Walking the Camino Francés | Camino Downunder

Walk in 12 minutes the 800 km of the Camino Francés

Walking the Camino Francés

Walking the Camino Francés

If you click on these three videos you will “walk” the whole of the Camino Francés in approximately 12 minutes. You will also be introduced to three famous songs and poems from Spain.

1 – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6dgijK2o4b8
2 – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Vlk7hIYOmM
3 – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6dgijK2o4b8

In the first map video between St-Jean-Pied-de-Port and Burgos city after a brief introduction to Basque traditional dance music (just over one minute) you will hear the famous Cantares (translated as “songs”) and first sung by Joan Manuel Serrat in 1969 (poem by Antonio Machado 1875-1939) and known throughout the Spanish speaking world.

Anywhere in Spain and on the Camino de Santiago in particular, if you get talking to a native Spanish speaker quoting only two lines from this poem/song: “Caminante, no hay camino; se hace camino al andar…” Do not be surprised if they then quote back to you and off by heart the whole poem!

Todo pasa y todo queda,
pero lo nuestro es pasar,
pasar haciendo caminos,
caminos sobre la mar.

Nunca perseguí la gloria,
ni dejar en la memoria
de los hombres mi canción;
yo amo los mundos sutiles,
ingrávidos y gentiles,
como pompas de jabón.

Me gusta verlos pintarse
de sol y grana, volar
bajo el cielo azul, temblar
súbitamente y quebrarse.

Nunca perseguí la gloria…

Caminante, son tus huellas
el camino y nada más;
caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.

Al andar se hace camino
y al volver la vista atrás
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.

Caminante no hay camino
sino estelas en la mar…

Hace algún tiempo en ese lugar
donde hoy los bosques se visten de espinos
se oyó la voz de un poeta gritar:
«Caminante no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar…»
golpe a golpe, verso a verso…

Murió el poeta lejos del hogar.
Le cubre el polvo de un país vecino.
Al alejarse le vieron llorar.
«Caminante no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar…»
golpe a golpe, verso a verso…

Cuando el jilguero no puede cantar,
cuando el poeta es un peregrino,
cuando de nada nos sirve rezar.
«Caminante no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar…»
golpe a golpe, verso a verso.

Every thing moves on and everything stays
But our destiny is to move on
Moving on by making tracks
Tracks on the water

Never did I chase after glory
And avoiding having nostalgia
People and my song
I love those delicate worlds
Weightless and gentle
Like soap bubbles.

I like to see them being painted
Sunny and red, flying up
Beneath the blue sky, quivering
And suddenly breaking up

I never chased after glory

Traveller, these are your footsteps
The track and nothing more;
Traveller, there is no track
The track is made as you go along it

As you’re walking, you’re making the track
And then looking behind
You see your own path that no one
Is able to walk on it.

Traveller there is no path
But for the temporary trail left on water

Once upon a time in that location
Where today there are forests with thorn bushes

We heard the voice of a poet shouting:
Traveller, there is no path
The path is made as you go along it
Blow by blow, verse by verse

The poet died far from home
They covered him in the dust of a neighbouring country

From afar they saw him cry
Traveller there is no way
The path is made as you go along
Blow by blow, verse by verse

When the goldfinch is no longer able to sing
When the poet is a pilgrim
When praying achieves nothing

Traveller, there is no path
The path is made as you go along it
Blow by blow, verse by verse

In the second map video from Burgos city to Astorga is this famous/infamous Meseta (the central plateau of Spain). The song is called Nanas de la Cebolla – a poem written by Miguel Hernández (1910-1942) and also sung by Joan Manuel Serrat.

Both these poets (Hérnandez and Machado) were deeply and personally affected by the Spanish Civil War (1936-39), just like every Spaniard. See my previous Blog.

In the third map video, the sound track is a Galician piece of music where you will hear the Galician bagpipe, the gaita. This song is from a Celtic music ensemble called Luar na Lubre (translated as “moonlight in the lubre” and lubre being a forest of celts or druids). The song is called: Tu gitana and sung in the Galician language where Santiago de Compostela is located. It is a haunting piece of music, appropriate to the geography of Galicia.

Here are the lyrics for the three songs. The first one, also has a translation in English. The writer translated the words into English.

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Nanas de la cebolla was written towards the end of the Spanish Civil War (September, 1939) when the Spanish Falangists had incarcerated the author/poet Miguel Hernández
NANAS DE LA CEBOLLA
La cebolla es escarcha
cerrada y pobre.
Escarcha de tus días
y de mis noches.
Hambre y cebolla,
hielo negro y escarcha
grande y redonda.

En la cuna del hambre
mi niño estaba.
Con sangre de cebolla
se amamantaba.
Pero tu sangre,
escarchada de azúcar
cebolla y hambre.

Una mujer morena
resuelta en luna
se derrama hilo a hilo
sobre la cuna.
Ríete niño,
que te traigo la luna
cuando es preciso.

(Alondra de mi casa
ríete mucho,
que es la risa en tus ojos
la luz del mundo.
Ríete tanto,
que mi alma al oírte
bata el espacio.)

Tu risa me hace libre,
me pone alas.
Soledades me quita,
cárcel me arranca.
Boca que vuela,
corazón que en tus ojos
relampaguea.

Es tu risa la espada
más victoriosa,
vencedor de las flores
y las alondras.
Rival del sol.
Porvenir de mis huesos
y de mi amor.

Desperté de ser niño:
nunca despiertes.
Triste llevo la boca:
ríete siempre.
Siempre en la cuna
defendiendo la risa
pluma por pluma.

(Ser de vuelo tan alto,
tan extendido,
que tu carne es el cielo
recién nacido.
Si yo pudiera
remontarme al origen
de tu carrera.)

Al octavo mes ríes
con cinco azahares.
Con cinco diminutas
ferocidades.
Con cinco dientes
como cinco jazmines
adolescentes.

Frontera de los besos
serán mañana,
cuando en la dentadura
sientas un arma.
Sientas un fuego
correr dientes abajo
buscando el centro.

Vuela niño en la doble
luna del pecho:
él, triste de cebolla,
tú, satisfecho.
No te derrumbes.
No sepas lo que pasa
ni lo que ocurre.

I’ve decided NOT to translate this seemingly simple text, because its structural simplicity belies complex metaphors, symbolisms and deeply engrained cultural and historical connections with a very specific historical Spanish context. My translation would never do justice to this extraordinary poem written in prison during the Spanish Civil War.

Tu Gitana Music and song for Video 3

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Gaita Gallega The Gaita Gallega

Tú gitana que adevinhas
me lo digas pues no lo sé
si saldré desta aventura
o si nela moriré.

O si nela perco la vida
o si nela triunfaré,
Tú gitana que adevinhas
me lo digas pues no lo sé.

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