Angel y Las Huertas de Huarte

Angel on his way to his huerta in Huarte...

Une histoire en anglais...

Cliquez sur la photo pour la chanson d'Angel...

Angel is seventy-nine years old, and twice a week he walks seven kilometres through Pamplona's secret riverside park to buy vegetables from his favourite "Huerta" (market garden) in Huarte.

Then he walks the seven kilometres home.

Sometimes, although very rarely, his path crosses that of a peregrino.

Mostly, the pilgrims follow the yellow arrows and scallop shells, down the valley for two days from Roncesvalles and Zubiri. As Navarran rurality gives way suddenly to the Pamplonan metropolis, the Way climbs over one last, end-of-afternoon hillside, then into Trinidad or Burlada.

On that late October day of 2015, we chose the path less travelled, and followed the river instead. We were led through a tunnel of yellow leaves to the main street of Huarte.

"Me llamo Amaya", says the young girl who is carrying the school satchel. We ask her if she knows of a hotel within walking distance. "A la izquierda, abajo", she says with a smile. Dodging the afternoon traffic, we pause outside a taberna, and check that we are on the right track by asking two hefty, inebriated locals who are in the company of a dog which is scraping its arse along the pavement. Our interlocutorios  have three good eyes between them.
"Si, si, abajo"
They concur, nodding and pointing profusely in the direction of the cross-eye.

The hotel turns out to be a gem. Just opposite, but somehow nestling in the Spanish peri-urban vastness, is a gigantic, near-deserted space-age shopping mall, next to a bustling Repsol petrol station. Adjacent to our abode is a three-storey Chinese discount emporium with the unlikely Navarran name of "Mega Wang".
Laura, on the reception desk, took one look at our walking boots and smiled a Camino smile. She then allotted  to us, for the price of an average B & B, a luxury room overlooking the river.

After ensaladas mixtas, a bottle of free Mega Wang tinto, and a relaxing night's sleep, sporting new Mega Wang socks, we headed back through town, looking for yellow arrows.

Within five minutes we had, inevitably, got lost in the labyrinthine and deserted morning calles of Huarte.

And, this being El Camino, after six minutes, something happened.

Bill Bryson calls it "Trail Magic". Over the years, we've just taken to saying "Es el Camino".

We met Angel. Perhaps five foot two, wearing smart green corduroy walking trousers, steel-rimmed specs and a black woolly hat against the last of the morning's crispness.

The first hour or so of that Friday morning unfolded into conversation.

Angel said:
"Me voy por aqui".

We followed him down a set of stone steps into the other world of the riverside walkways.

And then he  told us:

"I was born in 1937. We were eight children. For most of my formative years, and then for much of my adult life, I knew only life under Franco. My eldest brother turned into a Nacionalista, but my abuela, my grandmother, had been a great Republicana. We were a working-class family; obradores. We never spoke of politics at home."

He told us that nearly all of the pilgrims followed the Camino through the built-up barrios of Burlada and Villava.

"Aqui, esta mejor, en los parques. Hay solo unos bicis"

It was a glorious morning. Deep blue sky, autumn warmth.

"Hay el rio, las huertas"

Yes. And the backdrop of the mountains we'd walked down from during these past three days.

"We live better these days than...before. But Rajoy has done very little in five years. The Partido Popular is mainly influenced by the big familias catolicas who have their roots in the Franco years. There will be elections soon. Perhaps Podemos will bring forward ideas about sharing of wealth? But we shall have to see."
We spoke of grandchildren, priorities, friendship. Navarran cooking. He gave us his recipe for "patatas con Borraja".

Perils of bilingual signs...

The five kilometres just evaporated with the morning cool. It was going to be a warm, sunny day.
We parted company with a handshake for me, a besito for Shirl, and the feeling that we'd know Angel all of our lives.
We'd like to see him again. No doubt we shall seek out our Angel on our next foray to Pamplona.
As the saying goes: "The road to Santiago is paved with good distractions".

Eat yer heart out, Monsieur Proust...

The pedestrian sign indicated "Puente de la Magdalena 30 minutos". The main Camino re-joined the riverside path there.

We'd have been there in half an hour, if we hadn't met... Señor Sanchez. One year older than Angel, but this time our encounter would be anything but Angelic...

Now click on Angel in the first pic of this story for a Bridge Song treat...