I’ve got about two Scaramuccis left on this hike. Oh, sorry. For the unhip and uninformed, a Scaramucci (also called a Mooch) is a measurement of time: approximately 11 days… so I need to be in Nice 3 weeks tomorrow.
Tick tock. Time flies when you’re disconnected but don’t ask me where I’ve been or what I’ve done or when because it all blends into this one big fast-awake-sleepwalking blur. I can barely remember which day of the week it is, let alone where I’ve been or what I’ve seen. Kinda cool. Trippin’ without the expensive, fashionable pharmaceuticals or the employment risk that goes with those habits – so I’ve been told.
As today was almost a carbon copy of yesterday and the day before and the day before – long boring haul, arriving in butt-fuck-back-of-beyond with a big church and no other endearing features, I thought that I’d have little to say today, but au contraire.
It started badly as I endured the buzz-snore harmony that my five lady roommates were so kind as to provide throughout the entire night. It was a trans-Atlantic, Eurovision affair: 2x German (altos), 1x US (soprano) and 1x Irish (booming, basso profundo). Earplugs were no good. The harmony mercilessly pierced the barrier. Only deafness would have protected me.
However, despite the aural setbacks of the night, early on, I thought it could be an auspicious day because a bird crapped on my foot while I was changing socks and a fly flew straight into my piehole as I gulped for air. On that basis, I legged it about 31km, 7km longer than initially planned.
My first segment was 13km, which I enjoyed in the company of Nancy (English pronunciation, not French). Nancy is “Quebeçois” (DO NOT get that wrong, not French, not Canadian…), a former marathon runner who now only does halfs and 10ks (3 months preparation is too much trouble…), she has 15 and 17 year old kids and has been walking for 44 days with another 50 odd left to go. Her hubby joined her for the first week but had to return to work. She worked as a private wealth advisor but was made redundant so time is her friend. This woman could be mistaken for a twenty-something and moves like a Gazelle. She slowed down for me until after breakfast in Sahagun, and then, with compassion, suggested she move on ahead as she was a wee bit faster. Once again, my self-respect is dented, and my ego-damage somewhere between humbled and humiliated. I did catch up with her a short while after breakfast as she re-packed her pack. We walked and chatted a bit more until she put those legs into second gear, and off she went. Ciao.
The second segment was solo to Bercenios del Real Camino, as was the last segment to El Burgo Raneros. Those legs were 10.7km and 7.4km, respectively. Dirt. Scrub. More dirt. More scrub. Nothing to report. Move on.
I berthed for the night at Albergue La Laguna at about 1300. Pretty good going under the circumstances. 31km in 7.5 hours minus 2x 45 mins rest stops equates to about 5km/h. It became hot and sticky at 0900, not the usual 1000, and my new insoles are giving the 4th toe on each foot utter gip. I need to make some adjustments – either trim the insole or cut off the toes. Right now, I’m indifferent, I just need a solution.
Upon checking into La Laguna, I was greeted by a Jimmy Somerville, Pygmy-like, camp-as-a-row-of-tents, pants-hanging-down-his-bony-ass, demi-dwarf with a twisted smile and only one tooth (visible) in his mouth (lower left canine, I think). A couple of decades earlier, this type of appearance coupled with those mannerisms would have screamed “Gay-Plague”. Well, still the same today. That is one weird little man. Anyway, he took my money, gave me the “tour” and went back into his dark hole. I’ll be sleeping face up tonight and I don’t care if I snore…….
….because my roommates are a bunch of noisy Spanish students from the previous crib. They checked in after me, en masse, and had I known of their intentions, I would not have made this accommodation choice. One in particular, is absolutely rank, like something died a week ago under his armpits or in his crotch. How do I tell him that stinking like rotten fish is NOT a PREREQUISITE for doing the Camino? It can, indeed, should, be done hygienically. The technology exists, and I would be more than happy to foot the bill, if necessary. I also need to speak to his mates: friends shouldn’t let friends get stinky. The (new) Pilgrim Code.
This shrimpy, beardy piker is in the bunk above me, so at least with hot air rising, I may be spared some of the olfactory offence he carries so well. Dear boy, stinky is NOT cool. Through which gutter were you dragged up? Just because you have a Haysoos-style beard and you’re carrying a guitar, doesn’t mean you don’t have to bath, daily, with soap and preferably Teatree Oil. I’m not sure bleach and a wire brush would get him clean, but it would be a start. I bought some lavender essential oil as part of my defence/revenge mechanism. Hope he gets used to it. This is going to be a long night…and definitely an early start tomorrow!
It’s now hotter than a Bedouin’s nut-sack (I’m reliably informed) and yet the Pilgrims continue to stream into town post 1600. The Albergues here are now full. I don’t know where they go, other than further. I think the next stop is Reliegos at about +13km. That’s 2.5 hours at my morning pace (not in the sun) and 4 hours’ pace per the guide book estimate. That’s a LONG way away, late in the day. It perplexes and worries when I see this. An early start has the advantage of lower heat and higher probability of accommodation. My personal rule is finish no later than 1400, preferably 1300. It’s easy to be critical from a comfy chair with a cold beer. I hope I don’t fuck up.
Manaña.