Startpoint: Calzadilla de la Cuerza; Endpoint: Sahagun; Distance walked: 22.5km; Steps taken: I’m guessing 29,000 – the pedometer isn’t co-operating.

A little earlier today, I met Walter from Australia, who is also walking the Camino. He is walking to raise awareness of Cystic Fibrosis, so along with the difficulty of walking 800km, he’s also carrying a 16kg pack which contains his medicines as well as all his gear. If you’re as impressed as I was, and you’re on facebook, you can follow Walter’s progress on http://www.facebook.com/coughing4cf
You can also follow this blog on facebook on http://www.facebook.com/baldfeet.

I slept very well last night in pastel-pink sheets. During the night, i made a lot of noise and the turned the lights on and off a few times, just cause I could. Nobody in the room snored, farted, coughed, or screamed in their sleep; or if they did, it was me and I don’t care.

I started walking before sunrise and had about 4km done before it came my shadow appeared. I turned and faced the rising sun and smiled as the light hit me. Then the other walkers started giving me strange looks.

In the last twenty-four hours, I’ve been mistaken for Finnish, Brazilian and British. The Finnish and British are probably due to my pale complexion and I’m putting the Brazilian confusion down to the samba rhythm of my hips as I walk. I’ve looked at myself in the mirror and I can assure you that watching me walk is quite something, even when I’m hobbling along in dirty trekking pants and leaning on a second-hand broomstick.

When I stopped for coffee, I got chatting to four ladies about the elevated train system in Wuppertal, Germany. They had all bought bananas in the coffee shop. I also tried to buy a banana, but was only given an apple. At least it was better than my last apple, which had fallen from a tree beside the path and which, when cut open, contained the second half of a very recently deceased worm.

I arrived in Sahagun not knowing would I stay for the day or move on. I decided to have some lunch while I thought about it. The first place I found was an Irish pub. I ordered a cervesa and some tortilla patatas. As I drank my beer and ate my potatoes I considered how much I dislike national stereotypes. I decided to stay in town to ponder this conundrum some more.

Luckily I was still early enough to have my pick of bottom bunks in the hostel. No dangling my pale-white legs in front of a stranger’s face tomorrow morning. They don’t even know what they’re missing.

I passed the halfway point today. It wasn’t marked on the trail or on the map. I celebrated by taking a photo of a South Korean couple with their own camera. The background was a piece of trail like any other.

Saturday is market day in Sahagun. It was louder than anything I’ve ever heard and I only caught the tale end of it. I tried to buy a handful of nuts to snack on as I wandered around, but miscalculated. My pack is now two kilos heavier than it was and my fibre intake for the next two weeks is assured.

The churches in Spain all close during the day, but as I passed one, a lady spotted my Brazilian looks and immediately took me for a tourist. She offered to open the church for me to look around it. I accepted. Unlike most of the churches on the Camino, this one was badly in need of repair and renovation. Brickwork was damaged or missing; the statues were cheap plastic or plaster and handwritten paper signs described which saint was portrayed by each statue. Some of the statues were dressed in cloth costumes, like shop window dummies. There was no gold and no marble. The woman who had opened the door for me sat patiently while I looked around. There was a box for donations, but she didn’t ask me for anything. I considered offering her a half-kilo of toasted almonds to thank her for letting me in, but dropped some coins in the box instead.

Buen Camino

Startpoint: Fromista; Endpoint: Calzadilla de la Cuerza; Distance walked: 36km; Steps taken: 45,184; Conditions: started off raining, brightened up after while, turned into a scorcher of a day, then rained again.

Big news: I’ve just been served a

pint

of beer! In a pint glass! Without even asking for it! I just asked for “uno cervasa” and she pulled a Carlsberg pint glass from under the counter, filled it up, handed it to me asked for €2.20 in return. I would think I’ve died and gone to heaven, except they don’t serve food for another hour and a half and I’m bloody starving!

Long long day today and it didn’t start well. We were warned yesterday evening that two lads in our room were terrible snorers. Not true. I didn’t hear any noise from either of them, and when I woke up, they’d both packed and gone, silently and without disturbing a soul, but…

There was one crazily terrible snorer in the room and they were in the bunk under mine. It sounded like a tractor farting tubas and lasted right through the night. At one stage, the little bag of goodies I keep under my pillow (passport, watch, camera, wallet, coins) slipped through the rails of the bunk and fell to the floor with a loud bang, six inches from the snorer’s head. It gave the room peace for about five minutes. It was a complete accident with unintended positive results. Really, it was. Totally accidental.

I had a bad morning this morning. After the snoring and bag dropping, I somehow nodded off and ended up sleeping late. I was the last person in the room to wake up. I checked my phone and realised I’d had it plugged into a dud power-outlet all night, so it was about to die. Then I checked my trekking pants, which I’d washed the day before and realised they were still wet. Then I noticed I was missing the lid off my bottle of ‘all-purpose soap’ and it had leaked all over my washbag. I went to the showers to find the lid, and was successful, but apparently peering into a shower and groping around for the lid is not good practice when somebody else is using it. People can be so sensitive. Then I went back to the dorm and started to pack my bag. After I few minutes, I noticed that the nozzle of my water-bladder was open and it had leaked all over the floor. When I finally got down to the kitchen, they’d finished serving breakfast and I was told I would have to go hungry for being so late. It was not a good morning.

I returned to my life of crime. While the hostel-manager’s back was turned, I grabbed a lump of bread left on the sideboard after breakfast and stuffed in my pocket before hitting the road. As I’d paid €2.50 for the breakfast and the lump of bread was probably worth about €0.25, I don’t think I need to feel guilty. The heavy rain softened the hard crusty bread as I tore at it with my teeth while walking.

Today was one of those days with a difficult choice. The guidebook that everybody else is using (John Brierley?) recommends a short 20km walk into Carrion de los Condes, as the next leg is a 17km ‘long flat section with little shade’ and without a hostel, shop, fountain or anything. As I walked the first 20km, I bumped into a Spanish man who’d learned his English as an exchange student in Dublin. He warned me of the seventeen kilometer desert that awaited us. He’d done the Camino before, by bicycle, and talked of this leg of the Meseta with fear and awe. He was planning a long day of rest in Carrion before tackling it first thing in the morning, before the sun got hot. Some people, he told me, do it at night. The road is so straight, flat and boring there is nothing to miss, except heat exhaustion and dehydration.

However, my guidebook is a much simpler tome. A lightweight book of (often inaccurate) maps. It mentions stocking up on food and water before leaving Carrion, but nothing more. After a croissant, a cafe-con-leche and an orange juice in Carrion, I decided to push on. It seemed a shame to stop walking before noon.

I added a 500ml bottle of water to my load and went into a bakery to get some carbs. I pointed at a soft, sweet looking bun and left satisfied I was well prepared to cross the desert everyone feared so much.

I paused briefly while I was leaving Carrion to adjust my pack. I inadvertently featured in the photos of some French pilgrims. I apologised, but they indicated it wasn’t a problem. ‘You are now part of our Camino’, one of them said, laughing. ‘Yeah, and you’re a part of mine, pal’, I muttered to myself as I scribbled his description in my notebook. ‘You’re a part of mine’.

The first 5k of the desert walk were a doddle. I could have been in any county in Ireland: small fields of crops, hedgerows and a long flat straight road in need of some repair. It would be perfect for (irish) road bowling, I thought, wishing I had a small cannonball handy. I hummed ‘Ireland’s Call’ to myself as I marched along.

The sun was hot, so I took out my trekking pants and hung them from the bag by buttoning the top button of the trousers around the top handle of the bag. I didn’t bother doing up the fly, cause that’s the way I roll. I’m a wildman! My unzipped pants flew behind me in the sunny breeze as I strode confidently into the desert.

The sun got hotter as the afternoon moved on. I overtook my shadow and passed it on my right. I went to put on my sunglasses, and only noticed then that the right lens was missing. As the sun was on my left, I thought it was quite a useful adaption. I had protection on my left and full visibility on my right. I may bring out a range of tinted monacles targetted at people who only walk in one direction.

[Just received second pint; only 30 minutes to dinner]

About 13k through the desert, I took a rest at a small shaded place. I removed my shoes and socks and they flies swarmed around them. I don’t know what the flies wanted – the shoes and socks were nasty. Seriously nasty.

I took my sweet soft bun from my bag and oh! what a disappointment! It was not soft, it was not sweet, it may not even have been bread. In a cunning trick of baking artiface, my snack was made entirely of crust! A hard thick tasteless crust encompassing an empty centre containing only air. Alas, there was no rain to soften the bread this time. I forced it down my maw anyway. I threw the crumbs on the ground, hoping it would lure the flies away from my footwear, but even they preferred the sweat from my toes to the abomination of crust.

I arrived in Calzadilla and treated myself to a small hotel room, rather than risk the snorers in the hostel. They seem to have the same wifi provider as the last place, so who knows when this will be go online.

We’ve just been called for dinner, so I’m leaving my table in the bar (two Finnish ladies, one Frenchman, one South Korean lady who lives in San Francisco and a Dutch lady.

***

My dinner company was a Belgian girl, an Italian girl and a Spanish guy. They took the piss out of me for staying in the hotel rather than the hostel. Caring less is too much effort at the moment.

My Mum and Dad just called to check my progress. My Dad says he misses the Camino, like one might miss a sore tooth that’s just been pulled.

Buen Camino

Late again: it appears the WiFi in these towns is powered by a small elderly gentleman turning a large wheel on a generator. That gentleman often has toilet breaks (weak kidneys) and goes home early for his dinner most evenings. If I find him, I’ll beat him with my stick and tell him to work harder.

Startpoint: Hontanas; Endpoint: Fromista; Distance walked: 34km; Steps taken: 43,177; Conditions: started with a hint of rain, but never materialised and ended with a lot of sun.

Today was my longest walk so far. I aimed for 21k, added on another 8k when I got there cause I wasn’t tired, then added on another 5 because the place at 8 was a bit of a kip. Arriving in the municipal hostel in Fromista, I was quite proud with the distance we’d walked – not many people would do that distance in one day, I thought. As we walked in we were greeted by about ten people who’d done the same distance, done it faster and had checked in, showered and done their laundry before we got there. A lot of them had beers in their hands; just to mock us.

Today I walked with a man from England. We discussed Pope Francis, car engines, wind turbines, business ethics and walking poles. We also rescued a small mouse from the road, as we were worried he’d get trodden on.

On the walked, I thought I saw the mirage of an Irish flag flying at the top of a hill. From a distance it seemed faint and faded and I wondered was I imagining things. I changed my mind twice or three times between the bottom of the hill and the top. When we finally arrived at the top of the hill, it turned out to be a scruffy old pair of boxer shorts that somebody had tied to an upright stick. For reasons unknown, a small Irish flag had also been attached to the base of the stick, from where it had not been visible from the base of the hill.

At one point, we paused for a rest at a small picnic area, where I bought and ate a banana. While there we got chatting to an Australian/German couple. The four of us had lunch together. As they ate sausages and I ate rice, the topic turned to the ethical disposal of banana skins. The consensus at the table was that any stickers should be removed from the banana skin, before the skin itself be returned to nature to decompose naturally. As I had thrown my own banana skin in the bin, I wondered was I being very gently reprimanded.

We’re currently walking through an area of the Camino, between Burgos and Leon, which is often described as a desert. A lot of people skip it altogether as it’s so flat, empty and boring. What a lot of drivel. The last 5k of today’s walk was a gentle stroll along the banks of a leafy and well-maintained canal. I was very tempted to jump in for a swim to cool down from the hot afternoon sun. However, still smarting from the banana skin affair, I decided it was better to behave myself for the time being to avoid getting in any serious trouble.

Arriving at the hostel today, my sore feet reminded me of an incident yesterday afternoon. A muscly and tattooed Spanish man (he looked like a cross between Captain Jack Sparrow and Fabio) was giving a long, slow foot massage to a tall, slim blonde lady. It looked so nice, I was very tempted to ask Captain Fabio if I could have a foot massage myself, but in the end, I was too shy. I regret that decision. Maybe Cptn Fab would have played ‘this little piggy’ on my toes… I love that game. I left massaging my own feet now, but playing ‘this little piggy’ on your own toes is no fun. The whole element of surprise is missing.

After finding our beds this afternoon, we were warned by a fellow pilgrim that the worst snorers of the walk are sharing our room. We discussed the best methods of waking bad snorers without being found out, but as nobody has a water pistol, catapult or cattle prod with them, we may have to simply poke them with our walking poles. If the snoring is as bad as we’ve been told, I may be too tired to blog tomorrow. If that happens, please just re-read your favourite sections from the last two weeks and consider it a ‘best of’ special.

Buen Camino

Startpoint: Burgos; Endpoint: Hontanas; Steps taken: 40,010; Distance walked: 29.5km; Conditions: like a pitbull in a muzzle, the rain kept threatening, but never bit.

Sorry about the delay on this post. I wrote it last night while watching a huge thunderstorm, but when I clicked ‘Publish’, my phone couldn’t find the wifi signal. Being a smart chap, I knew what to do: I took the battery out of the phone to reset it, after which the wifi worked perfectly. Unfortunately, the blog had been deleted. I will now try to recreate the brilliance of my post from last night. It’s a difficult task.

I had dinner in Burgos in a small tapas bar, where they were playing motown, soul and classic rock. Having seen The Commitments three times, I consider myself quite the aficionado of soul. The tiny waitress served me fresh warm tapas. I know they were fresh because I watched her microwave them right in front of me. She was so tiny, she had to reach up to the beer taps, like I might reach up to a showerhead. She could very easily have had a beer shower. I don’t know if she ever did, but I can’t think of any reason why she wouldn’t have.

As I ate my dinner, a couple entered the bar carrying a little dog. It was one of those scruffy hairy ginger dogs that looks a bit like a rat. The dog was wearing a red velour onesy. I’ve never seen a dog look more embarrassed. If my visit to the museum of human evolution taught me anything, it’s that opposable thumbs gives Homo Sapiens the evolution advantage of imposing ridiculous costumes on other species. If dogs could undo their own zips, the world would be a very different place.

The lighter bag, rest day, cool weather and flat terrain all conspired to allow me walk a little further today. Unfortunately a step is a step is a step, so my feet were very sore last night. On the terrace in the hostel, a muscly tattooed Spanish man (looked like a cross between Captain Jack Sparrow and Fabio), was giving a long slow foot massage to a tall slim blonde woman he’d met along the trail. I was tempted, but finally too embarrassed to ask would he massage my feet too. I regret that now; maybe he would played ‘this little piggy’ on my toes. I love that song.

On the trail, I met an American girl and an English guy and we all checked into the hostel together. At dinner, we discussed tattoos, couch-surfing, and freetarianism. Freetarianism (if that’s the right word) is about only eating food other people throw away. Anecdotally it can feed a group of ex-squatters on a feast of lobster and potatoes in a warehouse in Copenhagen.

When I wrote this post last night, in the thunderstorm, with lightening flashing and hailstones pummelling the roof it was much funnier. Trust me.

Buen Camino!

Startpoint: Atapuerca; Endpoint: Burgos; Steps taken: 27,301; Distance walked: 18km; Conditions: I’ve been wetter but only while in the bath.

Well, he’s done it. After 398,720 steps and covering 289km, my Dad completed his Camino trek for the time-being after arriving in Burgos. Tomorrow, he heads for Madrid to fly home and on Wednesday I hit the trail again without him.

As we completed the last 20km walk from Atapuerca to Burgos, it rained heavily again and the wheat fields were sodden. Fields of sunflowers mourned his passing with bowed heads and black faces. We discussed the least cost mix formulation method of feeding cattle and he told me a funny story about someone stealing a dead cat. I told him a story about a priest; it was meant to be funny, but it wasn’t.

We tried to follow a diversion into Burgos to “avoid urban sprawl”, but if we got the scenic route, I’d hate to see the other options. Luckily, the city centre and old town are beautiful.

We spent about two hours looking around the huge romanesque cathedral. On the way in, we got some abuse for not presenting our pilgrim passes to qualify for a discount. We weren’t trying to get a discount, we were happy to pay full price (an extra €3.50) in order to not walk back to our hotel and up two flights of stairs and back again. The cashier was disgusted at our cavalier attitude, clearly she’s never walked the Camino herself or she’d know the value of not walking.

The cathedral is huge, complex and ridiculously ornate. It seems every bishop, prince or king since 1250 added a chapel, an arch or a refurbishment in return for them and their family being buried their and having a statue erected in their honour. We also saw El Cid’s burial place in the cathedral and numerous pictures of him on the walls. For someone who died 800 years ago, they’re certainly very sure that he was a fierce good-looking man. And he had a lovely horse too. Some people have all the luck.

While looking for a restaurant for dinner, I was very excited to see a sign for a vegetarian place and persuaded Dad to go there. It was closed when we arrived and wasn’t due to open until December 19th, which was slightly longer than we were willing to wait.

In the end, we bumped into some friends from the trail and had dinner with them. We discussed Lacrosse, Chartreuse and snow tyres. One of the ladies had sat on a bench outside an Albergue, but was quickly warned by the Irish guy sitting beside her that ‘the last girl who sat down on this bench beside me fell in love with me’. So she left and joined us for dinner.

With Dad leaving tomorrow, I’m going to send home some stuff I haven’t used in an attempt to lighten my bag. I’ve only fully decided on letting go of one spare pair of socks. Hopefully that’ll make a difference. I’m not sure how I’ll get on without Dad here. Although he’s been featured in it, he hasn’t been reading the blog. My biggest fear is that he reads it once he gets home; sees what I’ve been saying about him and comes back out to give me a serious clip around the ear.

There is only one socket in the room we’re in, but I was quicker so Dad’s phone is charging in the bathroom. He’s gone to sleep now and is snoring in protest at the lack of electrical outlets. It really won’t be the same without his nightly nasal nochturns. I guess I could send my earplugs home with him too.

Buen Camino.

Startpoint: Villafranca Montes de Oca; Endpoint: Atapuerca; Steps taken: 24,283; Distance walked: 18k; Conditions: a grand soft day (i.e. wet as hell, if hell were wet).

When we left our hostel in Viloria de Rioja on Saturday morning, we were warned that rain was expected for the weekend. It would be coming from the west, the landlady said, from the ocean, from where we’re heading. My Dad called it a present from Galicia.

Yesterday, we got some drizzle and a few light showers after we arrived in town. But today, the present from Galicia really arrived. I guess in Spai, even the weather turns up a bit late.

We started this morning with a 13km climb into the mountains and a trek through pine-forests back down to San Juan de Ortega. Unlike the last few stages, there was nowhere to stop or find shelter along the way. As predicted a day earlier, the wind was from the west, blowing straight into our faces and it was heavy with rain. Heavy, driving, cold, hard rain. It was a horrible day. And we were flying!

We realised that this is what we were built for. This is what we trained for. This is what we trained in! The wet pine needles and soggy pine-cones mixed with the red sandy clay of the path to make a muddy gravely slush. Little rivulets cross the path running from puddle to puddle through twigs and loose stones. We could have been walking through a Coillte forest up in Tibradden or Cruagh. The Irish boys were in their element.

We stormed past the Spanish, the French, the Americans and the Australians. The sallow-skinned striders who’d left us sweating in the sun on previous days couldn’t keep up with our furious march into the driving wet! We hummed and whistled marching songs as we strode past them. They looked on and listened in amazement as snatches of “It’s a long way to Tipperary” and the theme tune from “The Great Escape” reached their sodden ears whenever they found the courage to look up from staring at their mucky boots in dejected misery. They weren’t eating our dust. There was no dust, but they were munching our mud.

Dad was wearing summer shorts under his rain-poncho and I was carrying sunglasses in the neck of my t-shirt, just in case. If there was a competition for walking through wet weather in inappropriate clothing, the Irish would be unstoppable. Dad and I might not make the team, but we’d certainly be on the squad.

As we walked, occasionally Dad or I would murmur ‘I think it’s brightening up a bit over there’, while pointing a shivering blue finger at a random patch of uniformly grey sky. It didn’t brighten up, and we just laughed at the storm’s persistence.

The cold and wet seemed to ease our sore feet, sprained ankles and tired knees. This is what we’d been missing – the home ground advantage. We covered the thirteen kilometres to San Juan in just two hours and twenty minutes.

Bring it on, Galicia! I’m coming for you and I can take any weather you can throw at me!

During our walk today, Dad and I discussed the differences between moose and elk; Lucy, the pre-human remains found in Ethiopia in the 70s and the underlying spiritual message to be found in the Gruffalo books. I took the books quite literally, while Dad believes there is a deeper metaphysical message which I’ve been missing. In fairness, he has been studying the books longer than I have.

We also helped a Spanish lady find her little white dog. She was walking through the little town of Ages, whistling and calling. As she gave up and turned around, Dad and I noticed her little white dog. It was behind a bush. We whistled and called it until it came over and then walked it back to its owner. I don’t know what she would have done without us. We’re heroes really, but we don’t seek any reward. We’re good like that.

We stopped sooner than we intended to today. We changed our intended destination yesterday, but both forgot that we’d decided to give ourselves a shorter day tomorrow by going further today. We only realised after we’d showered and unpacked, so a long walk tomorrow it is.

I like our hostel today. Every bed has both a shelf and a power outlet, so no more scrambling for phone chargers while other pilgrims are changing their underwear with their backs turned. Not tonight anyway. Tomorrow, Dad and I are sharing a twin room in Burgos. We don’t know how many power sockets it has, so all bets are off. I have youth on my side, but he has experience on his.

Buen Camino.

Startpoint: Villafranca Montes de Oca; Endpoint: Atapuerca; Steps taken: 24,283; Distance walked: 18k; Conditions: a grand soft day (i.e. wet as hell, if hell were wet).

When we left our hostel in Viloria de Rioja on Saturday morning, we were warned that rain was expected for the weekend. It would be coming from the west, the landlady said, from the ocean, from where we’re heading. My Dad called it a present from Galicia.

Yesterday, we got some drizzle and a few light showers after we arrived in town. But today, the present from Galicia really arrived. I guess in Spai, even the weather turns up a bit late.

We started this morning with a 13km climb into the mountains and a trek through pine-forests back down to San Juan de Ortega. Unlike the last few stages, there was nowhere to stop or find shelter along the way. As predicted a day earlier, the wind was from the west, blowing straight into our faces and it was heavy with rain. Heavy, driving, cold, hard rain. It was a horrible day. And we were flying!

We realised that this is what we were built for. This is what we trained for. This is what we trained in! The wet pine needles and soggy pine-cones mixed with the red sandy clay of the path to make a muddy gravely slush. Little rivulets cross the path running from puddle to puddle through twigs and loose stones. We could have been walking through a Coillte forest up in Tibradden or Cruagh. The Irish boys were in their element.

We stormed past the Spanish, the French, the Americans and the Australians. The sallow-skinned striders who’d left us sweating in the sun on previous days couldn’t keep up with our furious march into the driving wet! We hummed and whistled marching songs as we strode past them. They looked on and listened in amazement as snatches of “It’s a long way to Tipperary” and the theme tune from “The Great Escape” reached their sodden ears whenever they found the courage to look up from staring at their mucky boots in dejected misery. They weren’t eating our dust. There was no dust, but they were munching our mud.

Dad was wearing summer shorts under his rain-poncho and I was carrying sunglasses in the neck of my t-shirt, just in case. If there was a competition for walking through wet weather in inappropriate clothing, the Irish would be unstoppable. Dad and I might not make the team, but we’d certainly be on the squad.

As we walked, occasionally Dad or I would murmur ‘I think it’s brightening up a bit over there’, while pointing a shivering blue finger at a random patch of uniformly grey sky. It didn’t brighten up, and we just laughed at the storm’s persistence.

The cold and wet seemed to ease our sore feet, sprained ankles and tired knees. This is what we’d been missing – the home ground advantage. We covered the thirteen kilometres to San Juan in just two hours and twenty minutes.

Bring it on, Galicia! I’m coming for you and I can take any weather you can throw at me!

During our walk today, Dad and I discussed the differences between moose and elk; Lucy, the pre-human remains found in Ethiopia in the 70s and the underlying spiritual message to be found in the Gruffalo books. I took the books quite literally, while Dad believes there is a deeper metaphysical message which I’ve been missing. In fairness, he has been studying the books longer than I have.

We also helped a Spanish lady find her little white dog. She was walking through the little town of Ages, whistling and calling. As she gave up and turned around, Dad and I noticed her little white dog. It was behind a bush. We whistled and called it until it came over and then walked it back to its owner. I don’t know what she would have done without us. We’re heroes really, but we don’t seek any reward. We’re good like that.

We stopped sooner than we intended to today. We changed our intended destination yesterday, but both forgot that we’d decided to give ourselves a shorter day tomorrow by going further today. We only realised after we’d showered and unpacked, so a long walk tomorrow it is.

I like our hostel today. Every bed has both a shelf and a power outlet, so no more scrambling for phone chargers while other pilgrims are changing their underwear with their backs turned. Not tonight anyway. Tomorrow, Dad and I are sharing a twin room in Burgos. We don’t know how many power sockets it has, so all bets are off. I have youth on my side, but he has experience on his.

Buen Camino.

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.

Startpoint: Cireuña; Endpoint: Viloria de Rioja; Steps taken: 26,794; Distance walked: 20km. Conditions: a little overcast but still bright, warm but not too hot, perfect for walking. It´s begun to get a little cloudy and windy now and we´ve been told there may be rain tomorrow. 

I´m typing this from a big comfy armchair in our hostel in Viloria de Rioja. Dad and I were the first pilgrims to arrive. We were waiting outside when the landlady opened the doors at 2pm. She knew us as the Misters Magee when I said I had reserved two beds. She greeted us in perfect English and invited us inside where there was music playing and incense burning. It´s not hard to enjoy this. 

Last night, we had dinner in the local pub in Cirueña with two Bulgarian ladies, two Spanish gents (one from Catalonia, one from Andalusia), and a man from Brazil. Much was translated and much was lost in translation, but everyone enjoyed the meal. One of the Bulgarian girls is also writing a blog and has nearly 700 fans. But she is able to write with both hands at the same time, which probably explains her popularity. Dad and the Catalonian man discussed the economic logic behind Real Madrid´s signing of Gareth Bale for [holds little finger to mouth like Doctor Evil] a hundred million Euros, but they were unable to figure it out. Dad gave the Brazialian man the name of an Irish bishop he used to know, in case they find each other. Brazil only has 205 million people, so it is possible.

After dinner, our grumpy landlord came to the pub to remind us all that the hostel closes at 9.30pm, so we better get back and go to bed, which we did. 

Shortly after lights out, the couple sharing with us turned on a machine. It was some form of breathing apparatus, which lead me to wonder (in my sleepy, tipsy state), whether the guy was actually Darth Vader in disguise. The machine made a noise like a large industrial vacuum-cleaner gargling wet concrete. When I got out of my squeaky top-bunk bed to get my earplugs, I was told to keep the noise down.

I had an odd dream during the night. I dreamt that I was a shapeshifting superhero cat/ninja and was fighting off my evil enemies. At one point in the dream, I gave Darth Vader two super-fast karate kicks right to the face. Unfortunately I was actually kicking the bars of my bunkbed, which woke up my Dad. My foot hurts now. 

I was told today that the machine was a sleep apnea machine and if the man hadn´t used it, he would not have been able to breath in his sleep. I feel bad for trying to super-cat-ninja-kick him in my sleep.

I often have difficulty finding places to charge my mobilephone in the hostels. I wonder does Darth Vader have difficulty finding places to plug in his Vader machine.  We met the same couple on the road today. They were very nice. I hope we never meet them again. 

The grumpy landlord gave us toast for breakfast this morning. Very hard, very old toast. Out of spite, we ate lots of it. 

At ten o´clock, after about thirteen kilometers, we stopped to have an orange juice, a cafe-con-leche and a slice of cake. We bumped into two Irish lads and an Australian girl we´ve been seeing every so often. They´d stayed in Santo Domingo overnight and were moving on to Belorado, from one decent size town to another. We stayed in Cirueña last night (a small villlage) and we´ve now  moved on to Vilora de Rioja (a second grade hamlet). Getting back on the big town circuit would require a very long day or a very short day, so we´ll be staying in small places until we reach Burgos on Monday. 

Staying in smaller places means we need to ring ahead and book beds in advance. When I called our current hostel yesterday, she told me they open at 2pm, so we should eat before we arrive, as there is no bar in the town to get food. I took this to mean that we would have access to neither food nor drink from 2pm this afternoon to 10am tomorrow morning. As such, we stocked up in Grañon. For the last seven kilometres of today´s walk, in addition to my already overweight pack, I carried a tin of tomatoes, a bag of pasta, some sweetcorn, four cans of beer and small bag of olives.

We arrived in Viloria de Rioja to find that the hostel offers both dinner and breakfast in return for a voluntary donation. They also sell cans of cold beer for 1 euro a pop. I made a joke to a Canadian sitting beside us that after carrying my warm can seven kilometers, it would taste extra good. The cold can he carried from the kitchen seems to be suiting him just fine. 

Today we left the Rioja region and moved into the province of Castilla y Leon. We could see changes in the use of the land straight away. Instead of vineyards, we passed by fields of sunflowers, cauliflower, cabbages, onions and wheat. Unfortunately, this means there is far less scope for petty theft of farm produce. 

My Dad says that he thinks they also used to grow oats here, as he could see wild oats growing in some of the ditches. This may have been a double entendre I didn´t understand. 

Today we discussed Dad´s work in the IT industry during the seventies and eighties. At one stage, a typist´s error nearly lead to a computer manual answering the important question ´how many bites can fit on a floppy dick´. 

He also told about an early referencing system once used which would have lead to clients in Ardfert, County Kerry recieving statements during the month of September numbered ArSe01, ArSe02 and so on. 

We had lunch with the Irish lads and Aussie girl in a town called Catildelgado. The local hotel, restaurant and bar was a truckers´rest-stop called El Chocolaterea. They didn´t serve chocolate. Dad wanted a KitKat after his eggs and bacon but they told him he couldn´t have one. Across the road was a place called Club Galicia. It had silhouettes of female bodies painted in bright pink on its blacked-out  windows. I think it was a ballet school or something. Spanish truckers love the ballet.  

There are only ten beds in the hostel we´re staying in now. For the first time since Villatuerta, I am sleeping on a real bed on the ground, rather than the top bunk. It makes me feel like a proper grown-up. They have a decent computer (but no card reader, so no pictures), comfy armchairs, a little library, free first aid supplies, and lovely hot showers. It costs 5 euros per bed per night. 

For some reason, on the wall behind my bed, a heavy metal ring has been hammered into the wall. It looks like something that would be used to restrain livestock. Nobody else´s bed has one. I am trying not to wonder why mine does. Perhaps I´m special. 

We have another reasonable walking day planned tomorrow. We´re planning on walking twenty-one kilometers into Villafranca Montes de Oca. And in this hostel,  breakfast is not served until 7am. It looks like I will be able to have a lie in tomorrow and get up quite late, assuming I haven´t been chained to the wall as I sleep (and assuming Darth Vader doesn´t get me).