Bridging Traditions on the Camino de Santiago

Curing anger and mad dogs on the tranquil river flowing to Pamplona

The Bridge of Rabies in Zubiri, Spain (all photos in article by author)

Details matter in Basque legends. So, to cure an animal of rabies, you shouldn’t just let it cross the 12th-century bridge over the Arga River at Zubiri. It has to do so three times, making sure it passes through the highest part of the arch each time. However, humans struggling with rabies or dealing with anger issues have to wade through the river to the central pillar and take three turns around it.

If you have never walked the Camino Frances, the 1200-year-old pilgrimage route from France to the presumed grave of Saint James in Santiago de Compostela, Spain, you have likely never heard of this bridge or these legends. But if you have walked the Camino, it is unlikely you have forgotten about the Puente de la Rabia (Bridge of Rabies), which you passed while entering the town of Zubiri in Northern Spain.

Many pilgrims rest here for a night after two days of crossing the Pyrenees mountains and the strenuous walking on the second day on uneven and sometimes slippery slopes that end at this bridge. In the small town, a bed, shower, and cafe to meet with other pilgrims await you, often after first cooling down your blistered feet in the fresh waters of the Arga River.

I remember my fascination with the centuries-old prophecies about the bridge, which some call the Bridge of Rage, and thought about testing its healing assurances. But it was hard to find a rabies-infected animal (which some may claim as the proof I was looking for), and there existed no feelings of anger in this quiet village. Asking a pilgrim to test the legend wasn’t an option since I do not recall ever seeing an angry pilgrim. Part of the Camino’s magic is the hikers’ kindness and camaraderie.

The Arga River

Anger is a feeling experienced only far away from the Camino. I see anger in the media, in the eyes of the ambitious and the ruthless who challenge established norms and values. Although this makes me think of a few individuals who could benefit from circling that particular pillar for the greater good of our planet, I’m hesitant to suggest this cure. After all, those leaders occupy top-level political positions; they do not want the people to see them splashing knee-deep in a Spanish river, nor do they want to risk being infected by kindness.

Without the best guinea pigs to test the true power of the legend, I contemplated testing the prophecy myself. However, nobody could tell me what would happen if you followed these instructions while not searching for a cure.

While looking for answers, I remembered the grey-haired man who often sits at the far end of the bridge on one of those cheap, brightly colored plastic chairs you find on many of the terraces in northern Spain. I remembered him from my first visit a year earlier, and it seemed he hadn’t moved an inch. Nor had he changed his worn brown jacket, which looked hot and uncomfortable for Spain in July.

He struck me as a man who knew more about local legends since he was practically always there, with the same straw hat and hands folded on his wooden walking stick. Thus, he formed a base to rest his chin while he watched pilgrims come down once they had passed the top of the bridge. If a former pilgrim reads these words, you may remember seeing him at his regular spot; some say he is legendary himself since most pilgrims remember him even long after having returned home.

One of the pilgrims I met on my way to Zubiri, a chubby, bespectacled German who I remember mainly by his preference for sharing recipes and cooking techniques while walking, referred to the man while we were still in the mountains. He had never seen him, the bridge, or the town, but he did know about the man staring at the bridge and spoke about him with an anticipation that matched his excitement of seeing other highlights of the French Way, like the Cathedral of Burgos.

I remembered him as the only one in the bridge scene who wasn’t in a hurry. Like my cat Luna watching a light spot on the wall, he follows each pilgrim with his eyes as if to wait for an angry one to jump in the river and walk in circles around the central pillar of the bridge.

On my way to Pamplona.

The kind lady in the small nearby cafe, the local expert in popping blisters, translated my question to him about what would happen if I followed the ancient-old instructions to be cured of anger while I was not searching for a cure. But he shook his head and said that only God knows the answer to my question. When I thanked him and walked away, he softly spoke a few more lines. Blister Lady translated them to me, “He says you don’t try; it’s like a warning for you, no?”

Respecting his wisdom based on years of bridge-watching, I adhered to his warning. I have crossed the bridge but avoided the back-and-forth prescription for dogs. I also waded into the river, but that was to cool my bruised feet instead of my temper.

After two days of hiking in the mountains, I wasn’t the only one with sore feet. While sitting on a rock on the side of the river, I bonded with fellow pilgrims. We discussed our blisters like other people discuss the weather. It is a Camino tradition to debate your injured feet with fellow pilgrims, and it is a subject you can only avoid if you change the subject to one of the other favorite topics, such as bedbugs and snoring in the hostels. I proudly mentioned my Armaskin inner socks that protected me from most problems but soon realized that others thought these modernities made me less of a real pilgrim. I was supposed to wear one pair of socks and suffer; the Camino has strict, unwritten rules and a steep learning curve.

I have a short video I made of my third day on the Camino, where I left Zubiri and walked to Pamplona. I just watched it again and regret that the kind man sitting near the bridge is not on it. But I enjoyed reliving the memories of my third day on the Camino. It was on the first of July, 2023, and I walked from Zubiri to Pamplona, beginning at the famous bridge in the early morning. Two days earlier, I’d started early in the morning in the small French town in the Pyrenees mountains of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port.

On the first day, I crossed the mountains into Spain. The other pilgrims stopped in Roncesvalles, but I continued another six kilometers until I found a small hostel, where I was surprised to learn that I was the only guest. The next day, I started later than usual after a message from friends in Roncesvalles I had met on the first day, suggesting we meet for breakfast.

For all their nostalgia for their medieval predecessors, modern-day pilgrims rely on WhatsApp to coordinate their friendships and routes to follow. Through modern communication and an ancient walking tradition, we arrived together in Zubiri; the city’s name means “the bridge town” in Basque.

As you can see in the video, the next morning, the start of my third day, was a 27-kilometer walk in beautiful weather. I remember starting to walk alone; I always find it a magical experience to have nature all for myself while the sun rises. I didn’t mind the mining operations in the first kilometers, knowing that the trail soon would lead me into the trees. In a gentle descent, I traced the Arga River to Pamplona. This route was not the most spectacular, but it was the most pleasant walking of the first three days, with the mountains behind me and bustling Pamplona ahead of me.

The reward after three days of walking: Pamplona.

In the video, I took a wrong turn to the left, only to return after a few kilometers. I remember walking that part with a woman I met on the trail, but I don’t remember her name, nationality, or what we discussed; it’s likely in the notes I made with the idea of writing a book about my experiences, but I left these in Canada. I didn’t see her again later on the Camino, so she joined the countless number of fellow pilgrims whom I met so briefly that only a vague memory remains.

I also remember walking later that day with an American couple and their daughter. It was their last day of a three-day hike. He was especially concerned about ticks and Lyme disease, while his wife was worried about their daughter having accelerated her walking speed to a level that none of the adults could keep up with. This sudden mobility was a remarkable change in attitude since I remember my first impression of the 14-year-old girl as refusing to continue the walk and her mother trying to convince her to continue.

I had pleasant memories of this route from my first Camino experience. I walked most of that day with Peter, a history teacher from Northern England. We discussed European history while following the Arga, and I enjoyed the anecdotes of peculiar events he shared in the larger historical context of international relations in long-forgotten days.

Peter, at a stop along the Arga River.

I exchanged his historical insights with my view as a geographer, pondering, for instance, on the water in the Arga River. It wouldn’t continue to guide us on our route to Santiago. After Pamplona, we would cross it one last time at Puente la Reina before the river continues to meet the mighty Río Ebro as it journeys to the Mediterranean. Our route would continue West, towards the Atlantic Ocean. When we reached Pamplona after half a day of walking and chatting together, Peter and I shook hands, expressing the hope to see each other again later on the Camino, and that was the last time I saw this soft-spoken teacher.

It’s a typical Camino experience: you meet people, feel connected, as if you are in a new friendship, and soon after, you both go your own way, not knowing if and when you will ever see each other again.

Memories fade after a year, but the route shown in the video and the photos I took remind me of lost details. What remains is the feeling of freedom, friendship, and the luxury of spending so much time in nature.

I won’t have time for another pilgrimage this year, but I know I will return to the Camino, its diverse mix of characters, and the grey-haired man in his worn brown jacket, his chin resting on a pilgrim’s cane, watching me when I cross the Puente de la Rabia in Zubiri.

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Just before sharing this article with you, I read about Rona. Born in 2000 in Bethlehem to a Dutch father and Palestinian Mother, she is now a student who started a few days ago on the Camino de Santiago. By walking this ancient pilgrimage route, she hopes to raise money for medical assistance for those in need in Gaza. 

Today, she walked the same route from Zubiri to Pamplona that I described in this article. You can follow her route and story daily via this link, and you can contribute via this link.

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