When a tractor ploughs a field round here, it’s Storks not Seagulls that follow it looking for worms. They’re everywhere, nests perched precariously on the top of any tall old building, wooden pole and even in one place amongst the metal shafts of an electricity pylon. You are usually first aware of them either because they are soaring overhead or the clacking of their beaks when on a massive nest above you somewhere. Leaving Castrojeritz I walk along the plain towards a big hill, oh joy a mini mountain first thing and am caught up by a woman from America. I try to explain that it’s better to start off slowly until everything is warmed up nicely and then push the pace on from there, she likes to do it all the other way around so she speeds off. I have to walk over a low Roman bridge that goes on forever and then start the climb. You can’t drink the fountain water from here on as the Meseta is farmland and the pesticides leech into it. I’m having to carry more and more as there are also less villages to stop in, as well as half a kilo of the Magical waters of San Bol that I’d brought with me, as I had managed to soak my feet in the rest the day before. Being cynical I might say that my feet were getting used to the punishment but on the other hand they were a lot better over the next few days and no problems for the rest of my walk, I’d even sipped a bit of it although I got worried looks when I mentioned that to Fernando, Jose Antonio and Joaquin at dinner.
The view at the top of the hill was stunning and everyone was stopping there for a rest and to take pictures. I offered (someone once said never volunteer for anything but I think that’s advice for soldiers in the Army) to take a picture for someone and suddenly became unofficial photographer for the whoever was there or arrived in the next five minutes. Carried on and shouting at a couple of Pilgrims up ahead, saved them from being run down by approaching kamikaze cyclists, will they ever learn? The Meseta stretches out in front of you for miles and miles, apart from the mountains in the very far distance and a few peaks visible on the right, there’s nothing to see apart from field after field.
It’s windy, very windy indeed and I have to keep taking layers off and putting them back on again, oh well such is life on the Camino I suppose I should be used to it by now, I’ve been doing just that for nearly three weeks. I find an area which is being worked on, the other thing I’ve noticed is that the countryside has come to life in the past few days, people are everywhere preparing the land for the summer growing season, whereas there was rarely anyone around at the start in late March.
Stopping to write a note to leave for Cathy whose feet have been giving her real problems, I’d heard about note leaving on the internet so I left mine in the middle of the road, on a bridge, under a stone to stop it from being blown away. It was a voucher for Cathy to get a lengthy foot rub for making it to Fromista, as I was finishing up who should come along but Inna from Germany. Hello! How are you? Have you been walking with Astrid? Her sign language told me that she’d shot off miles ahead.
Stopping in Boadilla del Camino to soak my feet almost up to the ankles in the stream, I was almost tempted to stop there but the Albergue looked a bit overgrown and unloved, received bemused and worried comments from a German pilgrim as to the waterproofing of my boots. “Mine are Gortex but even then I don’t know whether I would do that”. To be honest I was a bit pissed off and felt like telling him to mind his own business, but that might be due to being a bit hot and bothered. As it was my leather boots had managed quite nicely thank you, tough enough to ride easily over the lumps and bumps of the trail, perhaps that’s why other people were having so much grief with their feet.
Made it to Fromista which was a bit rough round the edges like most towns, after following the canal for miles on end, Spring had definitely sprung when I saw two Storks going at it on the top of the first church I saw. I’d been accosted
earlier on by an old man who drove right up to me and stopped to give out fliers for a new albergue, but decided to go my own way, or in other words stopped at the Municipal one because I was knackered and my feet were killing me. Towards the end of the day parts of your soles feel like someone’s sticking pins and needles in them, that’s the sign that you need to stop now not soon. The room I end up in has Jess, Otmar, Herman and the little Red Danish man (who was either Lars or Arni depending on who you ask) who was so called by me because of his matching scarlet waterproofs, top and bottom. Downstairs I meet Jong Hee Lee from Korea again, “Oh Jon hello, hee hee”.
I’d walked past a bar and chemist and cashpoint on the way so Jess and I wandered back down there only to run into my three Spanish mates Joaquin, Jose Antonio and Fernando and the three Irish Pilgrims had been sat outside the bar under a huge sunshade, that was enough excuse for me to stop and chat with my three amigos.
They had introduced me to a particularly potent brew called Licor de Hierbas in Castrojeritz but I didn’t like it much, Jess took an interest though, the variety
they liked was called arucho or something similar and it was a fluorescent yellow colour and as potent as Raki from Greece. Those guys always seemed to have found somewhere cheaper or nicer to stay than me, oh well I suppose they’ve got good local knowledge. Worrying about the fact that many shops will be closed for the Holy Week Jess and I go and get all the basics in from the supermarket like bread, cheese and fruit. After we’d been back to the bar for dinner and more beers and returned to our accommodation, I was lucky enough to avail myself of Jess’s massaging capabilities on my shoulders, although we got a few interested and bemused looks from the other people still sat in the dining room when we arrived and I stripped to the waist, they were never as bad again although they felt virginal the next morning when I put my rucksack on. “Ouch eech aach”.
The view at the top of the hill was stunning and everyone was stopping there for a rest and to take pictures. I offered (someone once said never volunteer for anything but I think that’s advice for soldiers in the Army) to take a picture for someone and suddenly became unofficial photographer for the whoever was there or arrived in the next five minutes. Carried on and shouting at a couple of Pilgrims up ahead, saved them from being run down by approaching kamikaze cyclists, will they ever learn? The Meseta stretches out in front of you for miles and miles, apart from the mountains in the very far distance and a few peaks visible on the right, there’s nothing to see apart from field after field.
It’s windy, very windy indeed and I have to keep taking layers off and putting them back on again, oh well such is life on the Camino I suppose I should be used to it by now, I’ve been doing just that for nearly three weeks. I find an area which is being worked on, the other thing I’ve noticed is that the countryside has come to life in the past few days, people are everywhere preparing the land for the summer growing season, whereas there was rarely anyone around at the start in late March.
Stopping to write a note to leave for Cathy whose feet have been giving her real problems, I’d heard about note leaving on the internet so I left mine in the middle of the road, on a bridge, under a stone to stop it from being blown away. It was a voucher for Cathy to get a lengthy foot rub for making it to Fromista, as I was finishing up who should come along but Inna from Germany. Hello! How are you? Have you been walking with Astrid? Her sign language told me that she’d shot off miles ahead.Stopping in Boadilla del Camino to soak my feet almost up to the ankles in the stream, I was almost tempted to stop there but the Albergue looked a bit overgrown and unloved, received bemused and worried comments from a German pilgrim as to the waterproofing of my boots. “Mine are Gortex but even then I don’t know whether I would do that”. To be honest I was a bit pissed off and felt like telling him to mind his own business, but that might be due to being a bit hot and bothered. As it was my leather boots had managed quite nicely thank you, tough enough to ride easily over the lumps and bumps of the trail, perhaps that’s why other people were having so much grief with their feet.
Made it to Fromista which was a bit rough round the edges like most towns, after following the canal for miles on end, Spring had definitely sprung when I saw two Storks going at it on the top of the first church I saw. I’d been accosted
earlier on by an old man who drove right up to me and stopped to give out fliers for a new albergue, but decided to go my own way, or in other words stopped at the Municipal one because I was knackered and my feet were killing me. Towards the end of the day parts of your soles feel like someone’s sticking pins and needles in them, that’s the sign that you need to stop now not soon. The room I end up in has Jess, Otmar, Herman and the little Red Danish man (who was either Lars or Arni depending on who you ask) who was so called by me because of his matching scarlet waterproofs, top and bottom. Downstairs I meet Jong Hee Lee from Korea again, “Oh Jon hello, hee hee”.
I’d walked past a bar and chemist and cashpoint on the way so Jess and I wandered back down there only to run into my three Spanish mates Joaquin, Jose Antonio and Fernando and the three Irish Pilgrims had been sat outside the bar under a huge sunshade, that was enough excuse for me to stop and chat with my three amigos.
They had introduced me to a particularly potent brew called Licor de Hierbas in Castrojeritz but I didn’t like it much, Jess took an interest though, the variety
they liked was called arucho or something similar and it was a fluorescent yellow colour and as potent as Raki from Greece. Those guys always seemed to have found somewhere cheaper or nicer to stay than me, oh well I suppose they’ve got good local knowledge. Worrying about the fact that many shops will be closed for the Holy Week Jess and I go and get all the basics in from the supermarket like bread, cheese and fruit. After we’d been back to the bar for dinner and more beers and returned to our accommodation, I was lucky enough to avail myself of Jess’s massaging capabilities on my shoulders, although we got a few interested and bemused looks from the other people still sat in the dining room when we arrived and I stripped to the waist, they were never as bad again although they felt virginal the next morning when I put my rucksack on. “Ouch eech aach”.
Cheese Museum After Dark ooer...
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