Slog-Blog

As expected, the Albergue didn’t open until 0600 on the dot. Clunk, creak, clatter, then patter of feet. We were literally prisoners of the Vatican, banged up in ‘stir’ for the night. There were a few puzzled faces, geared up and ready to go at 0530, only to have to stand around and wait until the dungeon master appeared to free us. They didn’t ask the prior day, and to “assume” makes an “ass” out of “u” and “me”. Arf. Arf. I was stretching. They were pacing.

I’m on day one of three days collapsed into two to give me more time at the back end and in Finisterre. I am transiting part of the area called the Meseta, which is en route to Léon, the next significant destination.

It is soul-destroyingly boring. Much like a moonscape, but alas without the Lunar Rover. Nothing to see except mile-upon-mile of sun-bleached dirt and then more anaemic, unfriendly dirt.

And when you get into town, it’s so hot that the tarmac gives underfoot to my Tevas (imagine the problems with my stilettos…?) – and you can smell the oily discharged quite strongly. This uncomplimentary assessment is not my isolated, biased view, incidentally. It is the universally-held view of everyone here, that I, as unofficial, unelected, unaccountable spokesman (so European, no..?) am merely articulating. There was a lot of relief to have finished the day’s hiking. I know that some have cut this entire section out and chosen to take the bus to Léon. Pussies. Go big or go home. No middle ground.

Speaking of buses, I didn’t see any Koreans today. Maybe there’s a scheduled detour to an outlet mall…?

Redemption for the day’s travails is the piscina. Out of nowhere, in this one street, two dog, three car, four bar town, there’s a swimming pool. A humongous one. I’m guessing 27mx15m (weird, yes, but I measured and counted the squares in the fencing), with separate paddling pool, lifeguard, BBQ, fussball table and……bar. The lifeguard also moonlights as the barman and though he advertises cocktails, he’s unable to dispense them: a mixed-up mixologist.

Why someone put such a large structure in such a small town is beyond me. They did. It could have been 1/3 of the size and been more than ample, and I’m not sensing that the gene-pool here is going to produce the next Michael Phelps – if you feel me…? It’s here, as with much of the excess infrastructure, courtesy of Frau Merkel’s “free” €uros. My unit is nicely chilled and my tired legs feel great.

32km was a long way to walk with a heavy pack, in the heat and with nothing to occupy the mind but pain. Tomorrow will be the same but at least I’ll be able to leave at 0500+/- instead of the Fascista-mandated 0600 and knock some of the tedium out in the dark and cooler temperature.

It’s still a LONG, LONG way to Léon.

It’s beginning to cloud over (bit late for the pilgrims, eh, Big Yin..?). I’m going in for one last dip then back for dinner and zzzz.

Post script. Just after dinner, the Dominican Sisters offered a foot massage to pilgrims, which included moi. As I was waiting, I heard the saddest thing.

THUD!

A baby pigeon fell out of its nest, and without the strength to fly, it hit the ground right in front of the entrance to the Church. I’d have thought that the Powers That Be might have intervened on their own doorstep, but no. The little furry body shuddered and made a couple of final, sad sounds and was lifeless as the mother looked on from above the arch on the door. Now, I know the death of a baby pigeon ranks low by any measure of global relevance, but nonetheless, the timing and location were intriguing, so…..

I don’t “do” churches, but on this occasion, the confluence of events, free foot massage and avian death compelled me to do do. I’ve attached a couple of pictures of what is quite a warm and seemingly contemporary place of worship, located in a little town in the middle of nowhere. Vatican tendrils do indeed extend far.

Have a good night.

Day 14 Photo Gallery

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.

Day 15 Photo Gallery

 

Take a deep breath.

Relax.

Close your eyes.

Imagine a long, straight road. No traffic lights. No gas stations. No distractions. Endless fields of the same parched vegetation and scrub on each side. One, long, tarmac artery.

Another deep breath.

Then, imagine it is called the N-980 and you can walk right alongside it for 19.3km – and you would be with me on today’s leg.

I have very little to report for today’s hike – other than recommending Sam Kinison’s “Live from Hell” album, recorded shortly before his untimely death at the hands of a 17 year old drunk driver. Special mentions go to “Russians are Losers”, “JFK”, “Space Pussies”, “100 Hour War”, and “Don’t Swallow”. Kinison’s tombstone has an unattributed quote on it: “In another time and place, he would have been called a prophet”. Hmmm…..

It was intended as an easy day, and it was. My feet are recovering from yesterday’s ordeal and in anticipation of a similar ordeal tomorrow – taking advantage of long, flat stretches to give me more time in Finisterre. Decisions later on today.

The Coke machine on the way out of Villarmantero de Campos says I’ve done 371km and have a further 419km to Santiago, there after a further 90km +/- to Finisterre. Feels good but a lot of distance to go and a hard stop for vacation with Doris, Numpty and Maidrian on 25th August.

I splurged on accommodation today. In Carrion de los Condes, I shelled out €35 (vs €10 average) but I got my own room, my own loo, my own shower, my own towels, free soap, free shower gel and a TV. Everything will be used except the TV.

The calculus was simple. I left later than usual today at 0630 (yet even then I had to queue to perform basic functions) because I knew it was a short leg and didn’t want to arrive too early. Even with a stop in Villarmentero de Campos for the shittiest stale croissant I have ever had, the journey proved quicker than expected and I arrived at 1045. I could either hang around and wait for the municipal Albergue to open at 1300 or get checked in and use the time more constructively AND have an easier exit tomorrow morning. Easy-peasy.

There are more and more bus tours, dropping off clean, sweet-smelling, coiffured, spandex-clad porkers so they can do a bit of the Camino, sporting new sneakers and daypacks, and then stop off at their pre-arranged picnic points. Ugh! Today’s pension was about 50% pre-booked with these pikers and I suspect the problem becomes more acute the nearer to Santiago we get – so I need to get engaged in my own pre-planning with www.booking.com. However….there was a confirmed sighting of the Koreans of earlier posts, welded to their phones and battery packs as usual. Not a bead of sweat to be seen. Thibaud, dear boy, you are redeemed from your seemingly-unfounded, venomous accusations. You are a prophet. These pikers, “all the gear, and no idea”, just like my mucker in Henley, Ms Promiscuous Brompton.

Temperatures seem range between 16c and 33c (UK-people, sorry to rub that in, but it is my burden to carry, literally), getting pretty sticky from about 1000 onwards. Time to stock up on water and provisions for tomorrow. No water, coffee, tortilla, croissants, loo or people for the first 17km of the day.

Later.

Day 16 Photo Gallery

My expensive pension didn’t perform to expectations. A noisy French bunch continued to chatter into the night, their voices reverberating off the walls. I was unable to sleep for what seemed like ages, so I consequently slept in to catch up. That meant an unfashionably late 0700 departure, and 1320 arrival ~27km later, at another dot on the map called Terradillos de Templarios. Once again, our routing paralleled the highway.  Hard to get lost, hard to get interested.

The most interesting factoid I could dig up was that the 12-13km part of this route between Villotilla and Calzadilla is actually an old Roman road, the Via Traiana. The Via Traiana connected Astoria to Bordeaux, was built by Julius Caesar and as it is on what is effectively marshland, all the stone and rock for the foundation had to be brought in (from where I don’t know).

The high point of the day was meeting Una and breakfast at the Cafe Movil. Una is a 6 year old, brindle Boxer bitch. I asked the owners if she was friendly and if I could say hi/play and after that affirmative courtesy/safety check, I wrestled with her as only Boxer-people know. The Italians and the Australians who had been enjoying breakfast were aghast. WTF is that shiney-domed-doofus doing? Una was making scary, growling noises, doing downwards dog with a coiled spring as she launched herself at me in attempts to body check me, and jaws snapping away with bared teeth like a thresher on four legs – but her stump was wagging away throughout, and she was just having Boxer-fun. They thought I’d got sunstroke and gone doolally. Nothing of the sort. You just know, and so do the Boxers.

I’m going to try and finish “Le Freak” today. It’s Nile Rodgers’ book about Nile Rodgers. A great read, I have to say.  I may try and get round to a more fulsome review for those that care about black, drug-addled, Black Panther, disco, Thespian matters. I devoured a big chunk of it yesterday, to the point that I depleted my iPad down to 3% battery. Did you know that Claude Nobs is creator of the Montreaux Jazz Festival? Me neither. I thought it was a bad joke name like Claude Balls, Mike Hunt, Seymour Coochy, Anya Bakyabich or Harry Peratesteze, but apparently not. Learned that yesterday. Nile rocks.

So, in my €10 dormitory digs tonight, hoping for better luck on the sleep front as there is a generally-respected ‘lights out’ at 2200 protocol. Dinner served at 1800. I’ll be first in line; Bosch, get out of the way.  Towels to reserve your spot will do you no good!

I walked around in the obscene heat, doing my local due diligence…for you, my limited readership. Nothing. Nada. This is another town with a large church, a road running through it and little else to commend or differentiate it from the rest. Noted some interesting construction techniques that I’m not familiar with though, such as using clay, dung (?) and straw as scree for the outside of the building. Pictures don’t lie. See for yourself.

Another couple of days to Léon, and it gets interesting again. I hope. Sahagun is en route tomorrow. It is a feeder city for the Camino de Madrid….meaning Pilgrim volumes likely to rise.  More pikers, more competition for beds. Ugh! There used to be exclusivity in being an itinerant. No longer, it seems.

It’s hotter than Satan’s toe-nails, even in the shade. Weather is here, wish you were beautiful. But  you’re not.

Day 17 Photo Gallery