Eli Wallach and Clint Eastwood at the Sad Hill cemetery in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. In this scene Spain played the role of New Mexico. Image from here (accessed 12/17/2021).
Tortilla Westerns: Walking the Set of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly
Spaghetti Westerns made Clint Eastwood, but Spain made the Spaghetti Western.* Perhaps they should be called Tortilla Westerns?
Case in point: the iconic final showdown in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly (1966) was filmed in the hills near Burgos, just ten miles from our path. The fictitious "Sad Hill Cemetery" remains there to this day, a pilgrimage site for Eastwood aficionados (See the brief video linked here if that includes you). On this particular day, however, it was a detour our legs couldn't justify. It was just as well; we were busy having some good, bad, and ugly experiences of our own.
We left Nájera after a rough night, stepping out of the country’s stuffiest hostel at 5:30 AM. Despite the early start, it was a glorious morning as the sun pushed off the horizon into a crisp blue sky. The trail cut through the bluffs of the Río Najerilla basin, leading us across gently rolling grasslands punctuated by vineyards and isolated stands of wood.
An important civic monument marks the exit of the town of Azofra. It appears as a scroll rising from the ground.
The Never-Ending Monologue: A Trailside “Showdown”
Somewhere along the way, "Talking Woman" joined us. A middle-aged American trekking solo, she had apparently been stockpiling a sprawling narrative for just such an occasion. She unleashed a stream-of-consciousness monologue that bounced from last night’s chorizo and saffron rice to a soured high school friendship, the habits of speckled birds, the ethics of eating rabbit stew (ugh, can you believe people eat rabbits?!), and so forth and so on. I nodded like a dashboard bobblehead until my neck ached. Her stamina was incredible; I kept expecting her to inhale or pass out all blue and gaspy.
Neither happened.
Bob looked over at me. I could see the pleading in his eyes. What could I do? Pick up the pace? Sprint? Fake a collapse of my own? There was no escape!
Talking Woman fell into the quiet company of Bob and Mark on a road without end.
As we approached the village of Cirueña, a plan formed in my mind. We had a bit of left-over grocery in the pack. I interrupted Talking Woman with the “(Sigh) Well-this-sure-has-been-fun,-but-we’ll-see-you-later-because-we-need-to-stop-and-eat-our-lunch-right-now” goodbye. “Buen Camino!”
It didn’t work.
“No problem. I can eat with you.”
The three of us sat down on a bench beside the trail. As we munched bread and cheeses, another solo traveler approached. He was a lean, muscley man with no shirt. His skin was tanned from the sun and covered in tattoos and maybe a few scars.
“Gooddaye,” he nodded. He had a Welsh accent.
Talking Woman suddenly went silent.
We exchanged a few pleasantries then he pushed off.
After he was beyond earshot, Talking Woman erupted afresh and told us that this man had been in the hostel she had stayed at last night and had scared everyone to death practicing lunges and punches and high kicks in the yard, and then, if that wasn’t enough, he flashed this huge knife at dinner and laughed like a maniac while the rest of us were shocked by the sheer size of the knife and the thought that he probably did prison time for killing somebody.
It was one horrible thought. It got me thinking about an encounter with Mad Jac MacKnife in a lonely canyon, or worse, having him occupy the bunk below me with nothing but a thin mattress separating my stomach from his blade.
Of course, the Camino had a reputation for absolution and clemency. Still, we shuddered.
After lunch, Talking Woman accompanied us as far as the next village, Santo Domingo de la Calzada. There, she abruptly said goodbye and scurried off in the direction of a nice hotel.
Encouragement may be found in odd places: “Don’t stop walking.”
Escape from Grañón: Facing Mad Jac MacKnife
Bob and I recovered in the sanctity of silence. We just walked and thought. We aimed to make one more village before calling it a day.
The rising wind whistled across swaths of brittle-brown grass. The stalks bent as it passed. A thunderstorm brewed to our west. The hinges on a old gate squealed somewhere. It was a scene straight out of High Plains Drifter.
The trail took us to the village of Grañón, a lonely place with a few hundred residents. It was perched on a hill and centered on an old church house, the Hospital de peregrinos San Juan Bautista (or the “Saint John the Baptist Pilgrims’ Hospital”). The “hospital” was highly recommended in the guidebook for its close communal experience.
We signed in and went upstairs. There we found an attic room where plastic-covered pilgrim mats lined the wooden floor. Laundry lines stretched across the space and into the adjacent belfry. Clothespins swung slowly from ropes as the rising air outside moved through the creaking structure. Bob and I chose our mats, positioned them under the rafters, and deposited our stuff.
Outside, it was gusting. Ragged clouds filled the blue sky.
Scenes from Grañón.
We thought it best to resupply before the rain hit, so we went to the grocery. On the way back, we ran into Kay, an old trail buddy and teacher from Oklahoma City. She was on the way out of our hostel, wide-eyed and shaking.
“He’s in there” she hissed.
“Who"?”
“The Welshman with the knife! He’s threatening people. I’m not staying here.”
Bob and I looked at each other for a moment, then ran upstairs to the attic space.
Mad Jac MacKnife crouched on the mat RIGHT BESIDE MINE! He didn’t raise his head or speak.
We packed our things with trembling hands and tried to look casual. We moved deliberately to the stairs, and once clear of the landing, sprinted out into the rain-dark streets of Grañón.
¡Buen Camino!
We have a full slate of Bible Land trips ready to launch in 2022. Check out a complete list by clicking here or peruse under the heading “Find your Trip.” For more information on how to join one of these trips or if you are interested in helping to craft a unique trip for your own group, church, or school, contact me at markziese@gmail.com.