That damned cathedral clock was directly across from the open windows at my Albergue in Hontanas, and it went off every hour on the hour throughout the night, and then on the half hour with a single chime. Good sense and decency would turn the contraption off at 2200 (like they do in Marylebone), but this is clearly God’s country and the Big Yin’s determined we should all pay some sort of penance. He succeeded. It was wholly-gratuitous and unspeakably annoying. I don’t think he or his acolytes take requests, however, so my complaints will fall upon deaf ears. Which reminds me of the definition of his primary acolyte, the “priest” – Paedophile Resident In Every Small Town – and the burden of proof remains against the Big Yin. Just sayin’.
“Talking to a blonde is like talking to a chicken. You just need the flashy object….” Bobby Slayton, ‘The Pitbull of Comedy/Yid Vicious’. My good friend, JDK, acquainted me with this man’s irreverent, offensive, acerbic talents and you can get a soupçon here: Bobby Slayton . Don’t be shy. You know you want it. Better still, buy the DVD or the “Born to be Bobby” upload. Twisted genius. That was the extent of my cultural enlightenment today. Tomorrow, Sam Kinison. Stay tuned.
It was a long and hot 34km and started, as usual, in the dark. I didn’t speak to many people, or maybe….many people chose not to speak to me. Anyway, music/comedy formed a large part of today’s mental support mechanism. Annoyingly, my Bowers & Wilkins headset has chosen to only broadcast through the left ear, so I’m on the lookout for a new headset. There is limited retail therapy around here, so I am not optimistic about immediate gratification.
Shrinking 3 days into 2 seems to have propelled me into a different set of pilgrims, as well as into a completely new pain/discomfort band. New faces. I guess most of the old ones are in the prior cadre. I may do this again, just to buy more time in Finisterre. It’ll depend on the legs/feet. I got some off-the-shelf orthotics for 25 Euros from the ‘farmacist’. His Spanglish was far better than my Spanish. Hopefully they alleviate some of the pain. Lesson learned. Report tomorrow, as if any of you give a fuck.
No Koreans today. Again. Not really surprised. More Italians though.
The topography was interesting and testing. Immediately out of Hontanas, it was flat until Castrojeriz, the first coffee stop at +9.6km. I spent 45 minutes there, mostly because I came across a retired English couple who were delightful chatty, albeit at 0700, my “quiet time”. Ask Doris about the generic response to intrusion into those special moments….. The landscape then climbed very quickly up to Alto de Mostelares at 900m (you could see the white trail ahead, etched into the brown mountain), then almost immediately, very sharply back down. That got the blood flowing and the knees talking to me.
Otero de Vega was the second coffee stop. Not much to say about it but soon after, I cut across the Canal Pisuerga and then the Canal de Castilla. The canals are interesting though they function for irrigation as opposed to transportation nowadays. Shame. They were a magnificent feat of engineering in their time, and still, for me, enduringly romantic. Pisguera was underwhelming but Castilla had a lot more structure and presence – however, given the width, I’m not sure how even two narrow boats going in opposite directions could pass with a decent margin of safety. You can’t see if the banks are sloping or linear, with adequate clearance. These canals clearly didn’t have wide-beams in mind when they were built.
The Castilla finally dead-ends into Fromista, my destination. As the pictures show, there is a huge change in elevation, but no functioning locks so I can only assume that they have left the elegant brickwork for show. Signs of different times?
Tonight, I’m in the municipal Albergue which seems to be packed like a tin of sardines, with a hostess who bears more resemblance to a frumpy Frau than a slender Señorita. Interpersonal skills to match. An early exit from the Albergue will mean not competing for facilities or enduring the morning’s digestive feedback from the consumption of the night before. Good deal.
Tomorrow should be flat and short, and end in Carrion de los Condes. Just under 20km.
As I close down, we’ve been invaded by the Dutch bicycle club, who’ve arrived en masse via bus. No Koreans. There are about 20 Dutch, all speaking the “Heugh ney ney hurdy gurdenen” most irrelevant language on the face of the planet. I don’t know why they persist with their local tongue. It’s as useful as Esperanto, Gaelic and Inuit. No one cares and they all speak better English than 80% of the UK residents. They’re off, bouncy, bouncy happy to terrorise the locals and regale them with their lengthy, but not-so-funny-to-the-non-Dutch stories of Oude Rode Ogen, smelly cheese and clog design, so good luck to them.
That’s it. Fuckity bye. Don’t forget to check out Bobby Slayton.