As the Boom Town Rats famously sang:
Itero de la Vega is fairly crap
after seven miles on the road
And nobody’s served in Boadilla today
‘Cos the whole bloody place is closed
Fromista doesn’t seem much better
And Wednesday’s gone and lost as well
I can see no reason, ‘cos there are no reasons
Why I shouldn’t cry bloody hell, hell, oh oh oh
Tell me why I don’t like Mondays…..
There’s a vicious rumour going around that I snore. Seven people appear to be spreading this rumour but it doesn’t mean it’s true. Anyway, after a good night’s sleep in our eight-person dorm, we breakfasted at the albergue and were on the road for just after eight. It was cold but sunny and the fresh start gave way to warmth throughout the morning and heat in the afternoon.
A mile or so out of Castrojeriz and the level path became a steep climb, over half a mile, up to Alto de Mostelares. The views back towards Castrojeriz were stunning. The path plateaued for two miles - you could see for probably twenty miles in every direction - and then back down again to present one of the iconic images of the Meseta, that of your path stretched out before you for miles.
Our first stop was in Itero de la Vega, seven miles in to our near sixteen mile day. Unlike the series of delightful villages and towns over the last couple of days, Itero was a bit crap. After coffee, we set off knowing we had another six miles to the next village of Boadilla del Camino. In between time the landscape was flattening as we took the path through fields of barley and wheat, fallow and ploughed. Slowly but surely, the Meseta was beginning to get a little less interesting, a little more monotonous. We had a couple of improvised rest stops before we reached Boadilla which was just as well. It was closed. Nothing was open. The albergue bar? Cerrado los lunes. Without too much trying, and despite spirited competition from Itero, Boadilla won the crap village of the day award.
It was two o’clock now and very hot. Worse, Mrs C’s shin splint problem was playing up again. Ibuprofen and gritted teeth were necessary. We were another ninety minutes before we reached Fromista, the last mile or so of which alongside the Canal de Castilla which made for a pleasant change of scenery. We haven’t seen much of Fromista yet but what we have seen would suggest that it too is a candidate for the crap awards. Pretty much every bar and restaurant we saw was closed. Half day closing on a Monday? At least our hotel was very nice.
After dinner we spent the evening watching, on my i-phone, a miniature Facetime view of our TV back home showing Sheffield Wednesday get knocked out of the League 1 play-offs. Bloody hell. Mondays eh? Scheiße!
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