The morning brought news of great sadness. My cousin Ann Richardson's husband Darryl died. He was a great gentle man, full of kindness, quiet humor, and enough sense of adventure to take up flying. Ann, her boys and all of the rest of the family, both immediate and extended are in grief. Ann's pain and loss, well they bring tears to my eyes.
In the late afternoon yesterday, we walked out of the rural hills to the edge of a small park near a village. There a man got out of his car and approached us speaking rapid Spanish. We used our handy Spanish phrase, "No hablo Espanol." He immediately brought out a typed up (in 3 languages!) Advertisement for his pension--15€ per person double room and breakfast. We said sure, he said 5K further and called ahead to notify someone. Well that was 5 Spanish K or 8 Camino (not road) K, but we got there. He took us to the third floor of his house where he has 4 double rooms and a bath. It looked to us as if he and his daughter and granddaughter lived on floor 2 and rented out floor 3 nightly. Nice and tidy and since he did not sign us in or take our passports---off the books.
The mornings between the mountains and the sea have been very overcast. The clouds collect up high on the mountains, sometimes completely covering the tops. I told Pete that it looked like Sinai and I would have tell Bob Levy that we'd found Moses' resting place; he was still deeply involved in discussions with Adonai here in Northern Spain.
The Camino wandered through forests and fields all morning. At one point I saw the moon setting over the mountains. Despite the sorrow I carried over my cousin, I couldn't help but sing aloud. The fields were green and lush. The lanes were cool. The sky was breaking into blue. The sea was shimmering. God was alive and magic was afoot.
The next large town was Ribadesella (about 11K from our pension). We wanted to stop for our morning coffee about an hour before we finally arrived, but such is the life of the vagabond--you become adept at taking what comes because that is what is. As we sat in the bar near the town square, we started talking with a Spanish guy who had attended Georgia (Bulldogs) in the 80s. He was quite nostalgic for the 'freedom' he felt as the tall dark exotic Spainard among the Georgia peaches. We moved on into the sun of the square to enjoy our fruit (when you are sweat soaked, shade and a breeze quickly become chilly). As we sat a 70 something woman sweetly asked, "Peregrinos?" When we replied, 'yes', she said she was French and waiting there in the square for her husband who was cycling the Camino. She drove the car from place to place and waited for him. Her words nearly knocked me over with their tenderness. I thought of my own wife, how she will await me in Santiago, and I had a moment of loneliness as deep and sharp as any on my Camino. I so await the moment when I can hold her, and this journey on the Camino and a women's tenderness in a town square make me want to be the kind of husband who, if I can't share some part of my wife's adventure, waits patiently to welcome her tenderly home.
Buen Camino.
Today I shared anguish and loss with my cousin, Ann. I shared burdens and joys with 2 of the finest Christian women I know--Helen B and Heidi G.
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