Companeros

 It is Palm Sunday. I have declared it a half day holiday, and I am studying a cup of tea, seeing how long I can make it last.

I am feeling a little lost. The half day holiday has meant saying good-bye to six men and a woman whom I had not met this time last Sunday.  I know most of their forenames.  I know none of their surnames. One is German, three are French, probably three are Swiss. The other woman and her husband are walking the camino together, two of the men, a man and his brother-in-law had also planned to walk this together, the rest of us are all solo.

For all that our acquaintance has been short, it feels like saying goodbye to long time friends.  On the second day of meeting together in the evening I was beginning to wonder whether we would become friends at all. The men were sitting enjoying beers and crisps, a very self contained lot.  I had just discovered the only chance of shops and a meal was a kilometre back the way we had come. It was clear they had planned to cook together in the albergue. I was not feeling very happy.

Oh well, you have to start somewhere.  Did anyone want anything from the store?  I was going back. No nothing thank you.  No wait, could you get me a banana?

But of course. So I went back the kilometre. I got provisions for the next day, enough food to keep going. No bananas; I nearly got my fellow peregrino a platano, which he might not have enjoyed. Then to the bar for dinner.  But it was shut, until 8:00pm, far too late for a sleepy peregrina. Back to the shop where the storekeeper pointed me to a selection of microwave meals.

I arrived back at the albergue as the French contingent was about to dish up. I did not want to delay my dinner.  What to do? I microwaved my chicken and offered to share it.  The offer was declined, but a plate was placed before me, and a spoon and fork, pasta was heaped upon it.  A glass appeared, and there was wine. I shared some dried fruit by way dessert. 

Sharing, the bedrock foundation of friendship. It requires both the giver and the receiver, and sets fastest when each play both roles.

Not strangers from then on, though we walked on separately for the most part during the day, only meeting up at night. They kept an eye out for me, evidently the weakest and most inexperienced and were visibly relieved when I stumped in in the afternoons after the rest had settled in.  I acquired (by consent) the nickname of La Tortuga, being considerably slower than the others.

The highlight of our time together was an extraordinary “pilgrim menu” dinner. Most pilgrim menus are Basic. Nourishing, cheap, and good for walking. This one in every respect would have been a contender for stars at Michelin. Four courses, the wine flowed, and then the coffee and the liqueurs.

And then came the bill. It was presented to us as a challenge - the date in Roman numerals. VIII.IV.MMXXII. Maybe leave off the year, but what could 84 be? Euros? Per person? Possibly.

No, for the seven of us. 

A table set before us, one we won’t forget, confirming in shared food and wine that we have shared far more than that, a meal shared somehow by eight rather than seven, for the Setter was there himself, and became one of us.

And now it is to be done again, new companeros.  Where will they be from? What will they be like. I don’t find it easy, those first steps of sharing, but that is the job to be studied here on the Way and every bit as much a part of it as putting one foot in front of the other.

I must now get back down this impressive hill and sign in to the albergue, and possibly meet my new friends.