When hiking, basic needs are reduced to the absolute essentials. Food, drink, a bed for the night, health. Everything else becomes less important. You are satisfied with less, you are content with what is there.
Might be a lesson, a kind of blueprint for a better life. But then again ...
That morning, after a restless night full of doubts, I lay awake for a long time with aching Achilles tendons and doubts as to whether I will be able to manage the 28 kilometers to Gallistio. But after a maximum of 4-5 hours' sleep, the unexpected happens once again: I feel completely rested and fit for the next round.
The pilgrims or whatever these early risers are have long since left, I'll probably see them Gallisteo meet again, with a mocking grin on my face (the entry in my daily notes shows my dislike: “I hate the apilgrims, they get up at half past five and I can't sleep anymore.")
So I set off, my stomach empty, with little hope of a coffee with ingredients. But as if Cañaveral needed to book a few positive points at the last minute, a bar is indeed open and offers breakfast. And so I just sit there, the remaining tiredness disappearing with every bite of the huge Churros, with every sip of the sugared coffee, and I am happy.
That's how little it takes. As I said, a blueprint.
Cañaveral – Galisteo
Even though I'm the last Mohican on the way again, it's still dark. As always, the path leads to the end of the village before branching off. But as if the village wanted to annoy me one last time, all the signposts are missing. (“No signposts, fuck Canaveral!”).
I'll throw one last one Looking back in anger and enter the darkness of the path.
Cows and Dehesas and Lord of the Rings
The beginning is difficult as a steep climb takes me up the slope as darkness gives way to day. And oh wonder, I'm not quite the last Mohican, because once again Doug and Heidi rush effortlessly past me.
The landscape now changes quickly, with trees for a change other than the eternal cork and holm oaks. What remains are the eternal cows, which pay just as little attention to me as their colleagues on the previous stages. The Dehesas, on the other hand, these huge expanses of land that are unimaginable in my country, continue to stretch as far as the horizon.
Sometimes, Tolkien is, as always, my iconic companion, I find those hobbit moments again under the shady trees and enjoy my first or second or even third breakfast (I haven't forgotten you, Pippin) and let my gaze wander around the surroundings.
The landscape is becoming greener
You can't believe it at first, but the wasteland recedes, gives way to green pastures and introduces a few cows to properly complete the unexpected picture. However, I am skeptical about the sustainability of this display. It's certainly just an interim episode, the next desolate wasteland is probably waiting around the next bend.
Sometimes you hear the sound of water gurgling, sometimes hidden under the bushes, sometimes completely invisible, sometimes in the form of a channel that is probably used for irrigation. This might be proof that there really is water even in the arid Extremadura.
At the Destination
It's actually not surprising that shortly before the day's destination, Galisteo, the green meadows disappear again and the well-known picture of burnt meadows and fields appears. At least yellow-flowering bushes show that not everything is lost.
And then Galisteo comes closer, strange that the almost 28 kilometers are behind me without the slightest effort. Once again it shows that hiking is actually something very simple. You turn off the mind, take one step at a time, and when all the steps are taken, you reach the goal and turn the mind back on (or leave it alone).
The Sag Wagon
The restaurant where I have reserved a room is packed with my fellow hikers, who are already on their second or third beer and greet me loudly. At least they can now sit back and relax now, as the last one has arrived.
This is not the first time and will not be the last time that I play the role of the sag wagon, so to speak. A role that I really like.
Doug and Heidi are there too, greeting me and then long discussions about God and the world and a warm hug at the end. Jesus, always saying goodbye to people you've grown fond of in an instant.
The room is simple but OK, except for the light switch, which is placed out of reach of the bed. Possibly a late revenge from the responsible electrician, who is probably still laughing his head off today.
From Galisteo to Carcaboso
Galisteo is surrounded by a medieval city wall, I only realized that in the morning. So before I start the short stage carcaboso do, the small town deserves the attention it deserves.
And so, after breakfast, I find myself standing in front of the city gate, a rather astonishing example of medieval architecture. Narrow, winding alleyways lead through the village, which has just under 1000 inhabitants. God knows it's an elaborate layout for so few people. But you would probably have to dig deep into history to find out the background.
The legacy of the Moors
At least I found out that Galisteo made most of his defiant defense Moors has to thank. Among other things, they also built the city wall, the Muralla Almohade, which was declared a cultural asset in 1996.
Galisteo's attractions include the Torre de la Picota, a former part of the Moorish fortress, and the church of Nuestra Señora de la Asunción, which has an elegant Mudejar choir. There are also apparently several archaeological sites in the area around Gallisteo offering evidence of prehistoric, Roman and Visigothic cultures.
I am impressed.
A terrifyingly steep staircase leads up to the city wall. I happen to have caught the right moment, because the sun is just peeking out from behind the walls.
Once again the wide open country is calling, mountains greet on the horizon, or are they just hills trying to make themselves important? I can't blame them. A hill is a mountain in the company of flat plains.
But the journey continues, not too far today, the few kilometers to Carcaboso are a piece of cake. So I take it easy, my steps along the rarely used country road automatically slow down, my head empties and makes room for other things, not just thoughts about the next few kilometers, the next plains.
A coffee on the way, the bars are similar as are the baristas and hopefully the coffee too.
Ghost Dog wisdom
After all, all kinds of blooming flowers and fruits on cacti greet me along the way, greetings from more pleasant seasons. I stop involuntarily, breathe in the scent, admire the fruit.
A wisdom from Ghost Dog seems appropriate: Nothing matters as much as the present moment.
The hotel in Carcaboso is perfect, although there is no plug in the sink for the laundry, but these are problems that can be tolerated.
The next stages are long and demanding, but hey, they are heading towards Salamanca. Tomorrow finally the Arco de Càparra, a highlight, but according to the weather forecast a new heat wave is expected. Maybe then my (sun) umbrella will have its premiere.
From Carcaboso to the Arco de Càparra
After 8 hours' sleep and an impeccable breakfast in the hotel restaurant, I'm on the road again at 7.40 a.m., slowly getting closer to the pilgrims' getting-up routines. It's dark, the sky still hangs its starry shroud over the world for a while, but the dawn hints at its imminent arrival.
Looking at the map shows a terrifying plain with pretty much nothing, no trees, no bushes, just endless paths through... nothing. This is going to be one hell of a day.
Despite the barren landscape, there is a lot to do and see, a thousand gates to open and close (a task that needs to be taken seriously), and there are always ruins along the way, evidence of a better past.
Sometimes cyclists pass by, very carefully, as if they wanted to show their respect to the hikers. Then a murmured Buen Camino and they're off, trailing a small cloud of dust behind them.
Strange people
The regular sound of footsteps on the path, accompanied by the clacking of sticks in time, are the only sounds, apart from the rustling of leaves on the lifeless meadows, the singsong of birds hiding somewhere.
The flat surfaces, gently framed by low Mountain ranges and holm oak forests make the stage a pleasure. The trees stand like upright soldiers at a sufficient distance from each other, allowing sunlight to reach the ground. Good for the herds of pigs and cattle that otherwise wouldn't be able to find grass.
At a water well, I meet a young man of Asian origin, probably from Korea, we nod to each other, Buen Camino, and I continue along the path. After a few kilometers, a glance at the app shows that I've taken the wrong route. So I turn back with a rather annoyed growl.
So I wonder why the young man didn't draw my attention to this, because he purposefully took the right turn? Is it a cultural problem? Sometimes I struggle to understand the world. But if I catch this guy, I'm going to tell him about it. But as much as I wish to meet him, he remains missing. Lucky guy.
The end of the trail
The trees are becoming rarer, I am now in the middle of the plain, the path leads straight north on the old Roman path. The Arco has to be endured, so it seems.
A group of older people, French as it turns out, are faced with a problem. One of the three women is limping and is barely able to walk. This does not look good. I meet them a short time later at Arco; they will probably have to abandon the trail.
When the sun is beating down from behind, I usually put my hat on my neck, but today that doesn't help either, so I actually use my umbrella for the first time. It's a game, a game with the elements, you can't let yourself be impressed, just keep walking through the dusty sunlight, forget the heat, forget the scorching sensation on your skin.
But then, from afar, the incomparable Càparra Arch becomes visible. Your step involuntarily quickens and your gaze is focused on the approaching jewel of Roman architecture.
The Arco de Cáparra is a Roman monument, the only surviving quadrangular arch in Spain. It was part of the ancient city of Cáparra, which was founded in the 1st century BC and abandoned in the 9th century. The arch was erected in the late 1st or early 2nd century AD and probably had a commemorative or ceremonial function.
And so I am standing in front of the Arco, in the midst of the ruins of the former Roman city, and feel an emotion that is normally avoided in our narcissistic world, the sense of humility. Now would be the time for champagne and a toast to the long-dead master builders of Roman provenance. In my thoughts, I nod to them with respect.
In view of these legacies, having survived for thousands of years, you realize how simple you are and how little you leave behind for posterity. Nothing or almost nothing, and that's probably a good thing.
I have learned that the Arco is not a triumphal arch, as one might think. On the side facing the Via, an inscription carved in stone in Latin states that the Arco is a memorial arch donated by a certain Narcus Fidius Macer in honor of his parents. Wow! Any comparisons with your own deeds in this regard should be avoided.
The group of French people arrives slowly; the handicapped lady appears to be in great pain. Like me, they will probably take the shuttle bus to the hotel, but there is still time before it arrives.
While the sun mercilessly lays its heavy heat over the landscape, I slowly walk along the ruins of the former village, once again pondering what life must have been like here.
The mind imagines noble ladies floating through the narrow streets in their brocade-heavy dresses, resisting the hustle and bustle and noise with gentle smiles, while merchants and craftsmen loudly praise their products and services, children play their games with laughter...
Everything gone, everything reduced to dust and ashes.
Then the bus comes, a short drive to the Hotel Asturias, it exudes the dull glow of long-distance truck romance, but after this day anything that promises peace and shade and a comfortable bed is welcome.
Matching song: Guitarra Azul – Tres Lagrimas
And here the Camino continues… to Aldanueva
