Today’s walk has a bit of impending sense of doom about it. One leaves Carrion de Los Condes and heads off on a 10 mile hike down an old Roman road. The guidebook warns travellers that there is no food or water on this section and pilgrims are advised to bring both. It is also the point at which the pilgrim pushes through the 250 mile point so it’s a bit of a tipping point. Below is yours truly on the road – the Romans, I guess, didn’t have to worry about people falling asleep at the wheel of a chariot so their roads are really dull.
The guidebook however hadn’t countered on man’s entrepreneurial spirit. After four miles we (me and a super American woman I met at Carrion, one of those Catholics who is clear-eyed about the failings of the institution of the church but doesn’t let that influence her devotion to Jesus) are sitting down to coffee and croissants at an impromptu cafe set up in the one copse along the road. The “cafe” owner looked a bit rough, barbecuing sausages on an filthy grill and adding some unusual seasoning by dropping ash from the fag he was simultaneously smoking. However he was honest – Mary bought her stuff and then when I tried to pay, refused saying that Mary had paid for us both.
Very scruffy for a Roman
This is traditionally a poorer part of Spain and the architecture had changed. The stonework has abruptly disappeared. In the second village today, the housing was predominantly mud bricks. Quite amazing to see this – of course it has its advantages. If for example you get some cracking in your walls, no need for expensive structural repairs – just walk into the nearest field, collect a wheelbarrow of mud and Bob’s your uncle.
Yep, it’s mud
A 25 mile day saw me arrive in Sahagun, once a centre of ecclesiastical power in Spain. All I can say is that it’s gone downhill a bit in the last few hundred years. Still, some interesting architecture remains. Using the local mud to at least make proper bricks the church below has a distinctive tower. To me it looks a bit Moorish.
San Tirso
I had booked a room at a guesthouse in town, reckoning that 25 miles was a reasonable day’s trek. I got a phone-call about noon from someone who was keen to ensure that I knew the way to the guesthouse. I was pleasantly surprised by this superb level of customer service (to phone a UK mobile from Spain can’t be cheap). I was even more surprised when he gave me a different address to the one I was expecting. Transpired that where I had booked was full and they had transferred my booking to the confusingly named La Bastide du Chemin. Yep, they were French which at least made checking in a lot easier. If you expand the picture below you might just see the tricolour hanging up.
France comes to Spain
Ran into my young German friend in town and he kindly invited me to join him and his friends for a fish salad they were making at the municipal albergue. I declined because I’m sure they had only bought enough for their group and also because they had no mechanism for cooking the fish. A sushi salad? Not too sure about that.
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