What is the obsession of the Spanish with concrete? We’ve walked 24km today, at least 22km of which was on concrete or tarmac, really, really unpleasant on the feet. The last stretch into Redecilla del Camino in particular was absolute torture.  Some anonymous person had decided that what pilgrims needed most on entering his village was 500m of 6″ deep, billiard table smooth, blindingly white concrete. Bloody excruciating.

Shortly afterwards we came across a French lady with advanced atherosclerosis who’d found that the albergue in Villamayor del Rio didn’t have WiFi access, necessary so that she could make a Skype call to let out a room in her house for the princely sum of €100 per week, money that she needed to survive. She’d collected her bag that she sends ahead every day, being unable to carry it due to the atherosclerosis and was in a desperate quandary as to how to make it to Belgrado, 6km further away. I offered to carry her bag for her (I’d carried mum’s for a similar distance yesterday – typical pit pony stuff) but she refused and started walking. We walked together and then (this is a pilgrimage after all) a chap turned up in a van from the albergue we’d booked into last night dispensing cold fresh water. He offered to take her bag to the albergue for her, much rejoicing all round, so the three of us carried on together.

Shortly afterwards we were joined by a young girl (turns out she was 32) from Riga on her way to Santiago de Compostela. She’s travelling to give herself space to think about what she does next. Her husband, a member of the Riga equivalent of a SWAT police team has been left behind whilst she decides whether to carry on teaching. They’ve no children, she has 23 children at the moment, she can’t cope with more, she works 60-70 hours a week, she’s committed to her job, she has no time for friends, relationships, it’s a treadmill, she has no plan, she’s lost and uncertain, she’s hoping that the Camino might provide clarity.

I’ve been asked about Brexit three or four times so far, all with a sense of sadness and bewilderment. I’ve explained how unbelievably angry many of us are that Boris’s bid for the top job coupled with Goves’ closet and Farage’s overt fascism has led to the biggest political mistake since Britain tried to tax the Americans without their consent. There at least Britain simply lost an empire, this time it’s lost its moral compass and all sense of perspective. Deeply, deeply depressing.

But, back to pragmatics. We’ve booked into a nice albergue (only six per room) with a swimming pool (which Dorothy is desperate to try out), we’ve just had lunch, bocadillo jambon with fries, a weird but tasty cheesecake and a full bottle of wine – alcoholics anonymous will have two new recruits come September at this rate 😞.

We’re currently sitting in one of the squares which often form the heart of Spanish towns and villages drinking café con leche (our fifth today), the sun is shining brightly, we’ve showered, some nice lady is washing and drying our clothes whilst we sip and dinner is to look forward to. All the troubles of the world are a world away.

Buen Camino