Day 10, Sunday, April 14: from Azofra to Santo Domingo de la Calzada (16.2 km, 10 miles)

Once I begin shortcuts, whether on this blog or on the trail, I will be on a slippery slope, won’t I? But really, I’ve been on slippery slopes and hills and rocks and cobblestone streets for 10 days now, so what’s another slip? What I’m leading up to: this is going to be short tonight. Yours truly is thinking that bed would be awfully nice, the sooner, the better. Besides, I did something much harder than walking 10 miles today. Several things, actually. One of them: preparing tonight’s dinner in the hostel’s kitchen where it took me a good five minutes and the help of two Russians and one non-English speaking woman of unknown origin to figure out how to turn the burners on. The other hard thing was carrying on a conversation with a woman we invited to share that dinner with us who spoke not a word of Spanish or English; there was nothing to it but to muddle my way through in French. Two years ago, before our Quebec trip, my French was passable. But now, after 10 days of bringing out my Spanish, that French was pretty darn pathetic. (Nevertheless, it brought forth abundant mercis and much affection from the hungry woman… a woman whose name, I’m afraid, I never even asked…)

Ginny and I were pretty proud of ourselves with our grocery store purchases. We were lucky to find a store open on this Palm Sunday, but in this town of 6,600 people, I guess there is a need. We’ve been in tiny stores before, but this was a good-sized store (don’t think Kroger, but… well, a good size). I messed up with the vegetables. When the cashier picked up our bag of strawberries she disappeared briefly, and came back with a price tag on them. Then she found the carrots and tomato and handed them to me. “Get a price for them. You’ll see. Just follow the instructions.” How hard can this be, I thought. I’ll look for a scale. Found it. Read the directions which basically said to put the items on the scale and push a red button. Voilà. A label spit out of the machine at me. Wonder how the machine knew how much to charge just by weighing the item, I thought. Pleased with having followed the directions, I returned to the cashier. “No, that’s the wrong thing,” she replied abruptly. (Really, would you want to deal with dumb foreigners when you are working on a Sunday while the rest of the city is enjoying tapas and wine and you will be doing the same as soon as the market closes in ten more minutes? Come on!). I followed her back to the produce section and saw to my chagrin that there were two scales. I had used the one for hard candy, all of which was the same price/kilo. There was a second scale where you located the picture of your item, selected it, etc., etc. Oh well!)

Oh, but you want to know what we did today, don’t you? We walked! Prayed that our bodies would carry us. Wondered where Jesus and his disciples slept when they traveled from town to town, where they did their laundry, how much they carried on their backs. Realized how easy we have it, even though it (the walking, being pilgrims) is hard. Realized how easy we have it in comparison with most of the world who face harder challenges, challenges that they didn’t choose! Thought about family and friends. Our love for them. Their love for us. Fought to get WiFi when we arrived at our hostel. (Forgot that when things don’t work, “reboot.” Why am I so slow to learn that?)

Once dinner was prepared, dishes done, food stored in the hostel’s refrigerator for consumption later in the evening, I headed out to see the sights, sights I would love to tell you about (like climbing the bell tower and being less than 7 feet from the huge bells when they tolled 7:30 pm–I took a video, but Instagram wasn’t keen on loading it, so your ears can count themselves lucky–….)  Yes, I’d love to tell you the fascinating story of Saint Dominic of the Road (patron saint of pilgrims) and about why, in the cathedral–which is amazing!–there is a hen and a rooster in a sacred spot for all to see…. but the lights are going to be shut off in less than six minutes and I don’t have my flashlight with me. And I’m tired. And what you really want to know is: “how are you and Ginny doing?” “And how is Barb?”

To the latter question I’ll tell you: she is amazing, three days ahead of us now. She must be averaging about 20 miles/day! Not that I have time to do the math, but she is in Burgos tonight.

My feet are doing better than Ginny’s right knee. So if you have extra time for prayers and thoughts and healing wishes, send them her way. She may be living this Passion Week in a more intense way than ever. Or not. That’s the option we like best!

I’ve put pictures from yesterday and today on Instagram/Facebook. I tried to include one below, but… it was too slow. Yikes, now it’s 10:00. Hope I can find my bed AND my bunk. Another top one…. Nite all!

Day 9, April 13: Navarrete to Azofra (24.8 km, 15.4 miles)

Today was the first of what will no doubt be many cloudless days. There will be more mist, more threatening skies, more fascinating clouds, and that will be fine. But today’s sky took all the guesswork out of it: it was not going to rain and sunscreen would need to be applied along with Vaseline or feet lubricant of choice.

Sunscreen on my face, at least. The rest of me remained well protected by wool and fleece and whatever synthetic material my rain jacket (worn for warmth!) is made out of. The forecasted high suggested 70 degrees, but it was a chilly morning as we made our way out of Navarrete.

It wasn’t long before we were walking quite close to a national road and it felt like we were in a wind tunnel. Had the opportunity to take a “detour” or alternate route and grabbed it. Always good to get away from traffic and “up into the hills” again. Plus, this detour into Ventosa would give us the opportunity for a food stop and bathroom break.

Food is, you will have guessed, a highlight of every day, and it is hard to actually count the number of times we feel justified searching for something to put in our mouths. Today was no exception, as you’ll see in my recount of our day’s delicacies:

1. 1st breakfast, 7:30 am, in the hostel’s lounge/dining area; an orange I picked up at the grocery store yesterday and a squished muffin that had ridden in my pack from Logroño.
2. 2nd breakfast, 8:00 am, in a “bar”/”cafe” just down the street from the hostel we’d had to vacate by 8:00. Cappuccino for Ginny, a ham-cheese croissant to share.
3. Mid-morning meal on our detour into Ventosa, around 10:30 or 11:00: continuing with the splitting motif, half a bocadillo and half a banana for each of us.
4. Lunch in Nájera around 1:30. Like meal #3, this one was enjoyed at an outdoor table: our tapas choices consisted of toast rounds topped with goat cheese, peppers, and a walnut (that’s one tapa) and, shared, a puff-pastry rectangle stuffed with spinach.
5. It was a really long stretch to dinner here in Azofra, six kilometers beyond Nájera, but by 7:30 we were seated in a bar/restaurant where we passed up the meat and potato choices and went for a bowl of vegetable stew and then a bowl of lentil soup. Bread, wine, and flan rounded out the meal. We will not go to bed hungry.

Day 9 highlights beyond the aforementioned food

• Our bodies agreed to cooperate, though they continue to ask for a lot of TLC. When Ginny isn’t busy with icing and stretching and rubbing analgesic cream on her knee, she is patching my blisters. (What did I do to deserve her?)
• For most of the day today we had views of a distant mountain range. “At a distance”: that’s exactly where snow should be in relationship to us! Hope it stays that way….
• “Looks like Sedona,” Ginny commented as we left Nájera. Indeed, tall red-rock cliffs met us as we exited the town. The photos didn’t capture the colors, but they were quite striking.
• My eyes lingered as we passed through Nájera, at least once we got to the historic center of the city. “Let it go,” I remind myself; you can’t have everything.” With Ginny a block or so ahead of me, I snapped away furiously, hoping to retain some memories of this town I would love to have lingered in longer. I especially enjoyed some murals painted on old walls as someone combined themes of the famed painter Velázquez with a much more modern style.
• Vineyards. Row after row. Hillside after hillside, awaiting their annual rebirthing.
• A hostel with paper-thin walls (I can hear the snoring already), but one consisting of very small rooms with only two beds. Hurray! No climbing over a dozen others to assemble our packs in the morning; it’s just me and the cuz.
• Perhaps most memorable: meeting a new companion as we sat down to Ginny’s birthday dinner. Eventually we came to learn that this was Fernando, a psychologist from Madrid who has been spending a week on the Camino for the last 15 years. He was just about to leave the restaurant as we were placing our order, and we gestured for him to join us. Fernando had very good English and almost no translating was necessary. His presence definitely enhanced our evening. Fernando gave us some advice for a couple of the upcoming stages, and went on his way while we finished up dessert and talked a bit about tomorrow.

So…. what did we decide about tomorrow? That we’d see how we were doing. The one thing we know is that we have to be out of here by 8:30 am. We learned that rule when we returned from dinner at 9:33 pm and read the sign that said the hostel locks its doors at 9:30! So grateful that someone was late turning the latch tonight and our tardiness was neither noticed nor of any consequence.

I entertained hopes of sending off some individual emails this afternoon or this evening. And having a good WhatsApp chat with home. That was before I realized that not only is the WiFi connection here very weak, but my phone wouldn’t catch the signal at all. I’ll turn data on long enough to post this missive, but photos of the “Velázquez wannabe” and of a few other sights for the day will have to wait until I have a better signal.

I’ll say again that we are grateful for thoughts and prayers and well wishes. They mean a lot.

Oh, and a Barb update: she is now a couple of days ahead of us, walking like a pilgrim being chased by the devil.  When we do our daily check-in, she gives us the occasional tip about what to expect “down the road.” Missing her, but know she has done the right thing by going ahead at her own (remarkable) pace.

Friday, April 12: 7:45 am; destination and daily mileage: ???

This is a morning report from Logroño. By the time I publish this post, I will have added another subtitle or changed the one above. For now, I’m trying something novel: writing this from the (relative) comfort of my bunk in the dormitory. About this room: as far as I can calculate, there must be space in here for at least 26 bodies. Ginny and I and a woman from Columbia are at the far end, and for all practical purposes we have our own bathroom. There may be five or six people at the other end, and, if so, they have been extremely quiet or, as was the case for us, they found yesterday exhausting and have decided, like us, to sleep in.

“Katy, could we maybe possibly consider sleeping in tomorrow morning?” Ginny asked me last night. And so the decision was made to forego the 6:00 am alarm and let nature take its course. And did it ever! Definitely the best sleep I’ve had since beginning the pilgrimage. Drool and all! I referred to the “relative comfort” of this albergue. I believe it’s the first one that didn’t provide some type of sheet to put over the plastic-encased mattress and pillow. Strike one. When we happened to pass through one of the downstairs dormitories, we noticed, with delight, how toasty warm it was. “Let’s ask if they might turn the heat on upstairs for us,” we brainstormed, only to learn that when the building was constructed, they didn’t make any provisions for heating the second floor. Strike two. To counterbalance those strikes, though: warm blankets for every bed, space enough to let everyone have a bottom bunk, hot water for the shower, and extremely kind and friendly people working here. (Whether volunteer hospitaleros or paid staff I do not know. But so cariñosos and helpful. Last night as I thanked the cook yet one more time, she said she wouldn’t be here in the morning to tell me good-bye, but she wished me a “Buen camino” and a “Buena vida” as she touched her heart. NAMASTE, indeed!).

The really good news we heard last night was that although they would begin serving breakfast at 6:00, we had until 9:00 to show up AND this hostel doesn’t require people to be out until 11:00 am. (8:00 is more standard)

So the real reason I’m writing this morning is that I had a few more thoughts to share about yesterday, and rather than adding them to the already published post for April 11th, which some folks may already have read and won’t have any reason to go back to for an update, I’m tossing those thoughts here. As you surely realize, these posts are for me, to help me recall small details that might otherwise be lost forever. If ten years from now I even know how to turn on a computer and have eyesight enough to read, perhaps some of these posts will bring a smile to my face. (Or who knows? Ten years from now I might be really and truly “resting in peace”… or I may be off hiking in some very exotic locale. Who knows?)

Here’s one funny incident from yesterday. When I was telling about it at the table, Ginny admitted that it had gone right over her head, so she was hearing it for the first time as I related it. So… in the pharmacy last night I was acting as Ginny’s translator. It was clear that the pharmacist knew some English, but she was happy for my services and I was pleased to offer them. I don’t have much to offer with regard to first-aid know how, but I can translate, and so I did. At some point in the process of paying, the pharmacist said “Eight” to Ginny-whether to tell her the price of one particular item or to tell Ginny how many more euros she owed, I don’t recall–and I looked at Ginny and said, with all the earnestness of a faithful translator, “Ocho,” not realizing that, silly me, I was doing a reverse translation. Ginny may not have realized it, but the two pharmacists behind the counter got a huge kick out of it, as did I. (If this doesn’t strike you as funny, then 1) you had to be there or 2) I didn’t explain it well or 3) you have to be bilingual or 4) you have no sense of humor [which surely is not the case].)

The other memorable thought that came to me in the luxury of my sleep-in this morning is an encounter we had when entering Logroño late yesterday afternoon. (Aside: this is a relatively large city, close to 200,000 I believe I read. They brought us in, to the extent possible anyway, through a remarkably remote area.) On one of the quiet streets not all that far from bustling ones, we came upon Doña María, an elderly woman (it’s all relative, but can I get by with using that adjective for someone who told me she was 86?). María was sitting behind a table with various Camino souvenirs available for purchase. Tired from our long journey and bearing all the weight we cared to bear plus several additional pounds we’d love not to be carrying, we were about to pass her by. She called out:

“No queréis un sello?” (“Don’t you want a stamp?” [as in: a rubber stamp to go in our credencial, our pilgrim’s passport]. I probably haven’t explained about the passports. We picked them up at the start of the trip, in St. Jean. We have them stamped along the route, at our albergues, at churches we visit, at museums. Technically, one would only need one stamp/day.  When we arrive in Santiago, we present our stamped passports and they are inspected to verify that we have completed the entire journey. Upon passing this inspection, a pilgrim is given a compostela, let’s say a “keepsake certificate,” like a diploma with name and date, fancy, frameable…)

Poor Ginny was so very eager to move on and get some relief for her knee. I was caught between a rock and a hard place because poor Doña María was anxious to tell her story and explain her life’s purpose. What to do?

“Le duele mucho la rodilla” (“her knee really hurts”) I explained, indicating Ginny and trying to explain our hesitancy about stopping and getting out our passports. “Pues a mí me duele todo el cuerpo,” she responded. (“Well, my whole body aches.”). There was nothing for it but to let Doña María have her say while Ginny moved on down the street and found a bench on which to to rest.

As the somewhat cranky lady went on to explain (and I’m more than willing to give her the benefit of the doubt, that she may be very, very sweet; she was tired! It was, after all, at least 4:00 pm), she had been out there since 7:30 am, and it was a cold day (I concur) and damp. Her biggest complaint, though, was that so many pilgrims don’t stop. They don’t care about the sello. And hers is a wonderful sello, the first one of the whole Camino, she tells me. (Another explanation: each stamp is unique, picturing the place that issues it or having some symbolic design; the different establishments are proud of their individual stamps.) I learned that her mother, Felisa, began sitting out front daily in 1982 and did so for 20 years, until her death in 2002, at which time Doña María took over the task. “See, it’s all here in this booklet about the region, and this was printed by the government. Don’t just think I’m trying to make it up!” She continued, in Spanish, with great earnestness: “But now, now, is different. The peregrinos of today aren’t like the ones back years ago. They don’t care as much. They don’t take it seriously. Oh, I’m not talking about you and your friend. But many, they just want to have fun. They have it all wrong!” She was getting more animated by the minute. “El camino no es un camino de rosas; es un camino de espinas.” (The real Camino, she was saying, wasn’t supposed to be a “bed of roses,” but rather a “bed of thorns.”)

Did I open my fanny pack, dig out the plastic bag in which, in another plastic bag, I kept my credencial? Get my sello? And then put everything back? You better believe it! I thanked Doña María and headed on my way down the hill–there is always a hill!– to find Ginny. With a sinking feeling in my heart, however, that I had made a bad decision back at María’s little table. I probably should have bought something, even if I later left it behind. I had seen a box with some coins in it, but was afraid that I might offend her if I left money for the stamp. Stamps are generally considered free. Earlier in the day someone had indicated “no” when he thought I was getting money out to pay for one. Still, as I walked down the hill I thought of this poor woman who had sat outside all day with so little to show for her efforts. I wish I had left a euro or two…

There’s a final touching story I’d like to tell about the albergue we’ll be leaving shortly, or about a particular group that was staying there. I had occasion to watch them last night and again this morning at breakfast. (If you are astute you will figure out that I am no longer writing in bed. In truth, it is twelve hours later. I am sitting on the marble steps between the 1st and 2nd floors of the albergue. It is a 9:58 pm and already the lights are off in the dormitory rooms, in the lounge, and even here in the stairway. I am wearing a headlamp to be able to write this. I’m hoping I’ve done a good job of laying out my night clothes so as not to disturb 11 or more roommates as I slip into them in a bit. But back to the group I wanted to tell you about.). Besides the boisterous and jocular pilgrims we’ve been seeing all along, last night there was a large group (14) whom we did not recognize. They were much more subdued. Different. Most didn’t look around or seem to engage even with one another. It was obvious after a while that they were marching to their own drums, that they were “on the [autism] spectrum,” and some pretty far to one end of it. It would appear that about ten of them met the description that I have just given; the other four were the “traveling companions.” It was just very touching to see the kindness exhibited by the caregivers as they helped the men make their way through dinner last night, and again to see the whole pack of them heading out this morning, getting help with the jacket-zipping and with hoisting their packs and getting them buckled so the group could head down the trail. I do not know their story, how far they went daily, how much of the Camino they were attempting to walk. I only know that I was really happy they were able to have this experience and that their companions were kind and patient and trusting enough to set up this experience for them. Who knows but what it might be the most memorable adventure their charges have ever had. Bravo to the organizers and to those funding their trip.

Updating for Day 8: Logroño to Navarrete: 14.35 km (8.9 miles)

So, on to today. Briefly, yes? For your sake and for mine.

I may be happiest when I am in a rural setting or in the woods, but still I delight in being in larger towns (small cities) when there is a lot of activity on the streets. Thus I was happy when we finally hit the streets about 10:30 this morning. Too late for the morning rush hour. Too late to see the chevales heading off to school, but the scene was lively. When you travel in a foreign country whose language you know, there is so much to read and absorb and notice as you walk along. I was almost sorry when we reached, and rather quickly at that, the city’s outskirts.

We came upon, however, a lovely promenade that lead out of town and on which many locals were enjoying a relaxing stroll. Walking for walking sake is definitely a big part of the culture here. Strollers and wheel chairs were being pushed. Seniors were arm in arm or at least pressed close discussing the problems of the world. As traffic thinned, Ginny and I fell into a good rhythm of walking while we prayed aloud together (the lifting-up-of-people-and-situations kind of praying as well as prayers of gratitude for all who are praying for us. And to be honest: we were praying for ourselves as well, our bodies foremost, given Ginny’s aching knee and my sore throat, definitely less of an impediment to walking than the knee problem, but still….)

Before long the extensive promenade lead to a regional park (my term) with a reservoir and, eventually, quite a few mountain biking trails for beginning, intermediate, and expert cyclists. Mostly we didn’t see the trails, but I drooled–2nd time today!–over the map showing the extent of them.

And then…. then we were here, here in Navarrete, a charming town build on a hillside. Steep streets, steep sidewalks (some with handrails, and needed!), plazas, fountains, a beautiful church just off one of the squares and a hop, skip, and a jump from the municipal hostel where again we were paying just 7 euros for our beds.

Of great interest to us: something to eat. Somehow it was probably about 4:00 by the time we had our first food since breakfast, and it at a tapas/pinchos bar around the corner from the hostel. Our fare: a tureen each of garlic soup and a variety of tapas, including vegetarian meatballs, mushrooms, sliced eggplant stuffed with ham and cheese. And wine (by far the cheapest beverage in Spain, it would seem). It filled the need.

In both the albergue’s lobby and at our outdoor table at the Bar Deportivo, we caught up with pilgrims as they arrived, learned who was recovering from what ailment, who was coming down with another, who had rested for a couple of days after bussing forward only to feel well enough to take a taxi backwards and thus be able to continue walking from where she had left off…. Ginny continues to be a master of names and faces. A great skill that I wish I possessed!

I had an opportunity to walk around town quite a bit between the late lunch and the pilgrim’s mass at 8:00 pm. I mentioned that the town is built on a hill. They did not build houses all the way at the top of the hill but there were paved paths leading up to the very top where one could walk around a flat park-like area and see “forever,” spotting other villages and some peaks. Loved the 360 view.

Church: We really got the “full chi-bang” tonight, arriving for the tail end of the Stations of the Cross before mass began, then, after mass, a quick pilgrim’s blessing and moving in a kind of procession to various statues in the church where incense was released (there must be a better word, but it isn’t coming to me). There is a buzz in the air as Holy Week draws closer. Today was, apparently, in Spain, at least, the Feast of the Virgen Dolorosa (Sorrowful Virgin), so her statue, draped in a beautiful black cape (fabric) was front and center. We were invited and encouraged by the ladies in pews ahead of us to participate and follow them up towards the altar to kiss a kind of scapular while the priest asked the Dolorosa to intercede for us and to beg (for good things) on our behalf.

All of which explains why I didn’t get around to eating the microwaveable spaghetti carbonara I had bought until after 9:00 and am finishing up this post at 10:40.

Final observations for the day:

1. The ringing of church bells is as frequent in Spain as, at home, the noise of ambulance, police, and fire sirens
2. The doves in Spain sound different than our doves (just as I’ve noticed that the doves in Indiana and Illinois sing a bit differently than those in Minnesota and Wisconsin). Different dialects, I guess
3. Some dogs here can be like some dogs there: they really get riled up when they encounter other dogs
4. Brick and cobblestone streets are eye-catching, quaint, ever-present… and really hard to walk on with tired feet
5. Days are too short! So are nights! But I doubt I’m telling you anything you don’t know

If I manage to get this “published” tonight, I’ll try my hand at uploading some photos to Instagram/Facebook.

Thursday, April 11: Los Arcos to Logroño, via Viana (28.6 km, 17.8 miles)

Does the title of this blog post say it all? (Or maybe you wish it did! Then there would be no need to read this.)

I’ll start with our pre-supper excursion into town. Did we go for tapas at a local bar? No. Did we check out the old churches in the nearby historic district? No. Did we pick up some food for tomorrow’s lunch or make it to an ATM (Ginny’s need, not mine)? No. We sought out a pharmacy. What else? We’re on the Camino. And trips to the pharmacy are part and parcel of the experience.

It seems that the topic of conversation in the hostels every night revolves around who has sustained what injury, who had to stay behind, seek a doctor, take a bus forward, or possibly call a halt to his/her Camino. Oh, most certainly, the vast majority of those of us who started on April 5 are still walking, and maybe even noticing that we are getting stronger. Still, what many of us were doing today could most appropriately be called “plodding along.”

The pharmacy? Well, I began to feel a scratchy throat last night. This morning I treated myself to one of the three packages of Emergenc-E I had packed. Picked up some Riccola drops tonight. They weren’t selling replacement backs at that particular pharmacy, so my bill was pretty low. The big spender was Ginny who began to notice some unhappiness in her right knee last night. Today’s walk of 18 miles, 140-some floors of climbing (rated an “easy day,” go figure!) did not help. The hostel has been very generous with bags of ice (for Ginny and others). A little ibuprofen here, some icy/hot gel rubbed on three times a day, starting with bedtime, the new brace in place before we head off in the morning, and all of our prayers–and yours– will, hopefully, be the ticket to a better day for her.

Are we getting used to the beautiful scenery and immune to the charm of the medieval villages, taking them for granted? No. No, the gratitude was still there. Is still there. But after yesterday’s spectacular day, we might be inclined to describe today as “long” rather than “beautiful.”

There were some highlights, however, so that’s what I’ll pass along now before heading for the bunk (yeah! a bottom one!)

• I may sound like a broken record, but “mist in the mountains” and “villages in the distance” and the chirping of birds as we headed out a bit before 7:30 this morning worked their charm.
• “Let’s just wait until the next village to have breakfast.” Which of us came up with that idea? It was almost 6 kilometers to town and then… just a small grocery store. Breakfast of cheese and an orange seemed a bit skimpy, but the delight of that stop was not what we ingested but what the store owner fed the dog (his?) who was hanging around outdoors in hopes of a hand-out. I couldn’t get my camera out in time to snap the shopkeeper as he slipped first one, then another hot dog into the dog’s awaiting mouth. “Basta por ahora. Luego te doy más.” (“That’s enough for now. Later I’ll give you more”)
• Further down the road, another Romanesque church from the 12th century, the older by some 50 or 60 years of the two octagonal churches in Spain. By 1070 or so it was accommodating the needs of pilgrims on their way to or from Santiago. Impressive.
• Also super-impressive: coming upon a “food or beverage in exchange for a donation” table in the middle of nowhere where the entrepreneur behind the food had entertained himself by building at least 40 rock towers or cairn-like decorations (see photos on Instagram or Facebook). “How long have you been working on that?” I asked. “For years?” “No, no. It took about a week,” he replied. (And what keeps young kids from having a little fun knocking them over, I wonder. More fun that Jenga….)
• Lunch in Viana was a bit more substantial than breakfast, thanks especially to the folks at the table next to ours where three locals were enjoying some food we sure hadn’t seen on the menu. (Menu? I didn’t see one of them either). Ginny and I finished our wedge of potato omelette, our piece of bread, our lemonade, and were still a bit hungry. Ice cream or the nearest bakery? And then we noticed an interesting platter being set on the table next to us. The three no-longer-young gents occupying the table noticed the wandering of our eyes and indicated we should have a look at what they had. Before long we were sampling white asparagus on small wedges of the ever-abundant sliced bread. Good! The “white asparagus” season began a week or two ago and the woman behind the counter was eager to tell me how they peeled it, boiled it, served it in salads and other dishes. This was a fun stop. It is always an experience to interact with the locals. I got to thinking about how much more difficult it is to do that sort of thing when one travels on a “tour” with a large group.
• The camaraderie at the hostels is always so friendly. We are recognizing more and more people. A smaller group at this particular hostel tonight for whatever reason,, but congenial. For 12 euros we got an excellent meal here with limitless wine (though my limit is about a glass and a half). The cook came to the table to ask how we liked our meal and when we told her it was delicious, she went to get the book in which she asks hostel-stayers to leave comments about her food. “Like my mother made it,” she explained about the fabulous chicken she prepared. I’ll tell you this: her mother was a grand cook!

Weather? Chilly. A bit of rain in the afternoon. Dribbles, mostly. We plodded through it. We plodded up the hills. Down the hills. Plodded. Plodded. And we got here. As they say: “Poco a poco se va haciendo” (Little by little the job gets done)

Now, to bed!