'No biscuits, no 50k'

 I left Casa Anita in a somber mood. Let's just say that, for all the wonders of modern technology, people don't magically start saying what you want to hear.

I took a route which seemed at first to be archetype Camino but after 5km I hadn't seen any signs and so I dropped onto the small main road leading into Villanueva. Once in the village, I bee lined towards the parish church in the hope of finding some Camino pointers. I climbed the bell tower precariously, like a hermit crab, and reached the top to look out over the landscape. Whilst my legs were grateful for the forgiving terrain of Castille y Leon, my eyes were less impressed. The flat fields looked particularly unaesthetically pleasing today with the overcast weather. I pressed on to Bercianos, my energy was running low after a vending-machine breakfast and I was looking forward to stopping for lunch. The grey skies and roaring wind worried me as I walked exposed through the plains, and I lost my bearings again as I crossed through the village and into the woods. I stopped to eat but before I could open my bag I was approached by a man on his bike. I told him I was heading for Tabara and he said I was not on the Camino, that it was a few kilometers to my right. I thanked him and went back to my bag but he didn't leave. I realised that he was going to take me to the camino, and so shouldered my rucksack, stomach rumbling and walked alongside him as he pushed his bike. His pace was faster than I would have liked and I winced in effort to keep up with him. When we came upon the Camino he did not seem confident that I had understood his instructions and so took me a further few kilometres down the path, leaving me at the crossroads with a 'bien viaje' and cycled off. I was stunned and exhausted by this rapid act of kindness, and soon collapsed after some way, risking the impending weather to rest my feet and drink. 

I plugged in for the last 10k but had not walked for long before I saw a pilgrim walking towards me (this is not an unusual occurrence, I am walking the opposite way to everyone else). He had very pale eyes and looked nervous. I asked him where he'd come from and he told me Tabara, and also that I would have problems up ahead as there were 10 large dogs who were roaming the fields and chasing pilgrims. He'd had to get a lift further up the camino in order to avoid them. And so I left the Austrian with some trepidation, my ear to the ground and my feet groaning for peace.

After an hour or so I had seen no dogs but Tabara, spread out in the distance, promising food, coffee and a shower. The path was wet and I hobbled along, sighing and groaning until I came upon a man sat on a hillock with his back to me. I called out 'hola' feebly and dropped my rucksack on the ground. The man turned around and I was utterly stunned by his appearance. He was very striking, blue eyed and tanned with high cheek bones, and if he hadn't had a mouth full of orange it would have been quite like a scene from Jane Austin. I sat next to him and we talked for a while. He was another Austrian doing the silver way and he was going to arrive in Santiago in nine days. Again, he had left me speechless, as in order to get to Santiago in this time he was walking 40 to 50 km per day. He showed me the new boots he'd had to buy because his feet were so swollen. In his bag he had a jar of marmalade and numerous biscuits, including some in a special tin which he would eat when he got to Santiago. 'No biscuits, no 50k' he laughed and sprung up, put on his goodie-filled rucksack, wished me luck and raced off into the distance. I trudged on, inspired yet sad; my ideal husband had fled in the opposite direction to me, in a cloud of dust and biscuit-fuelled ecstasy. 

In Tabara I checked into a hostel which had a lift that smelt like PVA glue and a land lady who tried to force a €9 breakfast into me under a maternal guise. I went to a bar nearby for anchovies and met three French cyclists, who took raucous pleasure in feeding and watering me until I popped, before inviting me to their Parisian homes and cycling off to Portugal. I showered and salted my feet and rolled into bed like a bloated Spartan whale, dreaming of long weekends in Paris.