Startpoint: Viloria de Rioja; Endpoint: Villafranca Montes de Oca; Steps taken: 27,959; Distance Walked: 21km. Conditions: bit dreary, drizzly and cold.

We had dinner in the hostel last night with two Americans, one of whom spoke Spanish; a Canadian who spoke German; an Austrian who spoke Spanish; a Spaniard who also spoke Spanish and the hostel owners: a Brazilian and (I think) a Spanish lady, both of whom seemed to speak every language out there.

Dinner was very good and very plentiful. Soup, salad, rice and beans, and lots of wine. As I was a vegetarian, I was requested by the landlady to finish off the salad. I would have preferred to finish off the wine, and did my best to achieve that, but everytime we finished one bottle, another one appeared. It was a thoroughly enjoyable and totally impossible goal. I went to bed defeated and cheerful.

When we were leaving this morning, the landlady mammy’d us out the door. She made sure we hadn’t forgotten anything, warned us about the wet weather, held my camera as I ran back to get the pedometer, helped Dad on with his poncho and finally sent us off into the light drizzle with a sad smile and a concerned look. Dad doesn’t know, but I snuck an extra donation into the money box before we left. I was quite impressed with how the two owners had welcomed us, cooked for us and eaten dinner with us, for only €5 a head.

As we walked away in early morning twilight, the sun rose behind us and our shadows appeared in front. Dad pointed out that the concrete floor was a safety hazard and it was only a matter of time before some poor pilgrim stubbed their toe. I kept the extra donation quiet.

About six kilometers down the road, we realised that we’d left a mobile phone and charger back at the hostel. Once we reached the next town we took a taxi back, covering our faces like celebrities in case any fellow pilgrims thought we were cheating. The landlady handed us the phone when we got there, and waved us off again, like a pair of schoolchildren who’d forgotten their lunch money.

Technically that means we’ve travelled about 39k today, but we’ve decided to strike that 20 minutes of air-conditioned, leather-seated, Volvo-goodness from the official record. After all, the taxi-driver didn’t even stamp our little booklets!

In Belorado we came across a very frightening sight: a giant hand print and footprint were recorded in a bronze paving slab beneath our feet. The footprint was from a bare foot, but was still an inch and a half longer than my size 9 boots. Dad and I huddled together in case this giant of a man would suddenly lurch out at us from an alleyway. I didn’t recognise or remember the name engraved above the footprint, so who knows if the giant foot belongs to a cannibal from hundreds of years ago, or a modern day small-town serial killer!? Scary.

We fearfully made it to the next street and found even more bronzed footprints. Luckily, after a few hundred meters we found something to help us relax – Emilio Estevez’s booted print stamped in the ground. I compared my boot with his and laughed heartily. If Emilio ‘tinytoes’ Estevez can survive a walk through BigFoot’s town then we would be okay. Thanks Emilio – bless you and your (small) cotton socks!

Today, Dad and I discussed the hierarchy of chefs, my Junior Cert Art project from 1994, the situation in Syria and the Middle East, and the fashion dos and don’ts concerning Crocs and flip-flops. Dad insists that he will bring Crocs next time he travels on the Camino. I’m not sure I can take the shame. I bought myself some flip-flops for using in the hostels. They have a small brazilian flag on them, so I know they are fashionable.

The place we are staying in Villafranca Monte de Oca is half-hotel and half-hostel, meaning that for an extra €50 a night, other people aren’t allowed eavesdrop on your conversations. As I document all of our conversations here, Dad and I decided to save the money so he can buy some decent Crocs when he goes home. We did spend an extra tenner to sleep on snazzy single beds, rather than bunks, so we’re really living it up.

When we arrived in the hostel, we heard lots of Irish accents. When we made ourselves known to the diaspora, none of whom we’d met before, they looked at us and exclaimed delightly: “you’re the father and son!”. Apparently word of us is being passed back and forth between the Irish on the trail. We won’t let the fame go to our (already oversized) heads.

We overheard the Irish lads arranging a place to stay for tomorrow night. They are travelling with a German man and every time the price of a hostel is mentioned, they ask him to seek authorisation from Angela Merkel for the spend.

As we went to dinner earlier, we passed the lads in the hotel lobby, gathered around a mobile, drinking pints and listening to the All-Ireland replay. It’s so strange to be so far from home.

As I went into the bathroom earlier this evening to wash my socks, I met a Frenchman and a Canadian. The Frenchman was coming out of the showers, the Canadian was going in. Both were naked. They were discussing the D-day landings in Normandy and the large numbers of German tourists who attend the commemoration ceremony each year. They both agreed it was a good thing as we were all part of one big happy international family now. I would have found this display of reconciliation and forgiveness quite heartwarming had either man been wearing underwear.

The Frenchman was able to guess my nationality from the colour of my t-shirt and laundry bag (both green). In turn he asked me to guess their nationalities. Based on their accents, I guessed French (correct) and American (incorrect), having failed to notice the large maple leaf tattooed on the Canadian’s chest.

Note to self: when in the showers and a large naked man with a shaved head and a tattoo on his chest finishes a discussion of his military career by asking you to guess where he’s from, if he’s Canadian, it doesn’t really matter if you get it wrong. Canadians are so damn nice and easy-going.

Buen Camino.