Rolling Stone

This morning I woke up in Rionegro feeling well rested considering I'd had so little sleep. All night my mind had been racing through thoughts of home, I don't know why, I couldn't switch off. There was only one other pilgrim in the albergue and he was already asleep by the time I'd arrived at almost midnight. Throughout the night I'd tried to place his nationality through his snores and sighs but to no avail. He turned out to be an elderly French man, very gentle and kind. We locked the door together, and then went our separate ways; he to Puebla and I to Camarzana. 

I set off over the bridge, finding the Camino easily. It was 8.30 and my first village I was going to pass through was Villar de Farfon, seven km away. The sky was beautiful, the clouds looked like fresh linen hanging in the sky (I miss fresh linen....) the way the morning light touched them. The path was very wet from the night before and I soon had soaking ankles, which actually felt quite nice as it was hot. On the outskirts of Farfon I bumped into a couple who were heading for Rionegro. The woman, who was Spanish, reminded me so much of my tutor Anibel as she effusively gave me advice and told me to stay in Casa Anita in Santa Croya. Her Danish partner's face creased endearingly, he was clearly accustomed to the elongated reception his wife gave to other pilgrims. 'Walk along the narrow path by the stream, there will be barriers but be brave because it's very beautiful. Don't follow the cycle path it will add an hour to your journey. Also, don't stop at the next albergue unless you're prepared to be converted.' I sped through the next village, narrowly avoiding the albergue, and it wasn't long before I was walking alongside a lake which looked like it was part of a national park. A very cool looking pilgrim passed me with 'Bon camino', he had plugs and a shaved head which was quite a change from the normal middle aged rambler in a flower-pot hat.

I was soon accompanied by an elderly Spanish couple on a brisk morning walk. I think I've managed to perfect my accent to the point that it conveys that I understand a lot more Spanish than I do in reality, as the woman was trying to explain something about the micro culture of the surrounding areas. I don't know if I mean micro culture, I'm pretty sure that only exists in yoghurt. Anyway, something environmental. We passed the hydroelectric dam that has altered both the landscape and climate of Rionegro (I don't know how, I'm regurgitating a guidebook fact) which was pretty awesome in scale and power. The old guy kept steering me with both hands to look at various things which started to really upset me for some reason. I was relieved to be alone again as I came to the church of Saint Justa and Saint Rufina, which was almost entirely collapsed apart from its belfry. I ate an orange and counted my blessings that it wasn't raining yet. After some confusion with a rather single minded local ('you want to go to Rionegro' 'No I don't' 'yes you do' *internal scream*) I found the camino for Camarzana de Tera. 

The problem with the Anibel-like woman's instructions were that they were applicable to two different routes. As you can probably imagine, I took the wrong one. 'A beautiful river running alongside your path' was a stagnant troth of black water which seemed to be a breeding ground for flies. 'Silver Birches providing you with shade' were scrub bushes as high as my knee but malevolently spiky. 'A narrow path' was a wide vehicle track of moist clay. 'There will be barriers but it's ok', que recurring 'forbidden persons beyond this point'. I kept going to the end of this path and then walked 2 km to refined the camino heading for Santa Croya. Salt in the wound was that I had to pass the afformentioned scenic route, looked bleeding fantastic. I was pretty tired by now so I let myself listen to Razorlight for the last 6km. I don't really think plugging in is that great for walking, you should be aware of the world around you and engaged. Or some hippie spiel like that. But my feet were gone. And I love Razorlight.

I arrived at Casa Anita at four and was very taken aback by the owners appearance. Anna was honestly the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She had a face like a Mediterranean pixie and minced around the hostel in snow boots, zealously polishing and swearing. She clucked her tongue and arched her eyebrows at everything, made me spaghetti and chicken and told me about her dreams of living in Malaga. Santa Croya was small for a firecracker like that. I sat down in the shower until the hot water ran out and that about everyone.