#Pilgrimage in #Terror Day 4

Day Four: Within a Tradition. Burguete to Zubiri (20km).  

Vue de Bizkarreta-Gerendiain.

‘The Navarrese fornicate shamelessly with their beasts, and it is said that a Navarrese will put a padlock on his she-mule and his mare lest another man should get at them. He also libidinously kisses the vulva of a woman or a she-mule.’

So wrote Aimery Picaud of Poitou, a French clergyman who made the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela in the twelfth century. Afterwards, he wrote a guidebook to the route, in which he criticises just about every Spaniard he meets. But the people of Navarre, where I am walking now, are the most sexually depraved, according to him. (How did he find that out?)

My path led out of the hills and down into the river valley to pass through Viscarret. Viscarret was grand enough in the twelfth century to be a major staging post for Aimery Picaud, between St. Jean Pied de Port and Pamplona. Since then it has steadily lost importance. There are no modern buildings in Viscarret. The yellow churches and the great houses of stone and carved timber decompose gently amid striped vegetable gardens.

It was time for lunch and the eternal hope of potatoes. A sign saying Cafe Bar pointed through a bead-hung doorway. I pushed through the tassels only to retreat as a dog snarled and leaped about in the shadows. People of different ages were standing about or sitting at a small kitchen table. They motioned me to go round to the other entrance. Fine. But why have the sign pointing straight in through that door if it isn’t the entrance?

The other door was on the piazza of the village. Germans sat out in the sun like ripening tomatoes. I took my English complexion indoors. I was full of hope. I heard sounds of cooking in the kitchen, could smell frying. A young woman eventually came to the bar in this small, dark room. She was slim, with black hair but looked as though she hadn’t slept for weeks, perhaps had never slept. This look – the sallow face and shadowed eyes – was to haunt the village bars that I passed through. All that lovelife, taking its toll.

‘Habla usted patatas?’ I asked.

She called through a door to the kitchen which was out of my sight and, after some discussion back and forth, she replied that No, there were no potatoes. I presumed the smells of cooking must therefore be for the family and the savage dog and enquired if there was a restaurant in the village. Yes, across the road, she said.

I went out and found an impressive mansion with a sign saying restaurant and delicious smells of vegetables being fried. I strode in happily. In a little room to the right an old lady and an old man were preparing an elaborate lunch. ‘A meal?’ I asked, salivating.

‘No, we are closed,’ said the old lady, regretfully.

‘It smells so good,’ I tried.

They laughed with pleasure at the compliment and then waited for me to leave.

I was back with sallow-face behind the bar. We were no longer friends. Why on earth had she directed me to a restaurant that she must have known was closed? It was moon-faced idiocy. With resignation I ordered a sandwich, and crisps for my potato content, and a bag of pistachios and sat down at a brown formica table. The thinly sliced processed cheese arrived in its white baguette, speckled with blue spots of mould. I tried to comfort myself with the pistachios and grew a mountain of shells on my table top in the shadows.

From my corner I perceived that three men had come in and places were being laid for them. They even had a checked paper table cloth. A soup appeared, along with half a carafe of wine. The soup course passed and pieces of chicken appeared, together with salad and – !

I rose from my table, a fountain of pistachio shells cascading in all directions but as nothing compared with my incandescent indignation. I stretched out my arm to the enviable gobbling men and summoned my finest Spanish to the fore:

‘Senora! These are potatoes!’

At which the dark eyes flashed. ‘But that is a menu! Did you want a menu? You should have said. Do you want a menu?’

‘Well not now,’ I said, no longer bothering to speak Spanish. ‘Not after I’ve already eaten a mouldy sandwich, a pack of greasy crisps and 500 grammes of pistachios!’

She understood exactly the tone of my words and gestures and began a tirade, the words flashing across the little room like jumping fish. I remembered the woman in Espinal who had hurled my shopping basket across the minimart, eyed the bottles behind her, and decided it was best to leave.

May the name of Viscarret be remembered forever….

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