In Santiago

It was a good day not to be on the camino, as it was sheeting down with rain and very cold.

Went to the pilgrims’ high mass at noon and was surprised to find the service being taken by the cardinal archbishop and the cathedral packed - it was St Andrew’s Day.  At the start he read out the number of pilgrims who had claimed their compostela in the previous 24 hours – me, an Austrian, 30-odd Spaniards.  The responses and credo and so on were led by a nun with a lovely voice.  Of the 1000+ people at the service, over half must have taken communion, but they had five or six people giving out the wafers, so it didn’t take long.

Afterwards made my abrazo and saw the ancient tomb.

There are three distinct types of people in Santiago: mostly locals, who scurry about apparently oblivious to the beauty surrounding them, “ordinary” tourists taking pictures and the few pilgrims, mostly fairly scruffy and glancing furtively at each other’s walking shoes to check we’re right in guessing that we’ve both been on the camino.  It’s a shame there doesn’t seem to be a greeting one can use once we’re here that is the equivalent of the “Buen Camino” for getting here.

All the restaurants and bars in the evening were much emptier with no "classico" match, and I enjoyed navajas and an excellent fish soup in relative quiet.

On to Santiago

Left the final albergue with Venus high in the sky and the half moon also bright.  Venus was still visible until 8.30am – the mornings have drawn in remarkably since the beginning of November: sunrise was at 7.46am on November 1^st and wasn’t until 8.38 this morning, while in the evenings sunset has only been 24 minutes earlier.

It was just about daylight when I passed the Pico Sacro, where the Wolf Queen conned Santiago’s pallbearers into burying him at Compostella, hoping the wild bulls would kill them - they didn't, of course, they turned into tame milk cows: Wolf Queens seldom seem to get it right.  The walk was through pleasant woodland paths until Susana, where it became drearily suburban, and then past a lot of road and rail-building sites so it was a delightful surprise suddenly to turn a corner and see the towers of the cathedral for the first time only a mile or so ahead.

Went along to pick up my compostela and check into the hotel and was able to put my feet up by late lunchtime.

In the evening I went to a restaurant for some scallops & razor clams and watched Barcelona thoroughly thump Real Madrid at football –  in every paper, in every bar and on every tv station I’ve seen for the last week they’ve been talking of little else, so it was good to take part in a real national event.

Wandered back to the hotel past the floodlit cathedral.  It was astonishingly beautiful and very moving.

a snowy start to Sunday

After my cold shivery night it wasn’t too much of a surprise to find a couple of inches of snow lying on the paths and fields outside.  At first light the clouds seemed very snow-grey and likely to dump themselves on me again, but I decided to risk starting out, and was lucky and it fairly soon brightened up a bit and I was able to get to a croissant and coffee in Silleda.

It was then on past Ponte Ulla and through a wooded path ending up at the Capilla de Santaguiña, near the albergue of Vedra which, thank goodness, provided bed covers and where, thank goodness, the heating stayed on all night.

Last few days

The foggy route out of Ourense took me over a Romanesque bridge into a lengthy suburb before joining the Camino Real where I was accosted by an old man who pumped my hand several times while talking volubly.  Unfortunately he spoke thick Galician and appeared to have no roof to his mouth, so I was only able to understand one word in ten, but that didn’t seem to bother him as long as I nodded at intervals and shook his hand back.

After quite a long climb I suddenly emerged from the cloud into a glorious bright autumn day, with the path going through beautiful woods and enough villages to stop occasionally for coffee or a drink.  It was sad that the way-marking bollards had almost all been vandalised – I first spotted one shortly after A Gudina and noticed as well as a scallop, it showed the distance to Santiago in metres, so the first ones I saw were in the 230,000s or thereabouts.  It would have been encouraging to see them now they must be well under 100,000, but the distance had invariably been chiselled off, and the scallop frequently smashed as well.  It’s far from the first vandalism I’ve seen en route – several of the large stone information panels in Extremadura had had their information pulled off.  On one somebody had written “dinero inutil” which may have been a valid point, not least as the un-vandalised ones were often bleached unreadable by the sun.  And on a couple of “Albergues de pelegrinos” signs the “pelegrinos” has been crossed out and replaced by “putanos”.  May just be mindless vandalism, or possibly anti-religious, or just possibly a comment on the relatively small benefit we bring: on a night when I sleep at an albergue at €5-10, have a menu del dia at €8-10, a couple of cups of coffee here and there and a bocadillo and a caña for lunch, it’s quite easy not to spend more than €20 in a whole day, which is hardly a great contribution to the local economy (obviously on the Camino Frances, with 100s a day passing through spending that or more, it will make a difference, but on this route I’m often the only, or virtually the only, pilgrim in 10 miles in any direction).  But I’ve never encountered any hostility – bemusement, yes, amusement, sometimes, total indifference, lots of times, but never hostility.  Usually it’s friendly curiosity – somebody in a bar wanting to know how far I’ve walked, where I come from and so on, or a farmer waving from a tractor, or just somebody shouting “buen camino” from across the road.

Got to Cea in time for a late lunch – it’s famous for its bread, with some 20 bakeries.  Then stopped in the albergue, where I was joined by Sassie, the Italian pelegrina who I last saw in Mombuey, over a week ago (she'd travelled from Puebla by the northern route).  She made my walk from Seville seem very modest – two years ago she’d walked from Sienna to Santiago, via Nice, Montpellier, Toulouse and the Camino Frances, 2700km in all.  That really would stretch the legs, and mine feel quite stretched already.

On Saturday morning I left just before dawn and carried on over the occasional pass mostly through lovely undulating wooded countryside.  The half moon was high in the sky at starting, and still visible at 1pm when a few clouds starting to obscure it.  Briefly saw the back end of a large bushy tailed dun-coloured cat-like animal.  Assume it can’t have been a lynx in these parts, but it was miles from any houses and too big to be a domestic cat anyway, and certainly not the right shape and movement for a fox (or colour – although I did see a very pale-coloured fox in Sardinia last summer).

Had been planning to sleep in Lalin, but it appeared to be a bit of a dump, and a barman told me the albergue at A Laxe was very good and only 5 km further on, so I went there instead.  Once again I had the place to myself, but hearing the rain crashing down on the roof a couple of feet above my bunk bed wasn’t pleasant (one always wonders if it means the whole of tomorrow will be like that).  Also they turned the heating off at 10, so it was quickly really uncomfortably cold.

To Ourense

Left Verin to the light of a waning gibbous moon.  Got the bus back to Xinzo de Limia and carried on in freezing fog for most of the morning.  It brightened up by the time I got to Allariz, a handsome town with two fine bridges over the Rio Arnoia and a huge convent of Santa Clara.

Romanesque bridge at Allariz

Unfortunately the fog came back as I left town on the road up to Santa Mariňa de Augas Fortes, and mostly stayed with me until the outskirts of Ourense.
 
Ourense seemed bustling and mostly rather ugly.  I was able to have some delicious puplo gallego for supper, which was a plus. 

Past Verin

At dawn there was a quite thick mist down in the valley below Monterrei, although it was bright sunshine above.  Had to go down into the chilly mist but it had mostly been burned off by 10am-ish.  At Enfesta I was accosted by a chatty old gadgie pruning his vines.  He was hoping to practice his rusty German on me, as he’d spent three years there as a gastarbeiter working on construction sites in the 70s, and was disappointed that I could only answer in O-level standard.  He advised me to go back onto the N525 rather than carry on on the official camino.  I took his advice, but slightly regretted it as it meant just following the road all the way up to the alto das Estibadas at 2800’, which I hope will be my final high point on the journey.  But it wasn’t that bad as the road was quiet and the views at the top fantastic.

As I couldn’t work out the buses, got a taxi back to Verin (at €1 per km, which was much less than I’d feared).  The driver was chatty, if slightly depressed by the news from the rescate of Ireland and the general strike in Portugal.  He said Galicia and Extremadura were the worst regions of Spain for unemployment and the recession, which slightly surprised me as both seemed quite busy and prosperous from what I’d seen: but presumably you can’t judge a place just by walking through it – and I’ve worked in both Sunderland and Middlesbrough.

Into Galicia

At 6.30am was back at the station to take the train to A Gudina and pick up the path.  This train ride is probably pretty spectacular, so it’s a pity I’ve only been able t do it both ways in the pitch dark.  Left A Gudina (having been the only person on the train until then) and decided to take the southern route to Ourense, via Verin, with the moon to my right and a rosy-fingered sunrise to my left.

If I had thought it would be gently downhill from here all to way to Santiago, I was soon put right by three fairly strenuous mountain passes, the first two over 3000’, and the final, Alto de Fumaces, around 2900’.  It then was downhill all the way to Verin (at about 1200’).  The views had been amazing – back to the snow around Padornelo, and southwards into the hills of northern Portugal.  There was heather in flower on the outskirts of Verin, not something you expect to see in late November, and a few yellow gorse flowers.

Verin is a farily non-descript place with the huge border fortress of Monterrei on the hill above it.

Over the passes (and the snow)

Set out with a big bright moon to follow into the hills and sun rise turning the snow capped peaks into pink icing sugar.

As the route goes broadly north-westwards on this section, it was a case of my shadow at morning rising to meet me, my shadow at evening striding behind me.

A few km from Puebla de Sanabria was Santiago de Terroso, a substantial classical church with scallop shells on the entrance door.  An inscription nearby said that the place had been host to popes and kings, presumably as the last staging post before the high passes into Galicia.  Today the kings and popes would be a bit disappointed by the fact that the A52 goes within 100 yards of the complex.

Santiago de Terrosa

The way rose steadily for the next 5-6km, eventually reaching the highest point, the Portillo de Padornelo, at about 4400’, with just a dusting of patchy snow – there was much more higher up and on the hills further north.  So it could be argued that I’ve been through three seasons in the last few weeks – late summer in Andalucia, autumn in Extremadura and wintery snow on the Galician border.  Worked out why the barman in Puebla looked bewildered last night when I asked him about the passes into Galicia – think I asked him if the raisins (pasas) were good.

The rest of the day was mostly spent on delightful paths going through the woods and occasionally through a more-or-less deserted village.  Many fast mountain streams were gilded with heavenly alchemy by the mottled sunlight.  In Aciberos I was greeted by a couple of ancient ladies who wished me a buen camino and told me the snow would be over before A Gudina.  Even the most deserted-looking village still had well-maintained water channels, and usually a few immaculate vegetable patches – although in one place a small veg patch was covered with weeds and cabbages and onions going to seed: did the person who sowed the seeds not live to reap the crop?  It was also noticeable that the chestnuts were efficiently harvested, even in quite inaccessible spots – I saw small relatively recent hoof prints,so perhaps they’d used a mule to take the nuts off.

Eventually took the train back to Puebla de Sanabria in the dark.

Through deserted villages

Once more found myself leaving the albergue to Venus fading in the east.  Fortunately the restaurant on the main street was open and serving coffee.

The next few miles were very beautiful, but a little depressing as well – every 3-4 kilometres the camino would go through a once thriving but now mostly shuttered up and largely deserted village, often with some roofs beginning to collapse.  The churches were mostly handsome, but I was surprised at Entrepeñas to find a really ugly tower, partly made up of what looked like breeze-blocks.  As a compensation, the water from the nearby fountain was the best I’d tasted for ages.

The few people I did see were almost always retired.  Each village had its church and its fountain, but no bar or shop – it was Palacio de Sanabria, almost 20km after leaving Mombuey that I got my next cup of coffee.  Palacio seemed thriving, with people or all ages, bars, shops and unshuttered houses, unlike the four or five previous villages, and for no obvious reason – perhaps an energetic mayor, a good school, or just luck?  Presumably its success has contributed to the other villages’ decline, as the malign influence of a new Tesco’s can contribute to the closure of independent butchers and grocers.

On the N631 past Otero de Sanabria for the first time in 700km the church fountain had no water – which could have been worrying in the heat a couple of weeks ago, but I had a ¼ of a litre left to get me to Puebla de Sanabria and it was a cool afternoon (my water consumption has dropped from 6-7 litres a day in the heat to about 2-3 now).  In the church porch was a plaster relief of seven sinners merrily burning in hell, and a couple of smug saints (Peter with his keys and, I think, John – an epistle and a sword).  The doors into the churches had blocked off cat holes.

Seven sinners burning merrily in Otero

Got to Puebla de Sanabria, a handsome town dominated by a fortress and a fortress-like church on a cliff above the river.

Puebla de Sanabria

In the evening I climbed up the vertiginous staircase from the river up to the floodlit castle and had dinner in La Posada de la Puebla, the excellent restaurant on the square behind the castle, where I enjoyed a warming caldo gallego and a veal stew with ceps.

On to the Camino Sanabrés

Turned westwards after Montemarta, finally leaving the Via de la Plata (which carries on due north to Astorga, where it joins the Camino Francés).  So I’ve finally left the N630 behind me – we’ve been travelling in parallel lines since Camas, a couple of miles from the Guadalquivir and our paths have crossed many times.  Less sad to be leaving the A66 motorway, which I haven’t set foot on, but have often seen in the distance, and heard far more often: even in quite wild and apparently empty places you could suddenly hear a distant roar from the lorries pounding north and south along it – anyway, it’s the closest I’m ever likely to get to Route 66.

Got to Tabara, my base for the night, in time to see the exhibition at the Eglesia de la Asunción, whose handsome 11^th century tower had been visible for an hour or so before.  It was the site of a visigothic monastery and had a famous scriptorium.

tower at visigothic monastery of Tabara

On Saturday morning set out in the dark (after breakfast in the Casa Rural, which I hadn’t expected to be open).  The guide says I should have been zig-zagging along the N631, but I thought the old pilgrim route would have been straight so decided to risk it by following the road, and was soon rewarded with a camino de tierra that went mostly parallel with the main road through a delightful forest park.  On one or two of the helpful information boards I was surprised to see evidence of rivalry between Castille and Leon – somebody had crossed out the Castille quarterings on the junta of Castille & Leon’s coat of arms,, and the bit saying Junta de “Castille y” Leon.  Also saw lots of wind-turbines on the horizon to the north, but not the sort that Don Quixote took a tilt at.

Arrived at Mombuey in time for a late menu del dia in a bar on the main road.  There was a pellegrina from Verona there, but by the time I got to the albergue it was empty, so she must have headed on to the next village.  Not sure I blame her as the gloomy barn-like albergue was very cold indeed - even with all my clothes on all night and three blankets I was shivvering when I woke up.  On the plus side, the water for the shower was deliciously hot.

There was an unusual rectangular bell tower, slightly like a minaret in some ways, above the 13^th century local church – some people apparently think it might have been built by the Templars.

Mombuey church tower

Rest day in Zamora

Day off in Zamora.  Although the civic and vernacular architecture may not be up to much, it’s more than made up for by the amazing number of Romanesque churches - something approaching 20, I think.  Spent the morning ambling around “collecting” as many as possible.

Zamora cathedral

A few had had inappropriate baroque interiors imposed on them, but most had retained their original simplicity.  And I enjoyed the bloodthirsty statue of Santiago Matamoros over the altar in Santiago del Burgo (and the more peacable Santiago Pelegrino under the lovely Byzantine dome of the cathedral).

     

Santa Lucia & Saint Ciprian                                    porch of Santiago del Burgo



Despite being a rest day, according to my pedometer, my amblings still took me over 16km.

Zamora

Crossed the Roman bridge across the Tormes from the Salamanca parador for the last time – why do we have no Roman bridges left in England and the Spanish seem to have so many?  (I think the one Hadrian built across the Tyne at Newcastle lasted nearly 1000 years, but there’s certainly no trace of it now).  It was chilly and there was a thin rain, but by the time I’d got off the bus and back en route the rain stopped.  North of Villanueva there were a few vines but it was still mostly corn and some maize waiting to be harvested.  Passed a few huge mobile sprayers that irrigate the land in the dry summers – one of them was almost half a kilometre wide.  By the time I got across the Duero via a (12^th century, Romanesque) bridge into Zamora at lunchtime the sky was virtually cloudless. 

Dropped my rucksack off at the parador (2 nights for one offer now at  €55 a night in a 16^th century palace

with perhaps just a few more suits of armour than needed to make the point) just over the bridge, and strode on 10kg lighter through the really almost aggressively ugly architecture of the outskirts of Zamora towards Montemarta.

Back in time for a late siesta and then out to dinner where it seemed the entire town was watching Spain play Portugal at football.

Over half-way there ...

Took the bus back to Calzada, with its squatly elegant church tower, in the morning and carried on to Villanueva del Campean.  Not an exciting walk - more wheat fields, and lots of high-stacked straw and very few trees at first. Nearing el Cubo de Tierra del Vino I saw a high green tower in the distance.  At first I thought it must be a curious form of grain silo, but on approaching saw that it was the watchtower for Topas penitenciario.  Other than the watch-tower and the barbed-wire fences, the prison's arcitecture looked much like a large budget hotel at an international airport.

Despite the name, there were no vines at all anywhere near el Cubo.  Took the bus back to the lovely parador in Salamanca, and spent the afternoon wandering around the town.  It is a wonderful place.  The entire centre seems to be made of warm golden stone.  Even the modern bits fit with the ancient - at the Puerte de Zamora, for example, there was a petrol station made of stone with elegant arches and Ionic columns holding it up.  The breath-taking Plaza Mayor was as beautiful in many ways as the Piazza San Marco in Venice, but more so in others, as everybody was just walking through it going about their business, not giving the place over entirely to tourists as in Venice.

Plaza Major, Salamanca

Salamanca

Woke up several times in the night to hear to rain pouring down, which is not a happy sound, but I hoped it might mean the day would be better.  Had breakfast with Don Blas Rodriguez, the parish priest who has done more than anybody to open the camino through this difficult patch.  And then a few frankly dreary hours in low cloud and thin rain deeply regretting the fact that I’d somehow left my water-proof trousers 100 miles or so back.  At the Pico de Duena, at a bit under 4000’ apparently one of the highest points in the camino, I was rewarded with panoramic 360° views stretching all of 300 yards into a cloud.  Quite near the top I saw a large herd of black pigs who had demolished every acorn for acres, presumably gearing themselves up to become pata negra.

It didn’t get much better – at about 2pm I arrived in a village, full of hope, to find that the smoky bar did no food at all (very rare in Spain).  A Formula 1 car race was just starting on the TV, and I carried on the next 3-4 miles to the next village, where the smoky bar did a little food, and where I found on the TV that various car drivers in Abu Dhabi had been driving around in circles 56 times and were near the end of their race. 

Shortly afterwards I bumped into somebody with several eager dogs who’d been having a good day shooting rabbits – was surprised to learn that they have myxomatosis here too.  By this time I was merely damp, rather than soaking wet, and the clouds had lifted a little, so I carried on in autumnal sunshine to Morille, a village 20km south of Salamanca.  There I once again had sole possession of the albergue (where the sheets smelt of smoke) and had an early (for Spain) dinner in the smoky bar next door, where everybody had gone home at the end of a football match by about 9pm.

On Monday morning I left Morille just as the sun was rising over a very frosty landscape.  No coffee, but a very bright crisp walk through more holm oaks for a couple of hours while the sun burned off the frost - at about 10 I saw Salamanca a long way in the distance.  By 11 suddenly there were no more trees at all as the road got closer to Salamanca - very fertile land, with next year's winter wheat already germinating.  Walked over the battleground of Salamanca - or of Los Arpiles as it's known here - where in 1812 Wellington, the Portuguese and Carlos of Spain defeated the French under Maréchal Marmont in one of the decisive battles of the Peninsular War (my great-great-great-grandfather Colin Campbell (1776-1847) fought with one of the highland regiments in the battle - he later had a horse shot under him at Waterloo).

After the battleground the city seemed to get no closer and the walk became very tedious through apparently endless dreary suburbs, when it all suddenly became worthwhile when the camino reached the Roman bridge over the rio Tormes, and what must be one of the most beautiful cityscapes in Europe came into view.

Dropped my rucksack in the local parador (at €60 a night pretty reasonable, even if still significantly more than the previous 4 nights combined) and walked on to Calzada de Valdunciel before getting a bus back.

Out of Extremadura

Dropped the key of the albuergue in the churrerria in Aldanueva and quickly got to Banos de Montemayor.  It seemed silly to pass through a Roman spa town without having a bath (especially as the water in the albergue was cold, so my morning shower had been brief in the extreme).  Did the full “circuito romano” of (faintly sulphur-smelling) swimming pool, hot tub, dry sauna, damp sauna, shower and warm seat, and it was wonderfully invigorating and enjoyable (although, at 30€, not exactly cheap).  There were also some excellent mosaics and Roman statues – and, weirdly in that context, some really naff musak coming out of a loudspeaker.  Also amused to see that genuine Roman marble baths were being used as planters outside the balneario.

A Roman bath in Montemayor

The bath(s) put a kick in my stride and I quickly made it up the hill and over the border between Extremadura and Castille-Leon, where I will be for the next 350-odd kilometres.  Although warmed from the bath and the climb (fairly quickly up to nearly 3000’), it was clear that the air was becoming cooler, and there was a faint dusting of snow visible on the highest hills of the sierra above Bejar, about 10 miles to the east.

There were a lot more deciduous trees than previously, some of them still showing a few autumnal colours.  Although somebody in a bar at lunchtime at Calzada de Béjar told me that the area has the best pata negra jamon in the country, I haven’t actually seen a pig for 2-3 days – lots of cows and a few sheep, but no pigs.

After a blissfully quiet afternoon stroll through beautiful empty countryside, with a few miliarios thrown in, got to Fuenterroble de Salvatierra (at about 3100’) with plenty of light in hand – it really would have been quite scary to try that landscape in the dark.

The albuergue at Fuenterroble (the highest albuergue on the camino) was empty except for me.  According to the hospitalera (they keep quite detailed records of everybody who stays), I was the 2494^th pilgrim so far this year, so they were looking forward to passing the 2500 mark.  Had supper in the nearby restaurant with a Barcelona pelegrino who was staying at the local Casa Rural and had come from Roncesvalles on the Camino Francés to Santiago and was now making his way to Cordoba.  He warned me that the Castille-Leon section of the camino is the worst for way-markings – I hope he’s wrong.  Certainly they’ve put a lot of effort into making the markings in Extremadura very clear.

Caparra

Left Galisteo in quite a thick mist, so was slightly disappointed not to have the sight of the ramparts and battlements receding behind me.  After a rather chilly hour, the sun burned through while I was at Aldeahuela re-filling up my bottle from a well – the water at the public fountain at Galisteo had been chlorinated.

Made good progress to Carcaboso.  Shortly afterwards I was surprised to see a walled field planted with fairly mature holm oaks in a perfect quincunx – normally they seem to be growing largely at random.  I wondered if, 120-or so years ago, the local landowner had read the “Garden of Cyrus” and decided to try it?

A few miles further on and the quadrifons triumphal arch of Caparra made its appearance, sole structure surviving from a major Roman town.  There must be some reason why nothing besides remains, around the decay of that colossal wreck. 

Caparra arch

I had badly misjudged the time it would take to get to Aldanueva del Camino, and spent too long enjoying Caparra anyway, so it was depressing to have to walk the last hour or so in the dark, other than a faint light from the waxing moon.  49 km in a day (according to the guide-book, which I suspect of rounding up a little) is too much, but there is nothing between Carcaboso, which I reached by 11ish, and Aldanueva.

Cheered up on arrival at Aldanueva to find I had sole possession of the four-bedded albergue, and had a very satisfying supper in a raucous bar/restaurant teeming with boisterous children and their almost equally noisy parents all enjoying the start of the weekend.

The walled town of Galisteo

Bright and crisp start saw me over the Puerto de los Castaňos by about 10, and then over lovely country, if less spectacular than yesterday's.  Stopped for a bite soon after 1pm. I've decided my solution to the problem of days when there is nowhere to eat between breakfast and dinner is not to pack a picnic - don't want breadcrumbs or squashed cheese in my rucksack - but I bought a pound of sultanas and eat a couple of ounces of those with water.  It's not exactly a balanced diet, but it keeps me going for the next 3 hours or whatever.  Today's "lunch" was made memorable by seeing an eagle circling overhead, looking up properly and finding that there were five of them above me.  Quite wonderful.


Got into amazing Galisteo at about 3.30pm. It is amazing - a fully enclosed walled town with ramparts, battlements and gateways.  Walked around the ramparts and could just work out which was the puerto I'd crossed early this morning - the views in every direction were spectacular: the people in this town certainly weren't going to be taken by surprise by any approaching army.  It was so like a film-set I kept half-expecting to turn round a rampart and see Kevin Costner or Russell Crowe hamming it up for the cameras.

Puerta de Santa Maria gateway to Galisteo

Back into the hills

Wonderful morning.  After a dull stretch to Casar de Cáceres, the via went back into the hills and I was able to enjoy a cool clear morning in an amazing landscape, with a few Roman miliarios (milestones) to let me know I was making progress. 

Had the first views of Cañaveral, tonight’s stopping place, from about 10.30 – a small white town snuggled into the side of a hill looking impossibly distant, and not apparently getting any closer.

I was pleasantly surprised to see quite a lot of plovers, as well as hearing my favourite sound of all, sheep-bells – as evocative for me as Yeats’ “lake water lapping, with low sound on the shore.”  There were also some amazing huge stones eroded by centuries of wind and rian, making parts of the trail slightly like a gigantic sculpture park.

sculpture in the wilderness

Eventually got to the huge reservoir of Alcántara, and crossed the rivers Almonte and Tajo, which feed it.  The reservoir was a bit low after the dry summer, so you could see the top of the Torreón de Floripes, part of the village that was drowned when the reservoir was created.  Although the track was now by the side of the N630 it was fine as there was very little traffic and it wasn’t too hot (about 16C at most all day).  Despite all the dire warnings – the clerk in the Hotel Iberia told me that there was “absolutamente nada” by way of water or food the whole way from Casar to Cañaveral, and a Frenchman staying in the hotel on his way backwards from Santiago to Cordoba said much the same – the fact that 5 miles of the way were within a short detour to one of the largest stretches of fresh water in Europe made it quite unlikely that anybody would die of thirst there.

Anyway, I got to Cañaveral shortly after 5, filled up my bottle at the fountain there (quite nasty tasting water - a first for me from a fountain) and installed myself in the Hostal Malaga, which was OK if you have nothing else available.  After dinner fell into conversation with a German pelegrina would used to be a student nearby, and who remarked on how much better it was that the countryside is now so open to walkers compared to when she lived here 20 years ago.

Cáceres

Set out in driving rain but by 9am it stopped, and by 11 was even reunited briefly with my shadow, as I crossed a handsome low Roman bridge over the Rio Salor. 

After a cup of coffee and a magdalena at a service station in Valdesalor (not one that would have set Proust out on his 10,000 pages, but welcome anyway) it was back en route and over the hill into Cáceres, where I arrived shortly after 1pm, having covered 27km.  It would have been perfectly possible to carry on to Casar de Cáceres 12km further north, but Cáceres is a beautiful city that I’m unlikely ever to pass through again, so it seemed silly not to have a look round while I’m here.  In fact all I previously knew about Cáceres was thanks to Tesco’s – for a couple of years at least, their most drinkable cheap red wine was called the Marqués de Cáceres, although I never expected to visit his beautiful home city.

The Bishop's palace in Cáceres

Spent the night in the very comfortable Hotel Iberia, just off the Plaza Mayor (they do a pilgrim discount - €30 B&B).  And saw the moon - a newish one - for the first time since I caught the last slither of the waning one early one morning in Monesterio a week.  I'm hoping this moon with see me into Santiago.

Towards Cáceres

Bus back to Aljucen then on into the countryside.  Much more varied and interesting that the stretch round Almendralejo, and generally felt stronger after a bit of a rest and the blister has almost gone as well (I think I must have had a slight attack of cafard in the long flat bit from Zafra to Merida). 

Was slightly surprised to find clouds in the sky for the first time since leaving Seville exactly a week ago.  It meant that I was deprived of the companionship of my shadow, which has been striding out to the left of me as I leave in the morning, getting shorter and moving straight in front at noon, and then slowly getting taller and moving over to the east (and stooping slightly) as the afternoons turned to evening.  I've missed him (I assume one's shadow is the same sex as one is?), but the weather reports suggest he should be back with me by Wednesday or Thursday.



Now at a very decent Casa Rural in Aldea del Cano, about 25km short of Cáceres, using the free wifi supplied by the local Biblioteca.

"Rest" day in Merida

Left in the cool of the morning to get to Aljucen, about 10 miles north, where I plan to pick up the road again tomorrow.  Astonished walking past a huge Roman aqueduct - possibly not quite as well preserved as the Pont du Gard, but its position is more surprising - right on the edge of the city centre striding over what is now a railway shunting yard.  (as with other high places round here, many of the tops of the arches were capped by a stork's nest)

Aqueduct near the station in Merida

The came back to town in time for a leisurely lunch and and siesta via:

Trajan's Arch in Merida

The theatre, where they still frequently do performances, was as lovely and as well preserved as the one at Arles.

Roman theatre in Merida

Sadly my Sunday dinner was not a success, as every single bar and all the restaurants I could find were completely full of people smoking and watching a football match between Atletico Madrid and Real Madrid (sometimes described as Franco's favourite team).

To Merida

The old station at Zafra - a long way out of town ...

Left the lovely parador once more loaded down with 8kg of rucksack (and 2 litres of water).  Got to the station in good time for the train to take me back to Almendralejo but, horror and despair, the station cafe was closed and there wasn't another close enough to get back in time for the train.  So I set out with an empty stomach, which is not a good idea.  The nearest I got to breakfast was my first water stop, at about 10, when I picked a couple of bunches of withering grapes the vendangeuses had missed and had them with the two bits of chocolate the parador had left by my bed last night (I wonder why they don't do that in the albergues?).  Much better than nothing.

The road was actually on the remains of the Roman road (most if it's now under the N603), and it was absolutely dead straight for kilometre after kilometre, which got pretty monotonous after a while. 

To the North, always to the North

But the landscape got a bit more varied (and the road more wiggly) after an indifferent lunch in Torremijia.

Arriving in Merida was amazing.  A huge - half-mile long? - almost perfectly preserved Roman bridge led one across the river and into a bustling, beautiful town, stuffed with Roman remains.  In fact I'm taking tomorrow (mostly) off to see the aqueducts, the theatre and the amphitheatre.

The Roman bridge over the Rio Guadiana

A day with no rucksack

It was lovely striding out with no rucksack after a long hot soak in the bath, and lancing my blister with a needle (thoughtfully provided by the Parador) and disinfecting it with eau de Cologne (ditto) before covering it with a plaster (I had to buy that myself).

Los Santos de Maimona 

Once past Los Santos de Maimona the landscape is fairly flat and dull.  Either vines or olive groves, occasionally both mixed.  The grapes were mostly harvested for wine but a few still had grapes, either for raisins or eating, and I enjoyed eating a few – it’s a lot of years since I last had a grape hot from the sun straight off the vine.

A few people were working the vineyards, and I went past one couple of men who had sheets down and were on ladders harvesting an olive tree – they didn’t see me coming and gave me a very cheery, but slightly surprised, “hola”.

For part of the road somebody had put kilometre markers showing the distance to Almendralejo: it’s very good for the morale to have a definite sign that you’re getting closer to your objective, especially when there is little else to judge distance by.  To the east were the impressive-looking hills of the Sierra Grande, and to the south I could see the (very) gradually receding hills around Monesterio (was it only yesterday morning I came over those? – I’m sure other, more experienced, long-distance walkers have noted the way time goes into slow motion when you’re on a serious hike, but this is my first one and it’s still a bit of a surprise).

Church of the Virgin of the Valley at Villafranca

Shortly after Villafranca de los Barros, I saw a couple of hen harriers looking for prey.  There didn’t seem to be much, despite the frequent fierce notices warning about the hunting being private.  Getting into Almendralejo was a relief.  I started a minor row in a bar by the Plaza de Toros by asking whether there were any trains back to Zafra – the consensus (well, consensus is too strong a word, majority perhaps, as there were just the usual three people smoking enthusiastically in the bar, although unusually one of them was female) seemed to be that I’d be better off going to the bus station 20 minutes away, rather than the train station round the corner, but nobody really knew.  If I’d listened to the discussion any longer, I’d have missed one of the few trains from Merida to Zafra, and been able to go back to the bar to let them know there are 3-4 trains north and south every day (including one a day all to way to and from Sevilla).  But I jumped on the train instead - a very comfortable train, in fact, with the landscape that had taken me 6 hours to walk through melting backwards in 20 minutes or so.

A long hot day

Set off with the smallest possible slither of waning moon and made good progress across the hills slowly down to Fuente de Cantos, where Zurbaran was born.  I was pleased to see a hoopoe shortly after dawn  - when I worked in the Midi they were quite a common (and always delightful) sight, but I haven’t seen one for years, and wasn’t expecting to so late in the year.  Most of the way to Fuente was along an old via pecuaria, or drove road, but judging by the lack of droppings it hasn’t been used much recently – it would have been nice to see a herd or flock in transhumance.

Fuente de Cantos

Monesterio is over 2400’ above sea level, and the agricultural use of the land changed as the height dropped – the last (free range) pigs were only a mile from the town, then it turned into quite lush meadows with cows, then ploughed land which had presumably had corn harvested earlier, and as I got closer to Zafra it was back to vines and olive groves again.

Zafra is a delightful town, full of beautiful buildings and with a real bustle, often described as a Seville in miniature.  There was a special 2 nights for the price of one offer at the local parador.  €57 per night in a 4* mediaeval castle-cum-palace formerly owned by the Duques de Feria seemed much too good an opportunity to miss (not to mention having a proper bath after only showers since Seville).  It also means tomorrow I’ll be able to walk to Almendralejo without my rucksack, and take the bus back to my luxurious room in Zafra.  Which will be a relief, as today was too long, too knackering and too hot (it was still 23C when I got to Zafra just before dusk, so I think must have been over 26 at midday for the first time since I started – it certainly felt it).  And my first blister has put in an ominous appearance on the side of my left heel.

On to Extremadura

Probably doesn’t get much better than this.  I set off at about 7.45, leaving past the small and rather shabby bullring and a field - over an acre - of solar panels, and was soon in beautiful countryside with more oak and (lots) more pigs.  Got to El Real de la Jara - a pretty pueblo blanco dominated by an impressive castle - in time for elevenses in a bar.   

El Real de la Jara

Very shortly afterwards, crossed over a shallow ford into Extremadura (where I will be for the next 350km), almost immediately greeted by another ruined castle. 

Castillo de las Torres
(the "stream" in the foreground is the Extremadura/Andalucia border)

Glorious countryside with more holm oaks and cork ones, and more pigs.  The only other person on foot I’ve seen in the countryside in the last three days proved to be an amiable young famer calling his large flock of goats in to be milked (he was the second person to wish me a “buen camino” – the first being a barman in Castillblanco).

Alison Raju’s guide to the camino warns that there are not further stops before Monesterio, and not much water, so it was a huge relief to find that there’s a new service station at the Ermita de San Isidoro, with restaurant and hotel, the former serving an excellent menu del pelegrino at 9€ (sopa de pescados, lomo a la plancha, fruit and a 1.5 litre bottle of deliciously cool water, bliss). 

The Ermita of San Isidoro, named after an early (pre-Arab conquest) archbishop of Seville, whose body stopped a night here on its way to Leon.

Less pleasant afternoon along a path parallel to the N603, and got into Monesterio a couple of hours later.  Sadly I've missed the "Dia del Jamon".

Passed two milestones today - left Andulicia and passed my first 100km, so over a 10th of the way now.

Into the hills

Tuesday, 2 November

Set off from a sleeping hotel before dawn (the hotel only starts serving breakfast at 9am) to get as much ground underfoot before the heat becomes too great.

Relatively easy day.  Left Castillblanco at sunrise and the first 16km were on a quiet country road, with a few cars and no other pedestrians.  The kilometre markers flashed by every 10 minutes, through gently rising countryside, with oaks (some with their bark stripped for cork) and the occasional pig looking for acorns.  Much more monochrome landscape than the plain, with its lush bougainvillea, oleanders, largestrenia and sweet smelling jasmine.  By 11am I was ready for my first water break at the entrance to the Parque Natural of el Berrocal.

The next 13 km were most enjoyable, even though the heat was rising steadily.  A park with plenty of shade, and lots of tree planting, first through more oaks, then the occasional eucalyptus and finally 1000s of young pines – it was difficult to say what sort, but I’d guess pin parasol.  Thanks to the miracle of a merino top, I hadn’t been cold at the beginning and wasn’t that bothered by the heat even when the sun was at the zenith – compared with dripping with sweat in a normal t-shirt yesterday.  Heat control was also helped by putting my handkerchief behind my sombrero, like a foreign legionnaire, so my neck didn’t get burnt.  As the camino is effectively due north throughout, the back of the neck is the most vulnerable place.

Steadily rising countryside through the park ended with a spectacular view at the Miradores del Cerro del Calvario, at over 1800’, where I finished the last of my water, looking across to Extremadura, and straight down on Almaden de la Plata (and lunch).  Arrived at Almaden (Arabic for “the mines”, after the still working pre-Roman marble quarries, famous for its blue marble) at about 3pm, in time for a decent bowl of soup and a siesta.  Could possibly have made it on the next 8-10 miles to El Real de la Jara, but would probably only have arrived after dark not sure of where to stay, and this looks a pleasant spot, with a comfortable room at the Casa Concha so, j’y suis, j’y reste.  The storks' nests on the church, the clock tower and another tower suggest they liked the place too.

Almaden de la Plata

And had a pleasant amble round the town, checking out my exit for the morning, then having supper while the rest of the people in the bar watched Valencia beat Glasgow Rangers at football.

First full day

Bus out of Seville first thing – well, second thing, as it’s a public holiday and I wanted a decent breakfast – to pick the camino back up at Santiponce.  Dull stretch through endless orange groves supplying Spain’s unquenchable thirst for zumo de naranja (and, I suppose, some of them providing for Britain’s appetite for marmalade).

After Guillena, the path got much more rural and started rising steadily, first through orange groves, then olives, a few cows and finally a stretch of what looked remarkably like the garrigue of the Languedoc – evergreen oaks, cistus, rosemary, some agave americanus and general scrub.  Wonderful smelling.  By now it was very hot and the cafe outside Guillena was shut because  of the holiday, so it was a relief that a considerate land-owner had put a sign up with “water” on it in 5 languages, pointing to a little water pump in the middle of a field, where I topped up my bottle gratefully.

Finally got into Castillblanco de los Aroyos after about 33 kms.  Rather more than I would have liked to do on my first day with rucksack, but the alternative was doing two very short days, and spending most of a day in Guillena – no objection to staying and having a look round if a place is worth exploring, in fact I’m planning on that in several towns further north, but Guillena didn’t look very exciting, and I couldn’t see the point of spending time in the Andalucian equivalent of Penrith.

Castillblanco de los Arroyos

Bumped into a French pelligrina who wailed at me "mais j'ai vu personne pendant toute la journée".  I don't think she was relishing the solitude as much as I was.