You're Watching the Wrong Fire: The Camino Francés in a Summer of Wildfires
There is a question back on the Camino forums, and it arrives the way it always does when Spain is in the news for the wrong reasons: are the fires reaching the Camino? The person asking has a plane ticket and a start date and a phone full of headlines — thirteen dead near a village called Los Gallardos, seven of them British, about seven thousand hectares gone, a country that recorded its deadliest fire of the year on the ninth of July and had only just brought it to heel by the twelfth. It is a fair question, asked in fear, and the honest answer begins with a map.
Los Gallardos is in Almería, on the dry southeastern corner of Andalucía. It is hundreds of kilometres from the nearest stage of the Camino Francés — a different Spain entirely, nearer to the coast of Africa than to Santiago. The fire that is on every screen is not on the route, and will not reach it. This is the first thing worth saying plainly, because a pilgrim reading Spain wildfires, thirteen dead pictures the whole peninsula alight, and it is not. The country is large. The fire is in the wrong corner to matter to your walk.
But do not exhale yet, because the fire that does matter to a pilgrim is quieter, further north, and barely in the headlines at all. By the middle of July there were more than forty active fires across the country, and the pressure was settling onto exactly the ground the Francés crosses. León — the province you reach in the long third week, through Astorga and down into the Bierzo — was under a red alert, with aircraft moved in to hold the line. All of Castilla y León sat in the “extreme” risk band. Ahead of it, inland Galicia, where every Camino funnels for its final days, was rated “very high,” a fire already burning in the Ribeira Sacra. Spain’s weather service was not forecasting relief; it expected the risk to hold or climb.
The Bierzo remembers why this matters. Last August, in the worst wildfires the country had seen in about twenty years, authorities closed a fifty-kilometre stretch of the Francés between Astorga and Ponferrada — the climb through the Montes de León, past Foncebadón and the Cruz de Ferro, the iron cross where pilgrims have laid a stone from home for centuries. For days that section was not a pilgrimage but a fire line, and the parishes and towns along it took in the walkers it stranded and pointed them around. That was last summer, on the same forested high ground that is drying out again now.
The fire on the news is the one that frightens you. The fire on your map is the one that decides your walk.
The truer answer is older than any forecast. The Pilgrim Age has an essay called the environment is greater than the will, and its argument is that a place shapes you more than your intentions do — that you rise or fall to the ground you stand on, not to the strength of your resolve. A wildfire is that principle at its most literal. You do not walk through a burning sierra on determination. You do not out-tough a red alert. What a fire summer asks of a pilgrim is not courage; it is attention — reading the AEMET risk map and the 112 alerts for your stage, on your day, and being willing to give up a morning, a stage, or the Cruz de Ferro itself to the plain fact of the fire. The environment sets the terms. The only move left to the pilgrim is to read them honestly.
So watch the right fire. Not the one killing people in Almería, terrible and far as it is, but the one that may be smouldering along your own week — León now, Galicia soon, the Montes de León that closed last year. If those stages are shut when you reach them, they are shut; the Norte holds its Atlantic damp longer into a bad summer, the Primitivo climbs into cooler mountain air, and any of them will still be there next year. The stone you meant to leave at the Cruz de Ferro will keep. It has kept longer.
— Pilgrimages