Day 8 – Sansol to Logroño

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