The most difficult thing this morning - finding a bar for breakfast, as all of them only open at 8 or even later. I finally end up in a Starbucks with little enthusiasm, where I pay far too much and am also annoyed by a pompous, loud, incessant chatterbox.
This makes it a little easier to leave the city I love, but I'm happy to move on. However, it takes a while until I finally reach the city limits and the wide open countryside.
But the magnificent city calls for a farewell greeting, which I found in a novel and wrote down:
Once there was Babylon and Nineveh, built of bricks. Athens had pillars made of gold and marble. Rome rested on broad quarry stone arches. In Constantinople, the minarets on the Golden Horn shine like large candles ... [John Dos Passos - Manhattan Transfer]
And now Salamanca.
From Salamanca to Valdunciel
The path now leads sharply north, a little further and I would end up at the North Pole. Not that I long for ice and snow, but there are times when I could do without heat.
I'm still in the middle of the Castilian plateau, and it's going to stay that way for quite a while. In other words, in the middle of those areas whose images in the travel guides made me feel a little uneasy.
I remember those moments when I was studying the route, staring at the endlessly long paths with nothing next to them, no meadows, no houses, no villages. And the question of all questions: will I be able to get through this or have I once again taken on something that I would have better left alone?
Unfortunately, it's once again quite a long time along the road, the traffic rushes past, those are the difficult sections. An older gentleman (neither a hiker nor a pilgrim), apparently bored or whatever, asks to join me for a while, if I don't mind. But I do and politely but firmly decline.
Of course, after a few minutes I regret my not unkindly meant refusal to hike with him, but sometimes you have to listen to yourself.Disculpa amigo!
Withered world
Then finally off the road into the open countryside - not that anything will change, of course, so the same as before, dead straight roads across endless expanses. The only change is the withered sunflower fields as far as the eye can see. Not a single yellow eye stretching towards the sun, all dead. Not a sight to cheer about.
In a village called Aldeaseca de Almunia (another one of those great names) I don't find a bar with coffee, but I do find surprising murals. Although in comparison to the Murales in South America they're not as magnificent, but they are astonishingly beautiful.
The village lies in deep sleep, but the town square with trees and benches invites visitors to have lunch. A group of hikers passes by, almost certainly with the same day's destination.
When I set off again, they are far ahead, but I am fast and catch up, because who knows if they are also looking for a hotel and might snatch my room.
Tattooed helpers
There are moments when I am convinced that I have become better, at least as far as avoiding wrong directions. Of course, this is not the case, but as luck has always been kind to me so far, it helps even this day to find the right way back (you can see the unintentional detour on the map).
I walk past two tattooed gentlemen who are repairing their car and greet them in a friendly manner. Camino, asks one of them, his upper arms are muscle-bound and adorned with scantily clad ladies. Si, I reply. No es el camino, he claims with a laugh and points in a different direction. Maldito, I curse with a laugh as well, thank him and turn back.
Well, the pictures show what I mean. Sometimes I really do have the impression of being at the ass end of the world, looking for the finish, which seems to be somewhere in the middle of nowhere. So I just keep walking, one step at a time, a stone block greets me, Buen Camino, the builder probably sensed that doubts were beginning to creep in.
Or not?
I can't rationally explain why I like these infinitely long, infinitely hot sections so much. But the nomadic genes strike again.
Valdunciel appears, larger than expected, greeting me with afternoon heat and silence. The Hotel Pozo is first of all excellent and secondly staffed by exceptionally friendly people.
And by the way, of course I didn't see the group of hikers again.
New acquaintances
It's early in the afternoon, there's not much to see in the village, but at least there's a store open (my expectations have become very modest).
Although I can't find any bread there, I do get to know another Asian woman who, like Zhilin, apparently comes from Taiwan and is also called Lin (and since the most common last name in Taiwan is also Lin, I wonder if there are ladies with the same first name and surname Lin).
Anyway, later I find out that our Zhilin will meet her later and immediately gets homesick.
At dinner I meet a German couple, Cordula and Henning, both experienced hikers and travelers, and so we have a lot to tell each other.
And when I go to bed, it turns out that once again there is no light switch by the bed and I have to use the flashlight to find the toilet. Well, alright then.
From Valdunciel to El Cubo de la Tierra del Vino
It's early morning in Valdunciel. I imagine I can smell freshly baked bread, although I know that breakfast will be the usual tostada with mantequilla and mermelada, but certainly not freshly baked bread.
What the heck, once again I'm the last to depart. The barman, a friendly chap but with an incredibly loud voice, offers me a piece of bread as a parting gift, as there was none left to buy yesterday.
And surprise surprise - today, too, I head straight north towards El Cubo de la Tierra del Vino. A little further than yesterday, but after an initial ridge as flat as an omelette.
The night is still there, gray and silent, a lone street lamp casts a faint yellowish light on the empty streets. At the end of the village there is a church, Romanesque of course, uninviting, cold and somehow sober just like all the others.
A long, long path runs parallel to the highway, the sometimes distant, sometimes very close hum of cars and trucks accompanying me. I get used to everything, which is at least a very welcome insight. The camino has taught me a lot of new things about myself since the first day.
Well then, the Camino as a teacher about life. Then the efforts are worth it after all. Let's see if there are any further insights to come.
Another insight, nothing new, the environment offers the same as always. Wide fields to the horizon, a straight path, sometimes rocky, sometimes sandy, sometimes good, sometimes less so. Anyway, since there is once again no seating of any kind, I sit on the floor to take a rest.
The crazy thing is - you just sit there, nothing or not much around you, a treeless wasteland, no sounds except a gentle wind around your ears, and you just feel happy. This is by no means the first time, and although it is a kind of recycling of sensations, it will happen again, and again and I will know why I am here.
Sometimes an email from Frank, way back, he takes it more relaxed than I do. He's right. Or from Lin, far ahead, soon in that village where you have to decide whether to take the more southerly route, la Via Sanabria, or the more northerly one, which at some point meets up with the Camino Frances.
I will definitely not choose the north route.
Industrial agriculture
The feeling of happiness lasts just as long until fully loaded harvest trucks with tons of sugar beet rush past me, covering me in a cloud of dust. Huge piles of sugar beet are waiting to be picked up, the fields have already been harvested and look very dead.
In other places, oversized irrigation systems hover over the fields, underneath something is growing, probably massively treated with toxic pesticides, regardless of the damage it causes to flora and fauna.
A wonderful saying that I wrote down a long time ago comes to mind and is very relevant in this context:
Do not attribute to malice what can be adequately explained by stupidity.
Perhaps greed should be added to stupidity.
Hiking plans
After the past few weeks, I have developed a method of how to manage the long distances without pushing myself to the limit.
It's quite simple: 2 hours of walking = 8km, then a short break, another 2 hours, then a lunch break, then the rest of the route, 2 or 1 hour again, just a little slower and with more breaks.
Today, according to my calculations, I would need exactly 6 hours for the 22 kilometers, including all breaks. Not too bad. That makes 3.7 km/h. So for tomorrow just under 9 hours, but probably more.
An Englishman straight out of a picture book
Shortly before reaching today's destination, bushes next to the path prevent me from getting through and I have to find my way while frantically trying to avoid the prickly branches.
At the edge of the village, I meet a long, lanky Englishman with the same destination. Like me, he's been on the road for 25 days, but with the crucial difference that he started in Malaga. So that's another 200 kilometers more.
It really puts my own achievements into perspective and makes me feel a little more humble. He gives me an explanation as to why he has come so far in such a short time. The long stages of around 35 km per day are the greatest of feelings for him.
El Cubo de la Tierra del Vino
The name of the village dates back to the glorious times when viticulture was still the most important source of income. But only until the 19th century, when phylloxera devoured everything and destroyed the livelihood of the viticulturists.
The hostel is located on the edge of El Cubo and has a large shady garden, under whose trees a few hikers have already made themselves comfortable. I actually get my own room, not very comfortable, but okay for one night. The landlord laughs out loud when I ask him about the problems with the booking. Apparently I'm not the first.
He belongs to that special breed of people who automatically induce a kind of contented relaxation. He chats away without pause, and you are spun into a web of stories, information and tales that you may or may not believe.
His claim that, although Saturday, at least one store is open is just as wrong as many other things he says during the afternoon and evening. In any case, it will be difficult to buy groceries for tomorrow, Sunday. However, he promises to provide breakfast, including coffee, so that everyone can help themselves, no matter how early in the morning.
The village has settled into the lazy Saturday afternoon life. The tables in front of the only open bar are occupied, and the noise from inside can be heard from afar. All the tables are occupied, people are playing cards or sitting in front of the TV, which is once again showing a Real Madrid match. Just a few years ago, the smoke from the cigarettes would have ruffled the heads of the guests.
I have to admit that it is by far the loudest restaurant I have ever been to as a mute, almost deaf guest. The English guy is sitting at another table, we nod at each other and grin. It would do absolutely no good to sit down together because you don't understand your own words.
Hospitalero Stories
The evening is entertaining, the young Englishman and I and a couple from southern Spain share a dinner prepared with great pride by the hospitalero. He tells his stories (probably repeated daily), about wine growing and its sad history, about the Arabian horses he breeds, and finally about the Via de la Plata, in whose governing bodies he is apparently a participant.
This leads to a discussion between the Spaniards, not surprisingly lively and very loud, about the overnight prices in the hostels. The guests find it much too high, which of course the landlord cannot accept.
Reality catches up with me
It's not as if you were living in a hermetic world of your own on the Camino. Reality is quickly and easily accessible, over a beer in the evening, in conversation with friends. Or at the table, like on this relaxed evening.
But sometimes you would be happy to be able to ignore reality.
Like tonight, lying in bed, reading about a terrible terrorist attack by Hamas in Israel, about over a thousand people killed, children shot dead, people kidnapped. Sometimes you have to realize that you have become accustomed to the terrifying events in the world, that you have become numb, that you don't want to hear any more.
But such events are a wake-up call for all those who have become numb, for the blind and the deaf. And also for all those hikers who feel outside the world and yet are part of it.
From El Cubo to Zamorra
Waking up is a kind of surfacing from muddy depths, somewhere I hear voices, the clattering of dishes. A glance at the clock shows half past five, Pilgrim's Day Watch of course.
Now that I'm awake anyway, I also get up, eat the breakfast provided, drink the cold coffee with little pleasure (perhaps it might have been warmed up somewhere) and set off at 6.15 for this long stage to Zamora.
As always, the path running past the sleeping houses is something wonderful, but just outside the village the path branches off. Mobile and flashlight in my left hand, sticks in my right, I plunge into the darkness.
A moldy piece of moon peeks down from the night-black sky, hardly worth mentioning, a few meager stars twinkling, probably dead millions of years ago, so hardly any help. You might be able to make out the path diffusely without a flashlight, but there are lots of ditches and holes full of water.
And so I stumble through the darkness for a good hour and a half, stopping again and again, listening to the sounds of the night and feeling happy. All that remains of the moonlight is a delicate, milky shimmer, I'm in a fairytale world. To the right and left of the path, faint dots glow when the light hits glossy foliage.
That reminds me of a passage from a novel:
The wind had died down, the barely perceptible rustling of the dry leaves had stopped. Eventually she lifted her head and looked up at the sky, which was full of stars. The moon cast a silvery glow over the ground and the trees and bushes, but she failed to see the beauty, she felt no comfort in it, only an emptiness that made it difficult to breathe.
As mentioned, today's stage is tough. Over 30 kilometers the path glides along gently and, for once, not exactly straight to the horizon.
Then it gets bright, the horizon lights up with an orange glow, until a short time later the sun shows its yellow face. Only now does the long journey really seem to start. It climbs and descends, curves and straights alternating, then I reach the village of Villanueva de Campeàn, but there is really no store, no bar, simply nothing.
What the heck, I sit down at the side of the road and eat some bread I snatched from the breakfast table, while on the other side of the road a grandfather shows his grandson how a tractor engine works. At least that's what it looks like, but maybe it's my imagination at work.
A perfectly oiled machine
I've only done 14 kilometers, still 18 to go, but I feel good. The paths are now completely flat and endlessly wide, the horizon is the finish line. And the heat hits my face again.
There is not much to see, my legs and feet move like well-oiled machines, I pound one step after the other into the ground without tiring. I have become a walking robot, everything happens automatically, my senses are awake, unconsciously perceiving everything, but my mind is asleep. Everything has been thought and chewed over a hundred times, nothing remains that is worth thinking about.
Sometimes a check of the route on the Rother app, indicating the way, so not much can go wrong. My eyes are fixed on the ground, on the footprints of the other hikers. Every few minutes, my hand is at my pockets - cell phone, wallet, travel guide - all there, all good.
El Brocal de las Promesas
The Camino keeps surprising me with unexpected places appearing out of nowhere. The Brocal de las Promesas is one such place, a monument, a stone circle whose purpose is not immediately apparent.
However, it is obviously a place of promises, as the name suggests, because this is where promises or vows are made. There is a kind of well in the center of the stone pillars. And stones are to be thrown into this well while vows are made in thought.
I'm not entirely sure whether I should follow the request, but promises are potentially a good thing, so I throw a stone into the well and vow never to grumble again about pilgrims getting up early.
Zamora
After the Brocal, i.e. after more than 25 kilometers, it starts to get a bit tough, the efforts are noticeable, but then Zamora appears, still a long way off, but at least more than just a mirage.
And there is the Rio Douro, I approach it with tired legs and great expectations, on the other side of the river the rocky hill with the city.
Strange rocks lie in the riverbed, as if they were originally the foundations of a bridge. But maybe they are just rocks that happen to look like that. Oh, my wild imagination ...
The other side with the houses and churches are reflected in the bluish water of the Duero, as is the famous Roman bridge. A truly magnificent picture that makes every artist's heart beat faster.
On the way into the center, a man approaches me introducing himself as a Canadian from Vancouver, a biker on the Camino. I would have liked to chat to him for a while (he obviously would have too), but it's getting late, I have to find the hotel, have a shower and have arranged to meet Romi for dinner at 7.
Zamora is known for its numerous (22!) Romanesque churches from the 12th and 13th centuries, which have earned it the nickname "Museum of Romanesque Art". The city has a rich history dating back to the Bronze Age. It was settled and fought over by the Romans, Visigoths, Moors and Christians.
But there are not only churches, but also other magnificent buildings, including numerous palaces, praising the architectural masterpieces of the Romanesque and Gothic periods.
An in-depth tour of the city would therefore be highly recommended if you don't want to be labeled an art philistine. However, as my preference for these dry-as-dust churches is rather limited, I don't do it and instead marvel at the church of San Cipriano in the center a little longer, hoping to save myself from the philistine box.
Matching song: Jeanette – Soy Rebelde (a bit cheesy, I know)
And here the Camino continues… to Granja de Moreruela
