch the little wooden bird pop out and say, “Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” As I strolled through a section of trail surrounded by grasses and small dense trees, I suddenly heard the exact same sound. I’d never heard one in the wild, so my first fleeting thought was to wonder what a cuckoo clock was doing in the middle of nowhere. My intelligence quickly kicked back in, and I realized that of course it was the real deal. I never saw the bird itself, but I would hear it many more times.

The trail passed through small towns, patches of forest, and fields. As I plodded along by myself with lamb’s wool between my toes, hoping to prevent further blisters, another affliction struck. I sprinted into the woods, jumped into a thorny bush, and dropped my pants mostly in time. I thanked my lucky stars, Jesus, Buddha, and anyone else I could think of that there was no one else around. The only two possible suspects were the wine and the suspiciously cheap iced OJ. The wine had to be ruled out because practically everyone drank it, and the woods weren’t full of spontaneously erupting pilgrims. The water in Spain is perfectly clean and drinkable, so I don’t know where that ice cube came from.

“Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” What was a delightful sound before was now a taunting reminder of the concept of time.

I continued plodding, taking short steps. It wasn’t long before the terrain changed to hilly fields of wheat, grapes, and olive trees; no more woods to sprint into in case of emergency. The California girl who’d just finished college (I can’t remember her name) came along, and we both observed that the hilly vineyards looked a lot like the Murrieta valley. She stopped occasionally to do yoga on the side of the trail. Yoga was the last thing I wanted to do. I kept taking short steps.

“Cuckoo! Cuckoo!”

There’s a common saying that “the Camino provides”. It’s the romantic notion that what you need will come to you. Usually it comes to fruition through pilgrims sharing and helping each other. Other times, much more rarely, the Camino itself provides. My feet got really sore and just when I was lamenting that I’d have to buy new shoes, I came upon a pair of boots next to a trail marker. I tried them on. They were broken in and muddy but not worn out and fit a little more loosely than my shoes. I finished the day in them.

At long last I shuffled into Los Arcos, tired, sore, and unsuspecting that anything might have happened in the world outside of the trail. I poked my head into a nice looking albergue, hoping to get a private room to recover myself in. None were available, and the proprietor was extremely agitated. He told me there was no hot water because the power was out in “all of Spain. And Portugal. And France, and Germany and Sweden! All of Europe!” I remember thinking it odd that he said Sweden. Unconvinced of the truth of his claim, and sensing he needed some space to calm down, I moved on.

I ended up at the municipal, which was a far cry from a private room. The power was out there too except for the fire alarm which no one knew how to turn off. I was checked in by a pair of Dutch hospitaleras who were very calm. They didn’t know the full extent of the blackout, but the rumor was that it covered Spain, Portugal, France and Italy. They did know that the hot water heater wouldn’t work without electricity. I didn’t care; I desperately needed a shower.

At no other time in my life have I found myself thinking about showers more than I did on the Camino. When you carry all your possessions on your back and only have two sets of clothes, things like the number of hooks available become very important. In the shower rankings I created in my head, the municipal albergue in Los Arcos still remains at the bottom. There were two showers facing each other with a shared drain in the center of the floor. Each “stall” had a short, swinging, saloon style door that didn’t reach the wall, let alone lock. There were no hooks. The top of the door curved down so that anything that was hung over it would slide to the floor. The only good thing was that, because everyone had been warned away, there was a little hot water still left. I used it all without remorse. The fire alarm continued blaring throughout.

Clean, but still feeling ill, I dragged myself to the plaza in search of food and to get away from the noise of the fire alarm. I encountered friends looking for the municipal and pointed them towards it. There was only one restaurant that I was every aware of, and apparently they had electric stoves. I sat in the plaza and listened to the rumors escalate. When I was tired of political conspiracy theories and foreboding predictions of World War III, I went into the church. It was beautiful. The ceiling was painted with magnificent murals in a light, calming color palette.

Teresa and Archer found me sitting on a bench outside the church staring into space. I tried to put some cheer into my voice when I wished Archer happy birthday, but I’m afraid I didn’t do a very good job. I think he said this would have been the worst birthday ever if he didn’t happen to be in Spain. At the very least, I’m sure it’s one he’ll never forget.

I told everyone I was going to rest for a little while and then come back to scrounge for dinner. Back at the municipal, someone had finally figured out how to shut off the fire alarm. I meant to lay down just for a few minutes. At 9:00 pm I woke up and decided to go back to sleep.

Day 10: Los Arcos → Viana (18.33 km)

I felt lousy in the morning. Eleven hours of sleep still wasn’t enough for my body to recover. The power was back. I never did find out what had caused the blackout, but I ruled out World War III and continued the Camino.

I trudged to the first town, trying in vain to force myself to enjoy the beautiful scenery along the way. The so-called town didn’t have much going on. There was one tiny café in which I got the last croissant. I went into the bathroom and the lights turned out on me, leaving me in complete darkness. At first I thought it was another blackout, but eventually, by aimlessly feeling around, I found the switch and the light came back on. I’d been a victim of the notorious automatic lights they seemed to use everywhere.

Michelle was waiting for a bus. I didn’t want to, but I had to make the call to join her or I was going to hurt myself. Any illusions I’d had of being a purist and walking every meter to Santiago were gone.

No regrets. The buses in Spain are way nicer and cheaper than back in the States. The driver asked if we were going to Viana. I didn’t know anything about it but said yes anyway. My blind trust in the universe paid off. It turned out to be a great little town with good energy and lots of history. There are ruins to explore and Cesar Borgia’s tomb is there. We found a nice albergue and had a good lunch right where we could wish pilgrims “buen camino” as they passed through.

Back at the albergue, I realized I’d left my soap (including my mom’s fancy little dry bag) in the horrible shower in Los Arcos. Oops. It did give me the opportunity to use the little soap and bag that the nice Korean pilgrim with all new gear had given me in Pamplona. The Camino provides.

There were a couple of pilgrims talking about paragliding and when they found out I was a pilot that’s all they wanted to talk about. I found myself quickly getting bored, so I begged off to run errands. There was a good hiking store in town where I bought another pair of toe socks to fight blisters and a souvenir pin.

Then I went to the cathedral, walking right over Cesar Borgia to get in. Inside it had beautiful muralled ceilings similar to the church in Los Arcos, only bigger with multiple rooms. I attended mass, which was in one of the smaller rooms, and thought I was the only pilgrim there. The priest called the pilgrims up at the end and there were three others. He gave us each a pilgrim blessing and asked where we were from. He was very jovial and when I told him I’m from California he laughed and said, “I’ve seen the movies!”

Dinner was a pilgrim meal at the albergue of soup and pasta. I went straight to sleep afterwards, hoping to be back to 100% health in the morning.

July 9, 2025
Camino de Santiago – Days 6-8: Pamplona to Estella

Day 6 – Pamplona → Puente la Reina (23.65 km)

A pilgrim who had stayed at the donativo the week before painted this map on the wall.

Breakfast in the convent donativo was less communal with everyone going about their own business and leaving in their own time. I was among the last to leave and could barely hold back my tears. Part of me wanted to stay in this happy, comfortable place.

Eunseok walked with me the entire day. He even helped me find the post office so I could ship the botas I had bought ahead to Santiago. Once that was taken care of, we hopped back on the Camino and followed it out of the city. We made a pact to be very minimal and eat cheap grocery store food for the next couple days to make up for having spent way too much money in Pamplona.

Walking out on the busy boulevard, I finally realized that we pilgrims stuck out like sore thumbs in our hiking clothes and giant backpacks. Grandmothers wheeling strollers pointed us out to the children and explained enthusiastically that we were walking to Santiago de Compostela. They didn’t have to ask.

The locals all know exactly where the Camino runs too, so if you lose track of the trail markers, all you have to do is ask the nearest Spaniard and they’ll point you in the right direction. Later, I heard stories of pilgrims who didn’t realize they’d taken a wrong turn somewhere being chased down and redirected back to the Camino. This magic of human way-pointing even works if there seems to be nobody around. All you have to do is spin around three times and a Spaniard, usually an old man, will sprout from the earth and point the way. This is exactly what happened to me and Eunseok in a small town on the outskirts of Pamplona. We found ourselves at a fork and couldn’t find a yellow arrow. We spun around in bewilderment and suddenly, there he was, an old man pointing the way and wishing us “buen camino!”

Eunseok AKA Jacob by a way marker that says “Jacob’s Way”.

Once we were out of the city the way markers were easy to spot. The terrain became rolling hills covered in crops and pilgrims passing on bicycles became a frequent occurrence. I remembered some good advice Michelle had told me, which she’d been taught when she started the PCT: every once in a while turn around and look at where you’ve been. As we worked our way up in the hills, I turned around and saw the Pyrenees in the distance behind the city, and there was snow on the peaks.

This was the first warm, sunny day and incidentally the first with no shade. The incline got steeper and we caught up with Teresa and Archer. Archer listened to music to keep himself in the zone for the uphill climb.

Thanks to Teresa for this photo!

The trail took us up to a ridge lined with wind turbines and some famous steel statues of pilgrims walking. Other pilgrims were there resting in a little sliver of shade cast by a monument. They managed to make room for all four of us to sit.

Alto de Perdón (Hill of Forgiveness)

The rest of the way was downhill among loose rocks and then fairly flat along fields of crops, the edges of which were dotted with wild, red poppies. The only shade was one big tree that was emitting tufts of cotton-like pollen that floated away on the breeze. Just beyond it was a rolling field of luscious green—I later learned that it was wheat—that completely mesmerized me and Eunseok. He said he wanted to float on top of it and I agreed. There were also spectacular fields of yellow flowers, which I later learned was rape seed (used to make canola oil). Other fields contained a crop with white flowers, which I still haven’t identified.

The unfortunately-named rape seed flowers.

Mystery crop. Leave a comment if you know what this is.

As the day wore on, it got hotter and hotter; I got more and more tired; and Eunseok got more and more sunburned. We trudged through several small towns, each replete with upscale houses and no people to be seen except for the occasional handyman. I surmised that the owners must go to work in the city during the day. Each town had at least one fountain with potable water which I took advantage of to refill my water bladder and splash myself to cool down. We passed Michelle who’d stopped for a refreshing beer.

Passing through the town of Muruzábal.

Funky statues are not an uncommon site along the Camino.

Arrival in Puente la Reina was a relief. There was a tiny park with shady trees right outside of the municipal albergue, and we flopped down on the grass for a brief rest before checking in. There we saw an unexpected sight. On the Camino, certain pilgrims become famous. There’s something interesting about them that makes them stand out from the rest. They’re discussed and conjectured about, and if you happen to have seen them everyone wants to hear what you found out. The pilgrim we saw in the little park wasn’t just famous among pilgrims; I’d go so far as to say he had legendary status. He was a Frenchman who had started from his house, as per tradition; he had already walked to Santiago and was now walking all the way back home. He also had two dogs and a goat walking with him. Neither the dogs nor the goat were on leashes. They were resting on the grass like we were and when the man was ready to go he called the dogs to him and they patiently let him strap their packs on their backs. Then the whole entourage headed off towards France—with the goat leading the way! I was too tired and awestruck to remember to take a photo, but I swear it’s all true.

We checked into the municipal albergue and found more friends already there: Anastasia, Jack, and Johnny. Anastasia was on her way to take a dip in the river and invited me to join her. I had to decline on account of being in serious need of dinner. Our friends recommended a pizza place they’d been to earlier. Eunseok and I went there and found Evannah and Fiona. The best thing about the Camino is running into friends everywhere. It’s almost like living in a small town except that everyone is constantly on the move. You never say goodbye to anyone, only “see you down the trail”. Sometimes you don’t see them again, but more often you do.

We got enough pizza (although not as good as El Dragón Peregrino) to save some for the next day’s lunch. The town was adorable and quaint, like a mini version of the old part of Pamplona. On the way back to the albergue we found Anastasia. Apparently the river was green so she decided not to go in. She did recommend the church, if only to admire the particularly swole statue of Jesus.

As I settled down to sleep on another top bunk covered in disposable sheets, I couldn’t believe it had only been six days since my journey started. I felt like I’d been walking for months, and not just because my feet were hurting. My new friends already felt like old friends.

Day 7: Puente la Reina → Estella (21.99 km)

Crossing the bridge that gives Puente la Reina its name.

In the morning Eunseok wanted to sleep in so I started off by myself. My short little legs had no chance of keeping up with my long legged Pamplona friends. The terrain wasn’t difficult, just one steep hill. The house I grew up in is basically in the bottom of a canyon and you have to walk uphill to get anywhere (i.e. to school), so I found myself able to keep my pace uphill while other pilgrims slowed down. This gave me a satisfying, if false, sense of speed.

The trail passed through fields of wheat and the occasional vineyard. The best view was of a town shining on a hill with a rainbow over it like something out of the Wizard of Oz.

Eunseok, Michelle, and Kim Kimmy caught up to me and we stopped for lunch in that little town. I had thought Kim Kimmy was ahead of us because she hadn’t taken a rest day in Pamplona, but apparently she’d taken one in Puente la Reina instead. I resolved never again to believe I wouldn’t see someone again. I kept to the pact to be frugal by eating the leftover pizza and also found the cheese that I had bought in the Pyrenees in my backpack. I had completely forgotten about it. It was in a vacuum sealed wrapper so it was still good.

Down the trail, Michelle, Kim Kimmy, and I came upon a teepee tucked away in the trees. It was like suddenly being transported back to North America. There was a man there who beckoned for us to come over. As we approached, other pilgrims passed by completely oblivious, as if we’d wandered through a portal into the twilight zone. The man spoke extremely fast Spanish, but I was able to understand and translate everything he said. (This isn’t always the case; his accent was just perfect for my ears.) He told us they do Native American ceremonies regularly there and listed off some familiar ones. I can’t speak to the authenticity of his ceremonies, but even so it was very surprising to come across this in Spain.

Evidence that the teepee wasn’t a hallucination.

Then disaster struck: I got a blister between my toes. Right on the “webbing”. (I don’t have webbed toes, but you know what I mean.) I tried different patches and more Vaseline, but nothing helped. At one point I was wearing a toe sock just on that foot. A nice Canadian couple passed me and gave me some hiker’s wool, which I hadn’t known about. It’s literally tufts of lamb’s wool that you’re supposed to apply to hot spots to take away moisture and prevent full on blisters from forming. I sat down immediately on the ground to put it on, which is how Eunseok found me. He must have been hiding in the bushes because he was ahead of me and I never passed him. He said he’d wait for me in the next town. I started walking and the wool did help—for a while anyway.

The final fate of a pilgrim’s feet.

As promised, he was waiting in what I think was the town of Lorca. I should have found an albergue there and stopped for the day, but I knew everyone else was going to Estella and didn’t want to be left behind. I told Eunseok I’d be ok after a little rest, so he went on ahead.

I was not ok after a little rest. By the time I admitted this to myself, Lorca was too far behind to tempt me to turn around. Determined to stop at the next albergue I came across, I shuffled into the next little town. There were no albergues, just a dreary bar. Michelle was in a similar predicament and we decided the best thing to do was to share a taxi to Estella.

I asked the woman behind the bar to call us a taxi. She stared at me with disdainful, glazed eyes that lacked the energy to fully glare, as if I’d asked her to personally pick me up and carry me to Estella. Eventually she called—or pretended to call—and said the taxi would arrive in 10 minutes. Then she disappeared into the kitchen and didn’t come out again. The taxi never came. A local man offered to drive us, and since we didn’t know what else to do, we accepted. It was only 4 km and he charged us 20 euros. Feeling like suckers, we checked into the municipal albergue and picked up cheap microwavable meals from the grocery store.

Also staying in the municipal were a really nice couple from Minnesota named George and Vinny. Vinny taught me how to treat blisters with a needle and thread. I’m pretty squeamish and generally terrified of all things medical, but Vinny got right in there and threaded me herself. If only I had recognized at the time that this was the one true way to treat blisters, I would have saved myself a lot of pain down the road.

Thank you George and Vinny!

Through the modern magic of WhatsApp, I found out that lots of friends were in the area. Some were a little further ahead or behind and encouraging messages were shared around. My blistered foot demanded that I take another rest day. I became torn between not wanting to be left behind and wanting to wait for those who were trying to catch up. I tried to remind myself that everyone’s Camino is unique and whatever happens is what’s meant to be.

Day 8: Estella

If I thought a morning hanging around in Pamplona was boring, you can imagine how I felt about a smaller town. Nothing was open and nothing was going to open—not even the pharmacy—because it turned out to be Sunday. We got booted out of the albergue at 8:00 am. The options were: café and church. And we still had to wait until 10:00 am for the church to open.

Only one café was open. It was a nice place with a terrace overlooking the river. It was cold out so Michelle and I had a hot breakfast inside. By now I had a go-to order of a napolitana con chocolate with zumo de naranja or a Colacao (or both…ok, usually both.). If you try to order hot chocolate in Spain, they give you a big cup of melted chocolate like you would dip the churros into, so you have to make sure to order Colacao, which is a brand of powdered hot cocoa that they give you in a packet with a cup of hot foamy milk. To say I drank a lot of Colacao on the Camino is a severe understatement.

Look! An old church! You don’t see a different one of those every day…unless you’re on the Camino.

The church was an old church like other old churches and we marveled at its oldness while the organist practiced. I lit a candle for a pilgrim who I knew was struggling a couple day’s walk behind. After that there was nothing to do but wander around and look for an albergue. We found the donativo. It was still an hour before check-in time, but the volunteer hospitaleros let us in anyway and gave us some leftover vegetable soup and bread for lunch. They were two old Spanish men, both named José. One spoke Spanish and a little English, and the other only spoke Catalan. It was a very different vibe from the grandmotherly ladies in Pamplona. They put the pilgrims to work folding sheets or chopping vegetables.

After I finished my laundry shift I hid out on my bunk until dinner. There were separate dorms for men and women, and I felt a big difference in the degree to which I could relax. It’s not that I can’t get comfortable in a co-ed dorm, but they’re smellier, louder, and sometimes it’s nice to be able to change without having to perform acrobatics in your sleeping bag.

Some of the lady roommates were: a jovial Dutch Camino Repeater, a couple of sisters from Brazil, a California girl who’d just finished college, and another girl from California who was now living in Israel. By now some clear Camino demographic patterns had cropped up. The most common nationalities of pilgrims (other than Spanish) were South Korean, Australian, and American, with a high percentage of the Americans being from California. I also met many people from Canada, the Netherlands, France, Germany, the UK, New Zealand, and Taiwan.

Just when I finally felt rested, I emerged to find a loud, frightening scene. A woman was yelling at José in Spanish and ordering him around so vehemently that I thought she must have been his wife. I cockily asked the Dutch lady if this was “la jefa”. She wasn’t, she was the world’s scariest pilgrim. She seemed to believe she was la jefa though and ordered anyone in her path around without hesitation.

I steered clear of her and sat at the other end of the table with the Brazilian sisters, a couple of friendly Korean men, and a polite young Irishman. We had fun conversing in mixed languages. Dinner was bread, salad, and lentil stew with chorizo—all pilgrim meal staples.

I drifted to sleep that night missing the days when I was fresh and my feet didn’t hurt. Suddenly, I was jolted out of a deep sleep by a noise and voices that didn’t sound like they were having fun. Maybe someone had fallen out of bed. My sleepiness far outweighed my curiosity, and I passed out again, leaving it until morning to find out what had happened.

July 7, 2025