4. Rioja
The sixteenth of September and walking out of Logrono is another magical morning. There is a country park on the outskirts of town and fish are leaping out of the water to catch flies in the early dawn. Today I step from the yellow dusty soil of Navarre to the red (sticky when wet) earth of Rioja. In addition to the red soil underfoot Rioja is signposted by its abundance of vineyards and wineries. My lunch-time snack of hedgerow figs is replaced by scrumped grapes. Navarette is the first stop and I am sat facing the magnificent sixteenth century church when a coach party arrives, takes a brief tour of the church, then splits up to wander the streets of historic Navarette. One of the coach party joins me and explains that they travel the camino by coach doing church tours, history talks and short camino walks. Luis and Lucille then join me and more than ever Luis chats away rapidly in what I assume is regional French. Enough is enough and by way of surrender I turn to his wife and use some rehearsed French; 'c'est charmant que Luis pense que je comprends'. Luis adopts a puzzled and slightly hurt expression. Lucille pauses momentarily taking it in then howls with laughter for a full two minutes. When she can speak again, she explains that she did wonder how much of Luis's monologues I was understanding. She scolds me as you would a child, commenting that I had sat there nodding and feigning comprehension so I should take some responsibility. At least that is what I assume she says; unlike Luis she has the ability to tone down her French and make it comprehensible to a clueless Englishman. She takes the opportunity for another two-minute laughing spree before they both leave me to guard their bags as they visit the church. Colette arrives just as Luis and Lucille leave and we take it in turns to visit the church while the other looks after the bags. We walk on separately from Navarette, though our paths cross later and curiously she takes care to collect wild thyme at our brief lunch stop sat on a dusty bank on the side of the trail. Arriving at Azofra at 4:00 pm we are tired and are lucky to get the last two beds in the only albergue in this small town, not helped by me politely letting a single woman go ahead of us. This is a new purpose-built albergue and the rooms each have just two beds and I am relieved that their policy is to keep single sex occupation if possible so I don't share with Colette though I later find I am sharing with an Australian female student as I am in the last available room. The student arrives with her phone to her ear trying to re-assure her father that all is well. She had lost her bag, found it again, and managed to find accommodation and a taxi to transport her so all is now well. Emergency over.
For food I find a good out of the way store that has good cheese. The shop keeper is clearly a character and good humoured, happy to sell half a loaf of bread, and as my Spanish did not quite stretch to types of cheese he was happy to use a rather jovial 'Moooo!' and 'Baaaa!' to ask whether I wanted cheese made from the milk of cow or sheep. 'Baaaa!' I happily reply. I am writing this journal as a reminder to myself for my next camino and need to take the time to extend my Spanish vocabulary. Store bought dinners comprise of whatever is available and may include bread, cheese, ham, tomato, salad, a jar of chickpeas and tins of sea food such as sardine, mussel or squid. These can usually be combined into a satisfying cold salad using the oil or sauce from tinned goods to act as a dressing, or heated through with some chorizo to make a hearty stew which I would do later in cooler Galicia. I am eating back at the albergue and Colette's newly found French friend joins me and chats away in French. I am tired, and buoyed by my recent success in moderating Luis's expansive use of French I explain 'c'est intéressant, mais, je ne parle pas francaise'. She pauses briefly then decides that the trivial matter of comprehension should not get in the way of communication and continues to chat away. Colette joins us and has brought us all a tisane made from wild thyme gathered earlier that day. 'For the digestion' she explains before helping mediate the conversation. It is difficult for me to judge but I think she does a fair job of translating my school boy French onto something her new companion understands. They ask me why I am walking le chemin de Saint-Jacques. The full answer in the English language would make for a confused mix of processing the past and looking to the future without really knowing in detail what I hoped to get at the end. The English version would be tailored to the audience. Having to explain to a stranger I would not meet again in my limited French made the job a lot easier, much more honest, and helped clarify my motives for the camino even if I had not known them at the outset. For the sake of full disclosure, I am happily tweaking the spelling, verb endings and accents but I do leave you with the raw unadulterated school boy French. I explain to my new highly inquisitive companion for the evening 'Ma mère est morte quand j'ai huit ans. C'est un problème toute ma vie. J'ai la thérapie mais c'est très cher.' and to round it off on a happier note, 'et le chemin est moins cher!'. Nods of comprehension and compassion. I look up and see a poster on the wall of the communal dining area. It reads 'Camino de Santiago; a five hundred mile journey to yourself'. It is time to retire and before Colette leaves, she indicates a village with a number of albergues as the destination for the next day. Only now do I realise that for the last few days someone in the French group has been directing my progress along the way.
I would later find in the open spaces of the meseta that the problems we build up can slip away without any effort if we can relax into the sheer joy of nature, the outdoors and a bit of physical effort propelling us forward. Of course, we all know that from those Sunday afternoon walks we do with a pub lunch included. The following day would provide a taste of the meseta as there was to be little shade and the heat turned up several degrees.
The seventeenth of September and this is my seventh day. I am well into the routine of walking and have learnt to stretch out my legs to prevent stiffness during the day and have found a set of rucksack strap adjustments that have eased the pressure on my shoulders; the hard knot that had developed in my right shoulder is slowly starting to unravel itself. Today's tourist highlight is the town of Santo Domingo de la Calzada. The Way of St. James defines the cities, towns and villages along its route and this is evident in the place names such as Hornillas del Camino, the roads and bridges themselves, the churches and the cathedrals. Much of this infrastructure was originally built specifically to facilitate the safe passage of pilgrims and the ancient town of Santo Domingo de la Calzada is just one example. It was Domingo García in the eleventh century who dedicated his life to improving the way for pilgrims and his focus was road (calzada) building. He also built a pilgrim hospital and a church which are now in the historic town square. The church was expanded over the centuries to become a fine cathedral which continues to house two chickens whose presence is a reminder of one of the classic stories of the Way of St. James. The abbreviated version is that a boy is dying on the gallows, being hung for a crime he is innocent of. His parents make a plea to the local sheriff who is tucking in to a roast chicken. The sheriff is not convinced and says the boy is as innocent as his roast chicken is alive. The chicken on his plate promptly jumps up and crows allowing the stunned sheriff to pardon the boy thereby saving his life. The story lives on and two chickens are still resident in a coop at the rear of the cathedral.
The next stop today is the small town of Granon. On the entrance to the old part ff town some art work directs the weary pilgrim.
I pause in Granon to enjoy the cool interior of its church then onward to my end point for the day at Viloria de la Rioja. I expect the provincial borders have been redrawn over the years and by the time I arrive at Viloria de la Rioja I have left Rioja province and find myself in the large autonomous region (or community) of Castilla and Leon which contains the provinces of Burgos, Palencia and Leon. A hand-made sign informs me that it is 576 Km to Santiago and suggests I get some rest in Viloria de la Rioja. And why not?
The miles are taking their toll and I collapse into the first albergue I find on entering Viloria. Mariaje, the hospitalera, emerges and asks if there is anything she can do to help. Requesting a bed for the night she sits me down while she takes my details, stamps my credential and supplies a beer while showing me where the provisions are so I can help myself later. Asking how much the beer is she shuns my vulgar offer of cash indicating that I can leave a donation as I leave in the morning as the food and drink is on a donativo basis. The albergue is rustic, has a newly laid cement floor that follows the very contours of the earth and includes any number of dream catchers. Like many albergues there is a lost and found box to allow pilgrims to leave, swap or take items to fine tune their kit list. Beer, shower and laundry done and I am much refreshed. I see Colette has arrived as has the young American woman and a young Italian man; I had seen both on and off for some days. Today the plan is a full foot treatment; I find a suitable stone to rub off any hard skin, attend to the heal blisters to keep them under control and then some cream to keep my feet soft enough to prevent painful cracked heals. My boots also benefit from a clean of any dirt that is gathering inside. This done, I move indoors as rain is on the way and it's getting cooler. I watch Mariaje cooking. She has a number of paella pans arranged on the wall and selects the appropriate size for her five guests that evening. With ingredients arranged she works through her time-honoured process for her version of the perfect paella. Chicken, peppers and tomato pulp feature as well as the rice itself. This is no tourist paella, no squid ink or bright yellow finish topped with mussel shells. When cooking is complete, she turns off the heat, covers with a lid and informs us it will be ready to eat in five minutes before she departs for the evening. The paella is supplemented by a cold potato soup, yoghurt for dessert, and a plentiful supply of red wine.
The paella has a light brown stew-like appearance and is delicious, as is the potato soup. There is an Irishman in our company that night and I hear his very essence screaming for the cold soup to be heated through. He scans the table for support but seeing that everyone else is happy has the common sense and politeness to try something new. It is another pilgrim meal with a mix of nationalities and languages to contend with and I am tricked into acting as translator. The American has said something and says to me that Colette now wants a translation. I do my best and the American compliments me on my French (specifically, she says she could actually understand me!) though I expect her French is better than mine. The American is amused to see that I find it easier to understand Colette's French than the Irishman's thick Irish brogue. Once we have eaten everyone automatically sets to the task of washing up before settling down to the daily task of journal writing and seeing what our respective guidebook has to say about the coming day.
The eighteenth of September and I wake refreshed with no leg cramps in the night and all was quiet in the dormitory due to the small numbers and the fact that everyone is now used to the dormitory routine. The first hurdle that day was working out how to get some light. There were lights. There were light switches. Which switch affected which light was then a random affair. Breakfast had been left out for us and this included some welcomed strong black coffee. Due to the early starts breakfast before heading out is a rare treat and I help myself to a plate of last night's paella much to the amusement of the others who follow a more traditional route of biscuits and pastries. The second challenge was how to get out and it took some time for us to work out how to open the ancient thick oak door that stood between us and the fading moonlight.
Though we each left in our own time and pace I met the American at a cafe around noon; she was inspecting her feet as a blister was forming and I pounced on the opportunity for a good deed by dispensing a blister patch. She had studied in America, spent two years teaching English in China and was about to embark on her career and this did reflect the profile of many pilgrims; about to start or just finished a career. She is a runner rather than a walking and as a result had done too much walking too early and injured herself forcing a three-day break and now she was pushing on to Burgos which she needed to reach the following day. From there she would fly home. It is a day of gravel tracks, woodland paths and undulating landscape. I take a breather at "The Oasis" which is a popular donativo refreshments stand run from the back of someone's car in a broad clearing in some woods.
The donativo system is not very prominent on the modern camino and where I encounter donativos I will usually mention them. It is often run by people wanting to maintain the history and true spirit of the camino and in the modern setting means that those with a genuine need can accept some level of charity and those that can afford it can pay their way and a little extra. Some albergues use the previous night's donations to feed today's pilgrims and may provide gentle reminders if their coffers are looking light. I once over-donated and had someone run after me with a banana as they did not wish to make a profit.
With my earlier stiffness and sore legs gone, walking today felt more relaxed. Presenting myself at the monastery of San Juan de Ortega (John of the Nettles) I ask if they have a bed. They offer me a chair and ask if I am tired - everyone's tired at the end of day - and after a brief mental inspection of my level of tiredness they appear disappointed when I respond in the negative despite my twenty mile walk that day. I worry they only have beds for tired pilgrims and will send me on my way. Happily, they have room and can also provide a pilgrim meal for nineteen euros in total with a pilgrim mass thrown in for free. The monastery is named after San Juan who was a disciple of Santo Domingo and did much to build bridges, hospitals and churches in the region to ease the pilgrim's journey. The monastery is a magnificent building with church attached and a large courtyard patio at the front; ideal to air sore feet and watch the world go by. This is a natural stopping point and the American, the Italian and Colette have all rolled up at some point. Luis and Lucille also pass though and I am disappointed to miss them.
Today is day eight and I have covered eleven of the thirty-three guidebook stages so I am a third of the way to Santiago. The eight days have passed quickly and it is a good time to reflect. It is the walking I came for and how that can help the whole process of the transitioning from career to retirement and that is working for me. Already I see that I don't have to worry about 'what next' as the future has a habit of looking after itself and the past is, well, the past. Apart, of course, for those loved ones we lose along the way, and those shadows stay with us and we need to find ways of coping with that. Tonight is a 6:00 pm pilgrim mass and I attend as it provides some of the quietness and space to think. Though the masses are Catholic many non-Catholic pilgrims attend as they are part of the whole experience and process of journeying to Santiago.
I have the top bunk again and realise too late I have positioned myself near a busy doorway. I am just nestling onto my sleeping bag when I catch the eye of the man in the bunk below who is also retiring for the night. He says goodnight with a peculiar half-smile as if he harboured some guilty secret. Had he put drawing pins in my bunk? Was he planning some night-time high jinks? I was distracted by two men in the corner watching football - loudly - on a mobile device and huddled down to sleep.
It is the nineteenth of September and it feels like I did not sleep at all last night. Just when I thought it was safe to go into the dormitory all hell let lose. Where to start. My bunk partner was a loud snorer and he knew it. This explained the guilty smile last night. The lower bunk acted like a sound box with the noise funnelled to the head of my top bunk. The avid football watching went on for ever and it took a long time before someone asked them - not too politely - to quieten down. Despite my relaxed day walking and my evening stretching, I got painful cramp in both legs and being trapped in a sleeping bag in the top bunk I could only endure it. I am up at 6:00 am and start walking by 7:00 am. The night before my French language skills failed me and I find I have agreed to walk with Colette today which was not the plan and I don't even think she wants to walk with anyone else. People walk at different speeds, want to stop at different points so covering any distance is best done alone or with someone you have walked with regularly. The nights horrors soon melted away as the sky was inky black and the half-moon and stars shone brightly. The start of the day's walk took us over a gloomy municipality of atapuerca which resembled a rolling Yorkshire dale. After just forty minutes we come to a small cafe in a small hamlet. It is a crowded snug of a place serving coffee and pastries and a welcomed early breakfast. This remote open-all-hours cafe is a good example of the facilities that sprout up on the camino to support the hungry pilgrim and its position just outside San Juan de Ortega is ideal. Fortified with a café con leche and a pastry the previous night's horrors are forgotten. The one facility that is missing on the camino outside of the cafes is the humble toilet and as much as people are good at taking their sweet wrappers with them some material gets left behind. After atapuerca much of the way is asphalt with limited shade. As we pass a clump of shrubs the lack of toilet facilities is highlighted by my companion for the day when she says 'je vais aux toilettes', I pause to translate this and take too long as there is a more urgent appeal; 'je vais aux toilettes'. I hurry on my way and leave my companion to the privacy of the shrubs. I say privacy as there is a constant stream of pilgrims.
The walk into Burgos seems to take forever but it is through a park and along a river so pleasant enough. I am staying at the albergue Casa del Cubo which is a stone's throw from the cathedral and is modern. These 150 bed albergues are practical but lack some of the personality of the smaller albergues. I have benefited from and enjoyed the full range of albergues with the one underlying rule that they are all very clean and you get the most fantastic welcome from the hospitaleros. Pierre, the French Canadian is in the same hostel and we get to catch-up. I am surprised he is there as he had said he wanted to slow down and it transpires he was happy to walk the miles but had tired of doing it at the pace Luis was enforcing.
Burgos has a local airport and is a natural break point for people doing part of the Camino Francés. Part-time pilgrims are not unusual, some people adopt the various pilgrim routes as their regular annual holiday, and others come back and repeat their favourite section as a means to meditate. After a stroll around the streets and a snack I visit Burgos' main attraction which is its cathedral. Being hemmed in on all sides you don't get the full impact of this essentially Gothic structure which is Spain's second largest cathedral after Seville. Burgos also marks the start of the meseta which on the camino is approximately one hundred and fifty miles of high plains that are nine hundred metres above sea level where at the right time of year you encounter endless vistas of wheat, barley or oats that are grown at these high altitudes. Some people skip the meseta because the landscape is too flat and uninteresting; others see the meseta with is lack of distractions as the perfect place to engage in quiet contemplation and I wonder how I will respond to its charms.
Chapter 5. The Meseta
I would later find in the open spaces of the meseta that the problems we build up can slip away without any effort if we can relax into the sheer joy of nature, the outdoors and a bit of physical effort propelling us forward. Of course, we all know that from those Sunday afternoon walks we do with a pub lunch included. The following day would provide a taste of the meseta as there was to be little shade and the heat turned up several degrees.
The seventeenth of September and this is my seventh day. I am well into the routine of walking and have learnt to stretch out my legs to prevent stiffness during the day and have found a set of rucksack strap adjustments that have eased the pressure on my shoulders; the hard knot that had developed in my right shoulder is slowly starting to unravel itself. Today's tourist highlight is the town of Santo Domingo de la Calzada. The Way of St. James defines the cities, towns and villages along its route and this is evident in the place names such as Hornillas del Camino, the roads and bridges themselves, the churches and the cathedrals. Much of this infrastructure was originally built specifically to facilitate the safe passage of pilgrims and the ancient town of Santo Domingo de la Calzada is just one example. It was Domingo García in the eleventh century who dedicated his life to improving the way for pilgrims and his focus was road (calzada) building. He also built a pilgrim hospital and a church which are now in the historic town square. The church was expanded over the centuries to become a fine cathedral which continues to house two chickens whose presence is a reminder of one of the classic stories of the Way of St. James. The abbreviated version is that a boy is dying on the gallows, being hung for a crime he is innocent of. His parents make a plea to the local sheriff who is tucking in to a roast chicken. The sheriff is not convinced and says the boy is as innocent as his roast chicken is alive. The chicken on his plate promptly jumps up and crows allowing the stunned sheriff to pardon the boy thereby saving his life. The story lives on and two chickens are still resident in a coop at the rear of the cathedral.
The next stop today is the small town of Granon. On the entrance to the old part ff town some art work directs the weary pilgrim.
 |
| Granon |
I pause in Granon to enjoy the cool interior of its church then onward to my end point for the day at Viloria de la Rioja. I expect the provincial borders have been redrawn over the years and by the time I arrive at Viloria de la Rioja I have left Rioja province and find myself in the large autonomous region (or community) of Castilla and Leon which contains the provinces of Burgos, Palencia and Leon. A hand-made sign informs me that it is 576 Km to Santiago and suggests I get some rest in Viloria de la Rioja. And why not?
The miles are taking their toll and I collapse into the first albergue I find on entering Viloria. Mariaje, the hospitalera, emerges and asks if there is anything she can do to help. Requesting a bed for the night she sits me down while she takes my details, stamps my credential and supplies a beer while showing me where the provisions are so I can help myself later. Asking how much the beer is she shuns my vulgar offer of cash indicating that I can leave a donation as I leave in the morning as the food and drink is on a donativo basis. The albergue is rustic, has a newly laid cement floor that follows the very contours of the earth and includes any number of dream catchers. Like many albergues there is a lost and found box to allow pilgrims to leave, swap or take items to fine tune their kit list. Beer, shower and laundry done and I am much refreshed. I see Colette has arrived as has the young American woman and a young Italian man; I had seen both on and off for some days. Today the plan is a full foot treatment; I find a suitable stone to rub off any hard skin, attend to the heal blisters to keep them under control and then some cream to keep my feet soft enough to prevent painful cracked heals. My boots also benefit from a clean of any dirt that is gathering inside. This done, I move indoors as rain is on the way and it's getting cooler. I watch Mariaje cooking. She has a number of paella pans arranged on the wall and selects the appropriate size for her five guests that evening. With ingredients arranged she works through her time-honoured process for her version of the perfect paella. Chicken, peppers and tomato pulp feature as well as the rice itself. This is no tourist paella, no squid ink or bright yellow finish topped with mussel shells. When cooking is complete, she turns off the heat, covers with a lid and informs us it will be ready to eat in five minutes before she departs for the evening. The paella is supplemented by a cold potato soup, yoghurt for dessert, and a plentiful supply of red wine.
The paella has a light brown stew-like appearance and is delicious, as is the potato soup. There is an Irishman in our company that night and I hear his very essence screaming for the cold soup to be heated through. He scans the table for support but seeing that everyone else is happy has the common sense and politeness to try something new. It is another pilgrim meal with a mix of nationalities and languages to contend with and I am tricked into acting as translator. The American has said something and says to me that Colette now wants a translation. I do my best and the American compliments me on my French (specifically, she says she could actually understand me!) though I expect her French is better than mine. The American is amused to see that I find it easier to understand Colette's French than the Irishman's thick Irish brogue. Once we have eaten everyone automatically sets to the task of washing up before settling down to the daily task of journal writing and seeing what our respective guidebook has to say about the coming day.
The eighteenth of September and I wake refreshed with no leg cramps in the night and all was quiet in the dormitory due to the small numbers and the fact that everyone is now used to the dormitory routine. The first hurdle that day was working out how to get some light. There were lights. There were light switches. Which switch affected which light was then a random affair. Breakfast had been left out for us and this included some welcomed strong black coffee. Due to the early starts breakfast before heading out is a rare treat and I help myself to a plate of last night's paella much to the amusement of the others who follow a more traditional route of biscuits and pastries. The second challenge was how to get out and it took some time for us to work out how to open the ancient thick oak door that stood between us and the fading moonlight.
Though we each left in our own time and pace I met the American at a cafe around noon; she was inspecting her feet as a blister was forming and I pounced on the opportunity for a good deed by dispensing a blister patch. She had studied in America, spent two years teaching English in China and was about to embark on her career and this did reflect the profile of many pilgrims; about to start or just finished a career. She is a runner rather than a walking and as a result had done too much walking too early and injured herself forcing a three-day break and now she was pushing on to Burgos which she needed to reach the following day. From there she would fly home. It is a day of gravel tracks, woodland paths and undulating landscape. I take a breather at "The Oasis" which is a popular donativo refreshments stand run from the back of someone's car in a broad clearing in some woods.
The donativo system is not very prominent on the modern camino and where I encounter donativos I will usually mention them. It is often run by people wanting to maintain the history and true spirit of the camino and in the modern setting means that those with a genuine need can accept some level of charity and those that can afford it can pay their way and a little extra. Some albergues use the previous night's donations to feed today's pilgrims and may provide gentle reminders if their coffers are looking light. I once over-donated and had someone run after me with a banana as they did not wish to make a profit.
With my earlier stiffness and sore legs gone, walking today felt more relaxed. Presenting myself at the monastery of San Juan de Ortega (John of the Nettles) I ask if they have a bed. They offer me a chair and ask if I am tired - everyone's tired at the end of day - and after a brief mental inspection of my level of tiredness they appear disappointed when I respond in the negative despite my twenty mile walk that day. I worry they only have beds for tired pilgrims and will send me on my way. Happily, they have room and can also provide a pilgrim meal for nineteen euros in total with a pilgrim mass thrown in for free. The monastery is named after San Juan who was a disciple of Santo Domingo and did much to build bridges, hospitals and churches in the region to ease the pilgrim's journey. The monastery is a magnificent building with church attached and a large courtyard patio at the front; ideal to air sore feet and watch the world go by. This is a natural stopping point and the American, the Italian and Colette have all rolled up at some point. Luis and Lucille also pass though and I am disappointed to miss them.
Today is day eight and I have covered eleven of the thirty-three guidebook stages so I am a third of the way to Santiago. The eight days have passed quickly and it is a good time to reflect. It is the walking I came for and how that can help the whole process of the transitioning from career to retirement and that is working for me. Already I see that I don't have to worry about 'what next' as the future has a habit of looking after itself and the past is, well, the past. Apart, of course, for those loved ones we lose along the way, and those shadows stay with us and we need to find ways of coping with that. Tonight is a 6:00 pm pilgrim mass and I attend as it provides some of the quietness and space to think. Though the masses are Catholic many non-Catholic pilgrims attend as they are part of the whole experience and process of journeying to Santiago.
I have the top bunk again and realise too late I have positioned myself near a busy doorway. I am just nestling onto my sleeping bag when I catch the eye of the man in the bunk below who is also retiring for the night. He says goodnight with a peculiar half-smile as if he harboured some guilty secret. Had he put drawing pins in my bunk? Was he planning some night-time high jinks? I was distracted by two men in the corner watching football - loudly - on a mobile device and huddled down to sleep.
It is the nineteenth of September and it feels like I did not sleep at all last night. Just when I thought it was safe to go into the dormitory all hell let lose. Where to start. My bunk partner was a loud snorer and he knew it. This explained the guilty smile last night. The lower bunk acted like a sound box with the noise funnelled to the head of my top bunk. The avid football watching went on for ever and it took a long time before someone asked them - not too politely - to quieten down. Despite my relaxed day walking and my evening stretching, I got painful cramp in both legs and being trapped in a sleeping bag in the top bunk I could only endure it. I am up at 6:00 am and start walking by 7:00 am. The night before my French language skills failed me and I find I have agreed to walk with Colette today which was not the plan and I don't even think she wants to walk with anyone else. People walk at different speeds, want to stop at different points so covering any distance is best done alone or with someone you have walked with regularly. The nights horrors soon melted away as the sky was inky black and the half-moon and stars shone brightly. The start of the day's walk took us over a gloomy municipality of atapuerca which resembled a rolling Yorkshire dale. After just forty minutes we come to a small cafe in a small hamlet. It is a crowded snug of a place serving coffee and pastries and a welcomed early breakfast. This remote open-all-hours cafe is a good example of the facilities that sprout up on the camino to support the hungry pilgrim and its position just outside San Juan de Ortega is ideal. Fortified with a café con leche and a pastry the previous night's horrors are forgotten. The one facility that is missing on the camino outside of the cafes is the humble toilet and as much as people are good at taking their sweet wrappers with them some material gets left behind. After atapuerca much of the way is asphalt with limited shade. As we pass a clump of shrubs the lack of toilet facilities is highlighted by my companion for the day when she says 'je vais aux toilettes', I pause to translate this and take too long as there is a more urgent appeal; 'je vais aux toilettes'. I hurry on my way and leave my companion to the privacy of the shrubs. I say privacy as there is a constant stream of pilgrims.
The walk into Burgos seems to take forever but it is through a park and along a river so pleasant enough. I am staying at the albergue Casa del Cubo which is a stone's throw from the cathedral and is modern. These 150 bed albergues are practical but lack some of the personality of the smaller albergues. I have benefited from and enjoyed the full range of albergues with the one underlying rule that they are all very clean and you get the most fantastic welcome from the hospitaleros. Pierre, the French Canadian is in the same hostel and we get to catch-up. I am surprised he is there as he had said he wanted to slow down and it transpires he was happy to walk the miles but had tired of doing it at the pace Luis was enforcing.
Burgos has a local airport and is a natural break point for people doing part of the Camino Francés. Part-time pilgrims are not unusual, some people adopt the various pilgrim routes as their regular annual holiday, and others come back and repeat their favourite section as a means to meditate. After a stroll around the streets and a snack I visit Burgos' main attraction which is its cathedral. Being hemmed in on all sides you don't get the full impact of this essentially Gothic structure which is Spain's second largest cathedral after Seville. Burgos also marks the start of the meseta which on the camino is approximately one hundred and fifty miles of high plains that are nine hundred metres above sea level where at the right time of year you encounter endless vistas of wheat, barley or oats that are grown at these high altitudes. Some people skip the meseta because the landscape is too flat and uninteresting; others see the meseta with is lack of distractions as the perfect place to engage in quiet contemplation and I wonder how I will respond to its charms.
Chapter 5. The Meseta