Category: The Trip

Today was a good day.

I had planned passage from Estella to Los Arcos, but the weather was kind(ish) so I ploughed on another 6.9km to Sansol, 27.4km in all (though the Danish mum/daughter combo have GPS with them and said it was actually 32km…).  I wanted to reduce the trek tomorrow as it is still long and there are apparently elevation changes that make it much more difficult than the maps suggest.  So, instead of 27.8km tomorrow, it should be about 21km.

I rose 0545 after a less than satisfactory kip in my €30 single room.  I left at 0615 and arrived here at Sansol at 1400, with two stops along the way for water, orange juice, frittata and coffee.  As segments go, it’s a bit linear and grey though the landscape is punctuated by swathes of dark red clay soil and more and more grape vines.

About 0.7km outside Estella, you arrive at Iratxe, where there is a Bodegas (owned by the church).  There is a wine fountain for pilgrims (and cheap drunks) – apparently very well-known in the guide books.  As the photo of the sign shows, the monks originally made provision for pilgrims to have a swig (or “swing” ???, per the sign) and the tradition carries on to this day.  Swigging at least.  I saw that.  I can’t attest to the other.  For the record, I didn’t partake.  It was red wine and it gushed.  I thought about the fuss it would make for my laundry for the day so I strode on.  Virtuous and unstained.

Remember the Italian chap whose phone I found yesterday?  Well, I was sitting, socks off at my first break of the day at a mobile canteen (Cafe Eduardo) about 6km from Los Arcos.  He (I still don’t know his name) bounds up to me, grinning ear to ear.  “I heave geeft !”  He proceeds to give me pin with the yellow arrow that helps pilgrims find their way.  I was tickled.  Unnecessary but captures the essence of what’s going on here.  We shook hands…and it was then I realized for the third time that as he hikes, he has a Rosary in his hand.  He shakes hands with it in place.  Something for everyone.  Anyway, that was the highlight of my day.  Simple things.

Most of my day was solo, although I met Chi-Nu, from South Korea.  He was walking wth Josefina from Germany (medical biology student converting to medicine).  Chi-Nu is a graduate mechanical engineer who had just interned with Porsche in South Korea for the last 6 months.  He turned down a full-time position there so he could do the Camino, figuring there would be other opportunities.  Sounds ballsy.  He has to be back on 26th August to graduate.  I saw a number of familiar faces – Danish mum/daughter combo (tomorrow is their last day), trendy Japanese chap who wears his white Oakleys on the back of his head, NYU professor and Spanish friend, bald Italian chap with the green frames around his shades.  It’s all good.

Couple of words about the approach into Sansol.  You can see the village from a long way off, but it’s a cruel tease, and the last couple of clicks can be very uncomfortable.  Line of sight suggests a short distance to destination but the shale path and then the road (onto which one traverses) bends away so it’s deceptive and a demoralizingly longer last leg.  The very last stretch is on the road.  Today there was a stiff breeze which was cooling, but when it stopped, woah!  The tarmac is like an instant-on, mega-BTU radiator.  Without any breeze, the feet heat up very quickly indeed, as does the rest of the body.  It’s amazing how quickly that surface can sap energy.  Keep it in mind.

There’s a hiking shop in Logroño, tomorrow’s destination.  I think I will buy a robust pair of Tevas that I can hike in.  The boots really heat your feet up and my change of footwear from 2012 has zero support – “Vivobarefoot”. I think there are a number of segments where I can hike with Tevas and spare my feet.  That’s the plan.  And in case you’re wondering, no, sack cloth vestiments and bonhomie to all men will not follow…

Sansol or Torres del Rio for the night was a toss up.  I had planned to go the extra kilometer to Torres del Rio, but the Sansol Albergue advertised a footbath. That was enough to stop me mid-stride.  Sold!

Sadly, there’s not much to this town, and I suspect there are a lot more of these towns along the way.  Couple of streets, this Albergue, another that you needed to phone for access, a ratty bar, maybe another restaurant.  The dormitory is almost full.  I’m eating here tonight at 1800.  The chef is a Moroccan friend of the proprietor and apparently likes to cook Moroccan/Spanish fusion, so we’ll see.

I’m still in Navarre but tomorrow, I should enter the La Rioja autonomous region, which begins just outside of Logroño, to the north east of the city.  Long day tomorrow.

Buen Camino.

Day 7 Photo Gallery

Logroño is the capital of La Rioja.  It mixes bland with splendid architecture but there is clearly a long, proud history here.  I got here at about 1030, having left at 0530.  As anticipated, the changes in elevation were more pronounced than the guidebook suggested so it was a long haul but at low temperatures, it was an easier haul.  I was surprised at my progress ~21km in 5 hours.  My scheduled coffee stop in Viana didn’t happen.  Apparently they ran the bulls last night, and as I arrived, they were still picking up the pieces so nothing was open except for a lone Panaderia.  Breakfast was two doughnuts; one chocolate, one with sugar.  No coffee.  I was not happy but onwards.

 

It’s dark until 0630 when you get first light.  Hiking alone, in the dark with nothing but Mr Petzl to light the way, relying on an abstract/inaccurate map, occasional way-markers and occasional yellow arrows spray-painted on various surfaces by volunteers makes for an adventure.  But, it’s quite up-lifting.  You’re in a different world, cocooned by the dark and very alone.  It reminds me of flying on instruments, cocooned in the clouds, except that you’ve not got so far to fall if something goes drastically wrong.  Then again, in clouds, there’s no risk of being eaten by a large animal.

Photos are relatively limited this leg:  there’s only so many times I can take a picture of a field that looks the same as the last twenty and tell you it’s somewhere else.

I got my Tevas at Planet Agua, checked into the Albergue,

unpacked, did laundry, showered, moisturized (still doing that), dried laundry and went walkabout.  Ugh, this commentary feels very repetitive, juvenile and Facebookesque.  Need to think of a different format as I despise the plonkers that lay out the uninteresting, irrelevant, monotonous minutiae of their day on social media.  Well, this is anti-social media, but nevertheless….work in progress.  I cannot become that which I abhor.

No coffee earlier meant no breakfast, meant early lunch.  I found El Ricon del Viño.  The photo shows a shabby exterior as you can see, but inside….quite different – as you can see.

Front of house was prickly and hostile, but she let me in 13 minutes early.  Precisely 13 minutes as she made a point of telling me. She was fugly.  She spoke no English.  Didn’t try.  Menus in Spanish.  Didn’t give a shit.  Almost launched the bread at me.  She was clearly doing me a favor taking my money; the passive-aggressive abuse was a freebie.  Google translate couldn’t give me “Ta luv.  You need to get laid very badly”.  I did try.

It’s not as bad as les Hexagones, where they treat foreigners as a gladiatorial pursuit deserving persecution, but in Spain, I’m finding certain people just don’t want to try and communicate.  Maybe it’s regional.  We’ll see.

My usual formula didn’t work here.  Usually, I smile, vulnerably, trying to garner some sympathy for being so inept.  I shrug my shoulders, raise my eyebrows and roll my eyes in abject, non-verbal apology, yet still no quarter given.  It wasn’t that long ago that Spain was a dictatorship (1975) and had an attempted coup (1981), so I guess old habits die hard. A lot of resentment to deal with, still.

Getting back to food, the only thing I recognized on the menu was “Pulpo a al brassa con crema de patata y aceite de pimenton dulce.”  I love octopus so that was easy.  It was also quickly prepared, beautifully presented (i.e. not

thrown at me) and tasted delicious.  The thickest tentacles were steak-like in their density and the texture was sooooo succulent.  The thinner tentacles were suitably chewy but not in any way over-cooked.  The small slices of potato were subtly infused with cayenne or a similar spice, and melted in the mouth.  Olive oil was drizzled in appropriate measure and with suitable restraint.  €14.00, for reference.  I would highly recommend this restaurant – – to Spanish speakers or non-Spanish with a thick skin.  But the story doesn’t quite end there….

In the period of intervening discomfort (entering the building to finishing my pulpo), Google Translate came up with those magic words that can even crack the most po-faced, cantankerous, barren sow:

“Lo siento mucho, pero no ablo Espagñol.  Por favor, se paciente conmigo”.

“I’m very sorry, but I don’t speak Spanish.  Please be patient with me.”

She giggled.  Her eyes did light up.  She muttered what were clearly platitudes but I had no clue what she said.  She smiled.  Took pity.  Took my credit card.  I left €5 as a tip.  Thorndike’s Law of Reinforcement (“Law of Effect”) at work.  I can only hope.

I’m heading back to the Albergue now.  It’s overcast and almost chilly.  I bought a woman’s scarf in pink (thinking of you, Bruce) despite the salesperson’s objections.  Spain is not supposed to be London. Summer should not require a scarf.

Tomorrow it’s Logroño to Najera.  Distance of 28.9km and sea level +400m climbing to +670m and back to about +500m.  As reference, for every +100m in altitude, the guidebooks suggest +300m horizontal equivalent.  It feels like much more.

Day 8 Photo Gallery

Seven and a half hours of a long, boring, slow grind through nothing but grapevines where the mind wandered into places it shouldn’t go, such as questioning why I was doing this.

Vanity or stupidity?

Vanity is being voluntarily unemployed and driving a Porsche when a Mini will do.  We now have only the Mini, so it must be stupidity.

But, as I closed in on the outskirts of my destination, Najera, I was joined by a delightful Spanish woman with a ski-jump beezer that would have made J Caesar himself proud.  She echoed my thoughts about this leg….as she sloped off to her pre-booked hotel.  Maybe not vanity, maybe just part of the cost of doing Camino?

I asked why she booked a hotel instead of schlepping in an Albergue with the rest of us gringos.  Well, this was her holiday after all, and creature comforts mattered on holiday.  Simple.

She and Doris would have bonded instantly.

I haven’t decided on tomorrow’s routing yet, so it will be as much of a surprise to you as it will be to me.

Later.

Day 9 Photo Gallery

I fear I may run out of material. Today was more of the same. 0530 departure, first hour by head torch, arrival 1045, covering 21km of…..dirt and grape vines and hills and dirt and grape vines and hills and….. a ghost town.

First stop was Azofra, just 6km out of Najera. I wouldn’t normally stop, but I’m getting sensitized to the mantra “if it’s there, take it”. In this case “it” was coffee. A cafe was just opening and I had my coffee. Just as well.

Ciruena was supposed to have several cafes and with its extra 9km of distance it looked like the ideal stopping point. I felt guilty for stopping in Azofra after only 6km. What a pussy! Stopping after 15km is more manly. Ciruena, however, was an abject disappointment and the guidebook(s) got it wrong. No cafe. Closed Albergues. Nada. Nothing. Quite the shithole. If this town had a personality, it would be a cadaver.

The kicker though, was as you approached the outskirts via a fairly tough uphill stretch, you could see blocks of unoccupied terraced housing and some unfinished apartment blocks. It looked lovely from a distance. All well-maintained, nice park facilities, playgrounds for the kids, few cars but no people. “For Sale” signs everywhere. EVERYWHERE. And a golf club, replete with active sprinkler system…..and people. Old, fat people. With cars. Quite expensive ones.  Clearly not locals but sufficiently local to use the facilities.

Looking at the quality of the grass and turf, the limited sun damage to the wood (lovely driving range), the modern glazing, the healthy paint job, the condition of the cladding on the exterior of the (expansive) clubhouse, this was pretty recent. The sprinklers were doing their bit with gusto. What’s the point? Who pays for this? What happened? Answer: the Spanish economic miracle that “central planning” anticipated, that Germany paid for but did not materialize. And so in some places, Spain still has these ghost towns. Wrong idea. Wrong place. Wrong time. That’s not to take away from the broader improvement in Spanish prosperity over the last 5 years, but these ghost-towns seem destined to be a hallmark of a failed experiment.

I’m surprised POTUS Trump isn’t involved somehow. He’s good at failed projects, harvesting tax concessions, paying off objectors and declaring victory. What a cock. He’s such an affront. I wouldn’t piss in his mouth if his throat was on fire. And….concluding on this fleeting, inadvertently aggressive, presidential/scatological theme, LBJ’s words are more apropos now than ever as it relates to our POTUS:

“[He] couldn’t pour piss out of a boot if the instructions were written on the heel.”

BTW, if you re-arrange Donald Trump, you get “Lord Damp Nut”. Yours for free…..

Let’s rewind to the Azofra to Ciruena leg as I left something out – and sequencing is difficult when you’re operating on stream of consciousness typing.

I’d just left Azofra, replete with caffeine hit (OK, I confess to there also being a croissant incident too), and I hear a loud and closing ‘crunch, crunch, crunch’ behind me that becomes a more muted padding. I turn round with my “Buen Camino” greeting hoping the owner of the sounds will overtake me, but he does not. Meet Jean. He wants to talk and walk. He’s apparently retired. He has a genuine smile. If he was a dog, he’d be a Jack Russell: short, fit, wiry and spritely.

We shared the next 8km together at a complementary pace. Jean is French and doesn’t speak anything else. He was very upfront. So, we had a delightful trek with me embarrassing myself with broken French, and he personifying the superior being that is the French-speaking European. Actually, it was surprising and very pleasant. My schoolboy vocabulary is dormant and a lot comes back. We discussed Trump, Macron, BREXIT, Scots vs English, the weather, the countryside, Macron’s wife, the TGV (no linkage, those two) and hiking sticks. He was a delight. I stopped to find coffee at Ciruena (futile, disappointing exercise as you already know), and he marched on. Hope I see him again. Great conversation, and we both mastered the art of the ‘vacant smile and hollow laugh’ when we didn’t understand WTF the other was saying. Europe at its best. Copacetic. Democratic. No invasions. No dictatorships. Just a mammoth German trade surplus.

So, I’m berthed in Santo Domingo (Spain, not Dominican Republic) overnight.

It’s hot. VERY. I’m under cover but the locals seem to have quietly crept inside, leaving me outside. They remind me of the center-fanged, pallid vampires in Nosferatu, cowering from the sunlight and scurrying for cover with strangled squeaks as they retreat. Who’s smarter, gringo or gremlin?

I’ll post some snaps – Santo Domingo, not Nosferatu critters.

I have and will continue to eschew a historical commentary because that’s all available online and in the books – but mostly because I have the square root of bugger all interest in trolling around churches and mausoleums when the sun’s out. Sorry. Shallow as a soap dish, that’s me.

As I tap, my laundry is drying and I need to fetch it before some Greek steals it to try and settle the national debt with the Bosch. Who knew Nike was so valuable and universal?

Recovery times are improving noticeably. I don’t fall asleep as soon as I get to the Albergue.  The body is adapting, albeit slowly, but what do you expect at 2×21? Also, the pain moves around, inhabiting different places on different days. It’s almost like a formal curriculum: Lesson 1: back, neck, calves, shins, knees, feet. Repeat.  Lesson 2. I’ve seen some old faces along the way today, though not Maurice or Bill. I suspect they’re making ground faster than I. But, as Paddy Dempsey says, it’s not a race…..

Manaña.

Post script: This Albergue really is a whopper. Nice paint job on the outside gives no clue to the innards. A bona fide warehouse for supplicants, true-believers and free-loaders (like moi). Looks like three levels, ceramic tile floors, space for about 140 transients/guests, a chapel, a couple of other religious spots that mean nothing to me (what is an oratorio?), a massage chair (€1.50/5mins), a garden with seating and laundry facilities, a terrace, external quarters for the employees, bespoke seashell metal railings and safety-guards, multiple his/her loos and showers (in need of some repair, but clean), obligatory smattering of crucifixes, standard IKEA bunk bed set up.

It’s 1600 local. I’m on Floor 2, Room 1, Bed 15. This room has 30 beds – 15×2 bunks. Most of the occupants are younger than I am. Only 7 beds are vacant as I tap, the rest filled with bodies in need of rest in the middle of the day, some wrapped in sleeping bags – it’s 31 celsius outside!! Weird. Maybe warming those frigid Catholic souls….

Day 10 Photo Gallery

Just a brief comment to close off yesterday’s blog and perhaps add a (rare) pinch of hokey history.

I mentioned a chicken coop in the back yard of the Albergue, which no doubt seemed out of place. It did to me, initially. However, asking around, there is some heavy historical and traditional relevance as Santo Domingo de la Calzada is (apparently) most famous for the legend of the “cock that crowed again.” There is a lot of cock imagery here – all of which has nothing to do with Lord Dampnut or the Mini-Me, knob-accomplice, Anthony “Tourret” Scaramucci.

There are, as is usually the case, several versions of this story, however the one I heard was this: a couple from Cologne were traveling to Santiago de Compostela on a pilgrimage with their son, Hugonell. Apparently, the innkeeper’s daughter took a fancy to Hugonell, but he virtuously resisted her advances.

During the night, once the vengeful, over-sexed nymphette had finished pleasuring herself, she took the large silver goblet that she had been using and (somehow) hid it in his possessions. In the morning, she denounced him as a thief and he was hanged, Beijing-style, summary justice. No mention of organ-harvesting.

As his parents were preparing to depart, they heard Hugonell’s voice imploring them that he was still alive and that St Dominic (Santo Domingo) was holding him up by his feet – all very David Blaine and WELL ahead of its time… The parents ran off to tell the magistrate the story. The magistrate responded that their son was no more alive than the cock and hen on his plate!  Whereupon…. the birds grew feathers, jumped off the plate and fluttered around the room proving that Hugonell was indeed innocent. Quod Erat Demonstratum, I guess.

Friday Haiku:  Walking is walking. Fields are fields. Dirt is dirt. Same shit, different day.

Today was short. I left at 0500 because this Albergue requires you to clear out by 0700 and not 0800 as usual. With 140+ odiferous pilgrims, I feared a surge for the bathroom facilities and decided to get ahead of it. Good job because as I awoke at 0430, so did another half dozen – and that was only from my room.

Now, 22.4 km later it’s 1030 and the Albergue of choice, Cuatro Cantones, wasn’t opening until 1200. What to do? Walk another 6km to a picturesque Albergue built into the side of a mountain….or sip Espresso, read the news and wait for the Albergue of choice to open….and its swimming pool?

I am shallow. I waited.

 

Somewhere just after sunrise (and what a corker it was, today), I crossed from the autonomous region of Rioja to the Junta de Castillo y Leon. Earlier, coming out of Santo Domingo under torchlight, I had crossed a river, the Rio Oja (and the penny dropped about how the region got it’s name). It was all beginning to gel AND then, to help, there was a whopping great sign in the middle of a dirt track to let you where you were. Thank you, Generalissimo. It meant a lot.  More Merkel €uros being squandered.

When I got to Belorado (a grand-sounding name for a small town bisected by the N120 main road, just FYI), I plumped for the €12 room instead of the €7 dormitory as it meant 6 to a shower, loo etc as opposed to 30. This Albergue is almost completely self-contained: its own restaurant, communal kitchen, large back yard, speakers in the yard, cabanas, pool, they do your laundry for €3.50 (so I went all in). All that was missing was the fall-out shelter and the 3 years of dried rations. Still looking…..

It’s also not too busy. Yet….

It’s a mixed bunch. There’s the non-flushing Japanese cadre (see “Day 11 – What I Am Trying to Understand”), a group of cyclists who quickly hobbled off to bed for a siesta, a brace of wrinkly, Liverpudlian slappers debating the merits of the €10 three course menu, a couple of American students discussing the importance of the accuracy of GPS measurements when hiking (yawn) and trying to sound intelligent by speaking very loudly, another lanky American student who sidled off to a corner to toke on something or other (and is now dozing…) and a couple of Australian lesbians with matching orange towels and zebra-patterned two-piece bikinis. Ah…the petri-dish the Camino brings together.

The next door neighbours are barnyard animals.

Photos speak better than I can. I prefer the barnyard animals to present human company. They look better, say less and seem altogether more intelligent.

The communal dinner is at 1930, which is way too late for me, so I had garlic soup and a main course of poached hake for lunch. Both were delightful.

Breakfast is also way too late for me at 0700 so mine will be water and a large banana until I make the first coffee stop, hopefully Villafranca Montes de Oca, +12km and ETA 0800 with an 0500 departure. That’s the plan – as slick as KY up the Hershey Highway (metaphorically, that is).

Day 11 Photo Gallery

I left later, at 0615, because some locals were up carousing during, and into most of the night. They stopped me from sleeping. I need my recovery sleep. I guess if you live in a small town in the middle of nowhere with limited prospects, amusement is limited to drinking and having sex with close relatives. Sounded like this was their way. It also explained some of the unusual physical appearances (can’t just be the water, can it…?).

Sunrise was again delightful though less striking than prior days.

I bumped into the Italian contingent first thing, just as sun rose. They’d marched onto Tosantos to spend the night in the Albergue that was built into the mountain…only to find it was closed. Bummer. You could feel their disappointment. These are decent people looking to savor the full experience and were sorely let down by a failure in information-sharing. I still don’t know their names but there are four of them, one female, three males.  The gentleman whose phone I found is a policeman in the Abruzzo region and has to be back by 10th August so he wont go the whole way. The others I don’t know. They’re a happy bunch, enjoying each others’ company and the more spiritual aspects of the Camino. I am a different animal. Shallow, vacuous, opinionated, vulgar, critical, hypocritical and contradictory. Yes, just remember that I CHOSE to be an American, instead of being born into it by quirk of biology or a Grateful Dead Concert!

I walked the leg from Espinosa del Camino to just past Ermita Valdefuente with Isabel from Madrid. Isabel and I have bumped into each other and chatted over the past couple of days.  Another passing face. “Walking” with her is an understatement. Isabel is less than half my size, has a pack that weighs about a third (I picked up with my pinkie), she runs 10k before work each day and she moves like an Ibex with the strength and grace of a Springbok. It’s humbling.

Isabel’s a high-end tour guide (careful there with the loose thinking…) in Madrid catering to corporates with dough to blow. After her daily constitutional 10k, she dons high heels and an “office suit” and proceeds to walk her clients around Madrid, the Prado, Segovia or wherever she is instructed for the day. She started this 23 years ago. At that time you needed a degree in tourism, humanities or law to undertake the profession. Thereafter, you needed to pass separate exams about the history of each autonomous region, set by each autonomous region. There are seventeen regions. Thereafter, places like the Prado required you to sit a separate exam before you could lead tours within their hallowed walls, but first, you had to have the other exams. She works for the Ritz Carleton, Westin, Four Seasons etc, all high-end establishments. It also sounds like she is to modern (free) tour-guiding as the London Black Cab is to Uber…. a dying breed rendered obsolete as regulatory hurdles are bypassed by technology. Sad. She’s clearly proud, passionate and encyclopedic in her knowledge.

During our “walk”, I got a detailed lesson on Franco and the Spanish Civil War (1936-1939), why civil wars are more pernicious than wars with external enemies, why it takes two generations to adjust to the collateral and cultural damage of a civil war, and finally a discourse on why it’s impossible to vote in the Spanish electoral system as it stands (she didn’t know that the Aussies fine you A$100 for not voting. Ha! Gotcha!). Oh, and corruption is part of Spanish life and on a certain level, defensible. I was barely able to catch my breath and nod coherently; she was just limbering up. Force of nature. Reminds me of my friend, Arancha. Two peas in a pod.

San Juan de Ortega was to be my destination, but there is nothing there but a monastery and Albergue.

The books don’t exactly make that clear. I got there at 1115. The Albergue opened at 1300. There was a cafe but the owner began closing umbrellas just as the sun was getting really strong. There was some wind but my sense was he wanted rid of his clientele. Say no more. I decamped the extra 3.6km to Agés where there were four Albergues and a greater chance of a pulse. Greater indeed, but not much.

I chose Albergue El Pajar because it was most way through the town (an extra half dozen steps). The South Koreans had already invaded and seemed to occupy Habitacion #1.  I was allocated bed 20 in Habitacion #2.

I’ve noticed a lot of Koreans on the Camino (I’m assuming from the South as they’re friendly….but….maybe….. that’s what they want us to believe). This may be an unkind generalization but……they’re all the same. They are all really dorky (maybe they think the same about us – pallid, pudgy, bad teeth, bad breath, bad skin etc). Same big, black, elliptical (thick) specs. Every inch of skin covered by Spandex. Floppy hats, disproportionately large versus circumference of skull. Big, thick, steak-like calves on short, stocky legs. They sing, tunelessly (is this Gangnam, I don’t know?). None have paid attention to any orthodontic advice. Always on the phone (AT FULL VOLUME) and they seemingly carry the phone in one hand and a spare battery in the other. Now, let’s be clear: there is NOTHING wrong with this. I am just observing differences and trying to understand the shallowness/depth of the underlying gene-pool. It’s a bit like living in the Carolinas, returning to live ANYWHERE ELSE and realizing you’ve been released from the twilight zone (been there, done that). BTW, I love bipimbop, kimchi and Soju. Seoul rocks (who can explain the proliferation of “barber shops”, open into the wee hours….?). Embrace the differences.

Tomorrow should take me to Burgos, one of the larger cities, and one of the launch-points for shorter Camino excursions. Thereafter on Monday and Tuesday, I’m thinking of truncating a three day hike into two days so I can create extra time in Finisterre (at the end). The distances and topography are favorable. We’ll see..

In the meantime, Lord Dampnut has outed Reince Priebus (what responsible parent would name a kid thus…?) and replaced him with John Kelly, a man with pronounceable name. The “Mooch” (“I love the President….he’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever met.”  – my loud retching sounds followed by involuntary loss of bladder control…) was apparently cock-blocked by Mr Priebus, and didn’t like it and now has his revenge. Brussels is suing Poland (wait for the WW2 reparations counter-suit a la Greece…?). Australia may vote on becoming a Republic. I need another Manzanilla.

Manaña.

Day 12 Photo Gallery

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.

Day 13 Photo Gallery