**New Feature!**
Where am I?
Entry 31, December 25th,
2011
Merry Christmas!
The
family is at home right now (almost exactly right now, actually)
opening presents and eating breakfast. I just crested the top of the
pass on the way to the monastery of San Juan de Ortega. We may not
stop there, because it's probably closed – Agés
is the next city. We'll see.
I'm so glad to
be here, even though I'm missing Christmas.
We passed
through an old forest on the way up the mountain. In the stark
winter light, the trees are black and white splinters, crackling in
the brisk air. Fragile brown moss covers everything and crumbles to
dust between the fingers, draped over branches and stone alike. The
only green is a bit of long bladed grass and the clusters of pines
scattered here and there. A hint of red bubbles through the
undergrowth – stinging nettles.
An old, twisted
forest – a muted palate of browns, grays, and reds. The clay is
laced with frost underfoot. Winter in Spain.
Expenses, Day 31
Albergue,
Dinner Menu, Breakfast (Agés):
20.00
Total: 20.00
Trip Total:
705.83
The albergue at
the monastery was closed, so we moved on. I did stop and take a look
inside the basilica, though. It is not every day that one has a
basilica to themselves on Christmas.
San Juan Ortega
is mostly in the Romanic style, with a huge Gothic sepulchre in the
middle. Everything was in white stone – with the brilliant,
washed-out winter light coming in it was quite beautiful and
absolutely quiet, like a forest after a snowfall. I sat in front of
the tomb of San Juan de Ortega – a plain, unadorned thing (1080 –
1163), and lit a candle.
Who would have
guessed a year ago that I would be here adventuring, visiting the
tombs of saints and sleeping in caves!
I could have
asked for no better Christmas present than an afternoon of quiet
moments, and that's what I got. There was a hill later with a meadow
and a scattering of old oak trees that I sat under for a while. It is nice to know that there
are still quiet places in the world, places beyond McDonald's and
the internet . . . places with meadows and oak trees.
I crossed the ridge to see Agés,
pop. 50, nestled in the valley below. The albergue is a maze of warm
rooms and good smells – the last of the family have been departing
throughout the evening from last night's Christmas dinner. We have a
big pan of paella to look forward to, the eight of us. It will be
good after today's 28km.
To read: “The
Art of Possibility,” Benjamin Sander
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