With Natalija no longer with me to “sweetly” interrupt my peace, I had the luxury of washing all my clothes at the hostel, cooking myself lunch, and building a sleeping bunker on the couch. No way was I going through another Spanish sweat sauna – I just couldn’t, not tonight. I needed a proper night’s sleep, especially since I’d set myself the ambitious goal of walking more than 40 km the next day.
A friend called in the meantime. Talking to him is always a pleasure – he understands my sarcasm and lets me complain like I have a contract with the universe, and he enjoys it. It was lovely to hear his voice. Then I finally hit the shower. Earlier it didn’t seem worth it – in this heat I’d have to shower twice, and I was already too lazy for one. I preferred to go right before bed, cool my body down, and wet my hair so it would serve as a natural air conditioner until the alarm went off.
That night, the couch was my bed. While resting, I chatted a bit with French mum, and then I was out. Oh, and another hiker wandered into the hostel – he’d started in Madrid. When he took off his shoes, his feet looked like they’d been through battle. He was visibly exhausted, so I brought him a beer to help him recover from the day. He told me he’d only done one stage, but it had wrecked him so much that after that beer he fell straight into a siesta and then went to dinner. He invited me along, but I declined – dinner at 8 p.m. is not an option for me, especially if I’d have to walk to the village and back. Tomorrow I’ll have more than enough walking – time to spare the legs.
Of course, the morning didn’t go to plan. Instead of starting at 5, I set off at 6 – the desire to sleep and avoid walking in the dark won. I’d have happily stayed another day, but Camino duty comes first. I’ll rest when I get to my friends in Finisterre.
The morning served up a few small climbs – just enough to ruin my good mood. The route was varied, with plenty of twists and turns to make the kilometres seem shorter in my head. Cold and windy weather suited me – I didn’t take off my hoodie until 21 km in. That’s where I had to decide: Camino Sanabrés or the French Way. I’d already chosen Sanabrés earlier, but yesterday I learned there were wildfires there. I hoped the locals were safe.
While having coffee in Granja de Moreruela, I checked the Camino de la Plata Facebook group for more info about the route’s safety. The replies weren’t exactly comforting, but I stuck with it – I hadn’t walked this route yet. The second half of the day was brutal. Hills with no shade and a sun that burned like it was welded to the sky. By noon my body was shaking from hunger, so I made myself a sandwich right there on the trail. The flies kept me company – as annoying as TV ads. I had 2.5 liters of water in my backpack, but a litre and a half disappeared as if I’d poured it into sand. At one point, I considered sticking out my thumb for the first passing car – with so little water left, those 14 km would be long.
In the distance, I spotted two tiny dots – German hikers. When I crept up behind them and said hello, they jumped out of their skins. I thought it was funny; they didn’t. I moved ahead quickly – the sun wasn’t going to wait for anyone. I asked where they were headed. Tabara. Same as me. I told them I’d see them there.
In the last village before my destination, I refreshed myself with a Coke (downed in one go) and a small beer. A real energy booster for the last 7 km. By the time I reached the finish, I’d drunk everything I had in my bottles. The village was preparing for a fiesta – which meant another night without sleep.
Hungry as a wolf, I dashed to the shop – nothing beats a cold fruit yoghurt. I downed nearly a litre of it. I also bought two English sandwiches and a Coke for tomorrow.
When I got to the hostel, I was greeted by a grumpy owner and beds with plastic covers – the Spanish version of hell. I sat for ten minutes, questioning my life choices, and then decided: Fuck this shit, I’m going to a hotel. The hostel was dirty, it stank, and the owner wouldn’t even let me put my food in the fridge.
I slipped out like a ghost so as not to offend him, and in front of the hotel I saw the German from the trail – looking as content as cats in the sun. We sat together in the shade, drinking until the evening pushed us onwards.
My hotel room had cool air conditioning and real bedding. Nirvana. Meanwhile, French mum called – lost in Barcelona because she couldn’t get into the Sagrada Familia. When we were together, I’d told her to buy the ticket online, because this isn’t a shop where you just walk in. She didn’t listen. Then she asked me to find her a cheap place to stay. After walking 46 km, I really didn’t have the energy to play travel agent, but for mum… well, we do everything, don’t we? And then came the time to get to know the German a little better.
