Bocadillo (sic) del Camino

Phew! Just got in (18:00). We started a little before 7 o’clock this morning and according to Gronze.com, the ultimate Camino web resource that’s 38.9 km from where we stayed last night.

My body can certainly vouch for the distance. My feet hurt, my left calf muscle signalled just as we entered the village that it had had quite enough and it’s time to stop. Dorothy chose tonight’s albergue cum hotel and it really is superb. It’s pukka, the shower is magnificent, it’s large, light and airy, the feng shui is perfect. If dinner, available in 30 minutes matches up, nirvana beckons.

Back to the walk.

Only one pilgrim ahead of us, the rest had gone.

Today was a day of long, straight, undulating tracks composed of small stones, occasionally adulterated with sheep poo.

A French chap somewhat arrogantly pushed past Dorothy and me on the start of this climb (it’s steeper than it looks and much longer). Being of a gentle disposition I said a cheerful buenas dias and with a brief nod to Dorothy that I’d see her at the top, took off in quiet pursuit. I hung behind for a while to get a measure of the chap and on a curve in the path motored past with as much elegance as I could muster. With sticks scratching for grip he tried to match my pace but I powered on, biceps and triceps working my sticks like formula 1 pistons. I had thought that perhaps 50 m would see him reduced to dust in my wing mirror but he hung on so I dug deep, increased my speed and didn’t stop until I reached the summit, somewhere around 600 m later. I dropped my pack and raced back down the hill, wishing him a cheerful buen camino as I passed. I met Dorothy some 200 further on, shouldered her pack and powered back up the hill with her.

He was sitting next to my pack. He gave me a gentle smile and walked off with his wife and son, a defeated man.

He was french.