I’m having a Heineken overlooking the majestic Cathedral of Burgos. A truly vast, gothic structure that apparently took over 300 years from consecration 
to completion. My pilgrim Credencial gets me in for a 50% discount but I’m not sure I have the interest or the stamina. Anyway, these churches are all pretty much the same. Seen one, seen all – contrary to the inner American in me that should normally be programmed to devour, absorb, memorize and then (painfully) recite every detail in search of even the most tenuous link to a (somewhat recent) past.
The Burgos region is known for its Morcilla (local black pudding) and as General Franco’s headquarters in the Spanish Civil War. I am in search of both.
I found the latter at the Albergue into which I checked. Most places state a time by which you must leave. This place says between 0600 and 0800. When I asked if I could leave before (which is what all have allowed, hitherto), I got a starchy “No! Seex hay hem erleest”. Me in my place, and the Fascist mindset very much alive.
I found authentic Morcilla, served in an authentic Bar Parilla by authentic Spanish people.
“Los Toneles” is small, clean, basic, on a side-street, packed with badly-dressed locals and screaming rug-rats, with insufficient (inadequate better, hmmm…?) wait-staff for the turnover, who then in turn, over-compensate with a surly attitude that matches only Paris and New York in it’s unbridled derision of the customer. Me. The fat guy served the food like he’d dispatch a curling stone down an ice rink – sliding it along the table with a bit of left-hand Irish and he almost dropped the change in my lap. No tip! Ha!
Service aside, the food was spectacular. I had Morcilla and Pulpo.
The Morcilla has a texture that is hard to describe; less “soft” and moist most than UK black pudding, more aromatic yet not as resistant as the rice-like appearance might suggest. It’s quite rich too. The marinated pepper sets it off perfectly. Goes down very easily.
I’m a sucker for Octopus (ho-ho-ho).
The preparation of the Pulpo a la Gallegos was exquisite. Actually, it surpassed the Morcilla with ease. Thin slices (thicker than Carpaccio, thinner than sausage) of tentacles, quickly fried in olive oil, salt and Cayenne pepper. The salt was liberal, crystalline and crunchy and was a delightful counterpoint to the heat of the Cayenne. Small pieces of soft potato unassumingly occupying the center of the dish – a culinary chamois-leather for the olive oil and its warm content. This was a harmonious cacophony of textures and tastes. Genius.
The hike from Agés started well but ended in horrible, sole-torturing (no typo) tedium. It started in the dark, and then for the last 10km, it was on concrete, effectively through an industrial estate that would make Newark, NJ look interesting. In the interim, there was the MOST unhealthy breakfast I can recall….but it was great. The photos don’t adequately capture the sheen from the fat.
I subsequently consulted my Kindle guidebook and it recommended that one takes a BUS for the last stretch. Memo to self #1: read the damn book before you hit the road. Memo to self #2: how good is a hiking guidebook that advocates a bus over Shanks’ Pony?
The saving grace was Isabel, the Spanish Ibex. I’d passed her earlier as she had breakfast and we exchanged platitudes as I stopped to examine my boots and feet (You do that here. It’s important). She caught up as we entered the approach to Burgos and kindly moderated her pace (think Concorde dropping from supersonic to VRef approach speed) so we could cruise into the city together. The signposting into Burgos was less than adequate – to my earlier post that navigating cities in light is more difficult than navigating strange, wilderness expanses by headlight and wonky maps. We got there, though – she to her pre-booked hotel and me to the Fascist Albergue of earlier mention. I’m hooking her up with Dobbin, our eclectic travel-writing friend.
I bumped in to Thibaud at today’s Albergue. I met Thibaud yesterday in Agés at the other Albergue. Witty, camp, acerbic, delightful conversationalist. No holding back. We had a communal dinner together with a Spanish actress and Lithuanian data-scientist. Quite the mix – conversation meandered between Python, R, unemployment benefits, headshots and, and, and I don’t recall the rest because I went to bed.
Thibaud is acutely-tuned into the pulse of the Camino….and it turns out that certain of our Asian contingent are “cheating” in their travails. Yes, your instinct was correct. Koreans! Cheating!! Perish the thought!!!
The portlier Koreans (according to their less portly Komrades) are taking the bus between destinations and ‘faking” the hike. Thibaud’s pretty sure because the physical ability of these cross-eyed, buck-toothed Walruses and the protracted orchestral wheezing that accompanies tying their laces/brushing their (rather outsized) teeth means they are nowhere near able to walk the Camino. Enquiring minds want to know more.
Thibault, this is your scoop! I am your muse. More to follow (I hope). KJ-u – don’t shoot the messenger. Shoot the French guy. I really don’t know him….
Tomorrow a long hike. Dirt and more dirt. I start 0600 and not a moment sooner, Generalissimo. Gracias. Fuck you very much.
Manaña.