Day 14 - 6 May - Atapuerca to Burgos

As the group Unit 4 + 2 famously sang:

It's true we don’t smell like sweet roses in the morning

Its true its not all summer rain at dawn, but this we share

All this walking everywhere

Along the sidewalks in the streets

The concrete and the clay, but then my feet begin to crumble

I’ve buggered up me thigh                                      

And then I take another tumble                              

It makes you wonder why                                       

My love and I will be                                               

Back on the road ‘til half past three                       

Mmm, that's the way, that's the way it's meant to be  

                                      

The rustling started at half past six. That’s the sound of peregrinos trying to get dressed, and rucksacks packed, in a dormitory where others are still asleep. Half past six is fine. It’s like having a snooze button on your alarm. I let them get on with it and eventually emerged from my bunk at seven twenty. Mrs C was already up and about, dressed and packed. She was the rustler.

Breakfast was not an option (what do you expect for twelve euros a night?) and we set off at seven forty five. There were patches of ground frost still around but a beautiful blue sky overhead with forecast to last all day. Lovely.

After two days of English countryside, the terrain immediately reverted to Spain as we climbed gently away from Atapuerca. With the morning mist still hanging, the scenery was breathtaking.

After about one hour, the high plain started its descent with the city of Burgos - our destination for the night - visible a further nine miles away. The path continued to fall, Burgos disappeared, and we made our way into the wonderfully named village of Cardeñuela Riopico where we stopped for a coffee and a croissant. But not for too long as the wind carried a distinctive chill. Potential problems looming though as Mrs C’s shin splint problem came on strong. We walked/ hobbled to Orbaneja where we rested with another coffee. There’s not much you can do with shin splints and as it isn’t me with the problem, only Mrs C can call the shots going forward. We carried on.

The spectacular scenery of the first two hours was fizzling out the nearer we got to Burgos. It didn’t help that we missed the river route option and instead headed towards and around Burgos airport. The bulk of the final five miles into the city was through the industrial outskirts which wasn’t pretty at all. But the centre, with Burgos Cathedral as its centrepiece, was wonderful. Typically Spanish, lots of people, bars and cafes. In my element.

Less so in my element but needs must with an important play-off semi-final first leg tonight, I paid five euros to visit the cathedral where I sought divine intervention on Sheffield Wednesday’s behalf. Well, I am on pilgrimage so why not?

We bumped into our friend Michael from Switzerland. Sadly, his race is run. He has picked up an injury and, being a doctor, he knows that he cannot continue. Understandably he was a bit glum but I know a medicinal thing or two myself and the recuperative effects of beer can clearly be seen below.

Michael is not the only one feeling the effects of trying to walk five hundred miles. We saw Rob from Holland, who we met at Ventosa, and his wife Jessie is feeling poorly. Also Dan, who we dined with last night, was planning a very short day today - only two or three miles - to allow his body some much needed rest. And of course, I have already mentioned Mrs C and a shin splint problem. 

Remember I said that Michael is a doctor? He has given us a roll of medical tape and provided a link to a video with the very snappy title of How to treat Anterior Shin Splints with Kinesiology taping. What a guy. Just as well he’s going home or my man crush could be back on.

Anyway, having treated ourselves to a hotel for the night, we retreated back to our room for about half past eight where I commenced extensive rubbing of Mrs C’s left leg. I’m all heart me. 

Why are we doing this? Because we are bloody loving it! We just hope we stay sensible and stay lucky. If not, the Camino ain’t going anywhere so we can always do it again. As for divine intervention and Camino miracles? Wednesday lost the first leg semi-final one-nil but we live to fight another day. A bit like our Camino hopefully.

Day 13 - 5 May - Villafranca to Atapuerca

As British troops famously sang during World War II:

Hitler may, have only had one ball                          

But these lads, they have no modesty at all           

Small knackers, and hairy crackers                          

And Mrs C has been witness to all

With no breakfast at the accommodation, we were on the road at seven forty five in the morning and straight on to a steep ascent. Whilst the rate of ascent gradually lessened, it must have been a good mile or so before it levelled and we were better able to enjoy the woodland path we were travelling. And just as well we did enjoy it because it went on. And on. And then on a bit more. We must have walked six miles through woodland along the high plateau before the trees began to thin, landscape appeared in front of us and we gently descended towards the first rest stop at San Juan de Ortega. Our first coffee of the day at a delightful albergue bar when we caught up with Mike, from Hawaii, and Janna.

With an eleven/ twelve mile walk planned for the day, that was the back of the day’s walk already broken and it was only eleven o’clock. From San Juan the terrain changed once more to English countryside. The temperature was modest but the sun was breaking through, making for very pleasant stop-and-have-a-coffee weather so we did so again in the village of Ages, just another couple of miles up the road. And then it was on to Atapuerca, our destination for the day, where we had booked two beds in a private albergue, twelve-bed dormitory. We were the first to check-in and initial impressions were very good, albeit the bona fides of future roomies was yet to be determined.

Mrs C is currently troubled by a sore shin which is unwelcome. Last night in her sleep, I could have sworn I heard her mumble something about “Henry” (?) but I couldn’t be sure. Needless to say I am at her disposal.

And so off to the Cantina de Atapuerca where we spent a very pleasant couple of hours, sat in the sunshine, in the company of (variously) Tanya from Colorado USA, Andy of Polish/Italian descent but lives in Luxembourg, Paul from Holland and Bigyan (“just call me Ben”) from the Himalayas.

Not wanting to have too much of a good thing, we retired to our quarters where three of our future roomies were now making themselves at home. German chaps, similar age to me I would guess although I clearly held the advantage in terms of body mass index. As it transpired I also held the upper hand in the modesty stakes as well because one of them stood there stark naked as if that is what you do in a mixed dormitory. Now, we all know that the Germans are obsessed with their Bratwurst and Bockwurst but I didn’t realise they specialised in chipolatas as well. To be fair, this kind of behaviour - no doubt encouraged by the EU - does nothing to encourage the europhile cause and simply left Mrs C thankful that she continues to enjoy unfettered access to the good, old fashioned British banger.

With this unsavoury episode behind us, we ventured forth once more, beyond the confines of our twelve euros a night bunk beds, to the local restaurant. We had our pilgrim meal with Dan from Oregon USA who was splendid company, not least of which because he remained fully clothed all night. None of us went for the sausage.

Back to the dorm and lights out for twelve tired souls comprising ten males and just the two females. The potential for a noisy night was obvious but to be fair, other than some heavy nasal breathing, I didn’t hear any genuine snoring at all. Mrs C reckons she did. I think she must imagine it.

Day 12 - 4 May - Quintanilla to Villafranca Montes de Oca

As Fat Les famously sang:

Where on earth are you from?                        

We’re from England                                        

Where do you come from.                                    

Do you put the kettle on?

We had already decided to treat ourselves to a gentle eleven miles today so we breakfasted at the ludicrously late hour of half past eight and set off thirty minutes later on our way to Villafranca Montes de Oca. This was much more like it. It wasn’t raining, we didn’t have too far to go and there were plenty of rest stops en route. And today had a distinctly English feel to it.

Our first stop was in Belorado, a really nice town, where we bumped into Simon Mayo again (who we first met in Urdaniz on Day 3). And it turns out that Simon Mayo isn’t really Simon Mayo but Janna (pronounced Yanna) from the Czech Republic and on her fourth Camino! Each Camino warrants an additional shell tattoo working its way up her right calf. She hopes/ intends that it reaches her arse in the fullness of time. In all respects, that is a worthwhile ambition in my book and I like and admire her for that. 

Belorado would make for a good overnight stay with plenty of bars, an impressive church complete with stork nests and lots of impressive murals on walls and the sides of buildings. My favourite mural was this one (below) of Fat Les and other England fans at the European Championships in France in 2016.

One of the first books I read about the Camino was Miracles on the Camino by Mike Gardner. It is an enjoyable read and one of the best read books about the Camino, even if the author’s definition of a miracle is a little more generous than mine. Still, two can play at that game.

After Belorado the walk characteristics became very English with country lanes and puddles through rolling, green countryside and with a few nettles thrown in to the mix. Our next stop was three miles along in Tosantos where the emergence of blue sky and sunshine tempted me to my first beer of the day at a tidy little albergue bar. It was a bit disconcerting though to be waved off with a cheery danke shoen. I don’t look German do I? I’m English. I mean, do I look like the kind of bloke who would rebuff the advances of a bar maid?

Anyway, then on to Villambistia, a mere one and a quarter miles beyond and which was not even far enough for my feet to start aching between stops. A Camino miracle. I celebrated with a beer.

Then, a mere one mile further we arrived at the village of Espinosa del Camino. Imagine our disappointment to find the one bar in the village with a Cerrado sign hanging on the door. Disappointed, we turned around to set off when, just a few seconds later, the bar owner came running after us shouting estamos abiertos, estamos abiertos. Another Camino miracle! And another beer.

Villafranca was but a further two miles away and we were there in no time. We checked in to our cheap but entirely acceptable twin room and took the opportunity to do very little for the next two hours. But you can’t do very little for too long and we needed food so we set off to explore the town. Five minutes later, having explored the town, we had a beer in a cafeteria bar with a warming fire but no food, then headed to the last remaining bar in town which had food but no warmth (I’m talking temperature not ambiance). Here we met Shaul from Israel who was great company. Within the space of ninety minutes we had the Ukraine situation sorted, Brexit explained and the generation gap put into historical context. And we were well fed.

I quite like it that the rest of the world doesn’t really understand the Brits in general and the English in particular, nor we them for that matter. I also like it that despite all that, we generally all rub along together pretty well. 

And finally, it’s a sad thing to admit but I haven’t worked out how to leave, or reply to, a comment on my own blog. In the circumstances, I will take this opportunity instead to thank Susan from Canada for her kind comments to a recent post. El Real Thing has gone international. Yet another Camino miracle!

Day 11 - 3 May - Cirueña to Quintanilla

As the Eagles famously sang:

On a damp Spanish highway                             

Cool wind in my hair                                       

Warm smell of Canola                                    

Rising up through the air                                     

Up ahead in the distance                                        

I saw a shimmering light                                      

My rucksack heavy and my legs hurt a bit              

I had to stop for the night

It was grey and drizzly as we set off from the albergue at eight o’clock this morning. We turned round one last time to wave a final farewell to our luxury accommodation (below) as we squelched away in our damp boots, ponchos and wet weather leggings.

We arrived at Santo Domingo de Calzado after an hour and exited ten minutes later having missed the one place that was open for coffee. We strode on, arriving at the town of Grañon ninety minutes later where, at the entrance to the town, there was a delightful rest stop playing classical music and serving coffees out of a converted Citroen van. Grañon itself was very quaint on a day when very quaint was generally in pretty short supply. Out of Grañon however, the Camino path turned into a sloshy, muddy way. Add to this that much of the path shadowed a busy dual carriageway and the heady days of sunshine and scenery seemed long behind us.

It was certainly not the conditions one might want to push a double buggy with a two-year old and a four-month old baby but that is exactly what two American (possibly Canadian?) women were doing. Fortunately we caught up with them right at the end of a long, long muddy ascent as otherwise I would have felt duty bound to feign some sort of injury which would, unfortunately, have prevented my offering any assistance. I’m not as young as I used to be you know.

We took a rest stop in the village of Redecilla del Camino, sat on a wet bench by the side of the busy road eating yesterday’s leftover jamon and queso bocadillo. Sophistication epitomised. Thereafter we passed through Castildelgado and on to Viloria de la Rioja where we stopped for a coffee at a Donativo (albergue and refreshment stop where you simply make a donation) where we met an English couple Tony and Pat. Tony is/was a football coach in and around South Yorkshire and his dad played for Sheffield Wednesday! It goes without saying that he is a splendid fellow.

Following last night’s private albergue experience at Cirueña, we decided to upgrade tonight to a hotel rural in the tiny, tiny village of Quintanilla del Monte en Rioja. The village is more derelict than deserted but both descriptions remain apt. The hotel, not much more than a private house, is nonetheless very nice and we are the only guests. Accordingly we have the master bedroom with double bed and flat screen TV. None of your 75” rubbish either, I’ve just measured it and it’s a 14” flat screen TV so put that in your pipe and smoke it! Our host Ana is lovely and, to be honest, after a day of wet weather and mundane walking conditions, a few home comforts have been just what we needed. No suave, sophisticated french blokes to deal with and no witty repartee to keep up with. Welcome to the Hotel Quintanilla, it’s a lovely place. 

Day 10 - 2 May - Ventosa to Cirueña

As Benny Hill famously sang:

But a woman’s needs are many fold                    

As Mrs C has said                                               

But strange things happened on Monday night    

As we lay in our bed                                          

Was that the trees a-rustling                                

Or Rioja grapes being juiced?                              

Or Tommy Shelby’s chickens                               

A-coming home to roost? 

The forecast rain had failed to arrive when we awoke this morning so we were up and at it, keen to get going whilst the going was good. After a quick coffee and chocolate croissant at Ventosa’s one and only bar we hit the road shortly after eight o’clock. Pretty landscape if unspectacular, dominated by fields of vines which should be no surprise to anyone as we are walking through the province of La Rioja. Our first port of call was Najera where we stopped for a coffee and then onwards, crossing the Rio Najerilla, passing through the old town and up the hill out of town. 

Having peaked the hill, the terrain had changed once more and reminded me of the final scenes of the last episode of (adopt Brummie accent) Peaky Bloinders where Tommy Shelby is camped out in his gypsy caravan. Anyway, we turned a corner and, bugger me, there it was. Tommy Shelby’s caravan. Probably.

Spooky eh? Anyway, next stop Azofra where we had another coffee and a bocadillo then on to the final five miles of today’s total fifteen miles to our end point for the day being Cirueña. There wasn’t a lot to Azofra which is more than can be said for Cirueña. In the meantime however, our luck ran out with the weather. It started raining as we left Azofra and continued for the rest of the day. Accordingly we were rather damp by the time we arrived at the albergue two hours later. However, despite the rain, our spirits had been lifted as rolling hills of green wheat and yellow canola began to replace the vines as we approached Cirueña.

Cirueña is a ghost town. No doubt inspired by the Kevin Costner film Field of Dreams and its message “if you build it, they will come”, developers back in the noughties decided Cirueña was the next big thing so they built a golf course, hundreds of houses and apartments and……..no one came. The global financial crash of 2008 played its part but whoever decided to build apartment blocks resembling prison blocks deserves their share of the blame too. Spooky no.2 eh?

Cirueña is six kilometers south east of Santa Domingo de la Calzada through where we should be passing tomorrow. Camino legend has it that some seven hundred years ago, a devout German couple and their son were passing through Santa Domingo on their way to Santiago. The local barmaid took a shine to the lad but, for reasons alien to me, he rebuffed her advances. Not too happy with this knock back, she basically framed him for theft and the (normally very friendly in my experience) Spanish townsfolk had him hanged (well, he was German after all). Anyway, his parents were a bit cheesed by this but carried on to Santiago regardless, said a prayer or two then turned round and promptly started walking back home to Germany. On passing back through Santa Domingo, they thought it might be nice to see their son one last time so they went to see him (still hanging there) and to their relief found him to be alive, quite chirpy but a bit fed up of hanging around by his neck. So off they rushed to the local sheriff asking that he release their son. The sheriff was tucking in to his chicken dinner at the time and suggested that the boy was “no more alive than these chickens on my plate” at which point the cooked chickens immediately sprouted feathers and flew off. So the lad was pardoned and everyone was happy. As for the barmaid? I’m hoping to have a drink with her tonight. Only joking. Spooky no.3 eh?

We stayed at a private albergue with a bunk bed each. Happy days. The assembled throng met for the evening pilgrim meal, split between two tables and we broke bread on our table with Harriet (who we met last night), Christine from Italy and Pierre and Geraldine from France. Yet another sophisticated French man to contend with. How on earth can a French man even know, let alone throw into casual conversation, the word “gelatinous”? Still, I bet he doesn’t know the lyrics to Ernie (The Fastest Milkman in the West).

Day 9 - 1 May - Logroño to Ventosa

As The Beautiful South famously sung:

This could be Rotterdam or Amsterdam              

On any day or week                                             

Or Paris, Rome or Ventosa                                  

It’s English they all speak.

The city of Logroño knows how to party. Up to around 6.00 a.m. as it happens but notwithstanding all that we both caught our best night’s kip of the adventure so far and awoke ready for action. Having said that, we didn’t fancy a second consecutive day of eighteen miles so we had already booked today’s accommodation at a rather more civilised distance of twelve miles. We breakfasted at Bar Calenda in the centre of the old town and then hit the road at around half past eight. It can take a while to exit the big cities but the path out of Logroño was routed through a park which then morphed into a walking/ cycling/ running route all the way to the Parque de la Grajera complete with woodland paths, lake and separate waterway full of mutant sea bass. Okay, that last bit comes from an Austin Powers film but these fish, whatever species, were certainly huge and ugly.

Beyond the park, the path and scenery became a little more scrubby and from time to time we found ourselves walking on pathways adjacent to busy roads. After around eight miles we arrived at the town of Navarette and, like so many seemingly unassuming little Spanish towns, the old town was a gem. We fed and watered then sat in the sunshine for a while before setting off towards our ultimate destination of Ventosa. 

We saw our first stork, minding its own business sat on a huge nest on the top of an industrial chimney and we expect the storks to become a regular sight over the next few days.

The road out of Navarrete was just that, a road. We had a couple of miles of boring before taking an off-road path which led us through fields of neatly laid out vines and olive trees. Ventosa was now only around two miles away and the scenery was improving and worthy of a few snaps on the i-phone. When you arrive at Ventosa, the first thing you see is a bar. And it would be rude not to wouldn’t it?

There’s not too much to Ventosa which suited us fine. One bar, one hotel and a church was just about the sum total of the place. We spent the afternoon relaxing, allowing the Spanish sun to work its magic on legs and feet, before our “fellowship meal” at the hotel with the other guests, they being Harriet from London, Rob and Jessie from Holland and Isabelle and Jean-Francois from France. I know it’s getting boring my saying this but everyone was really nice. When it comes to our European cousins generally I especially like the Dutch and Rob guffawed at all of my jokes so I really liked him.  I have decided to refer to Jean-Francois as JF because typing JF is much easier than Jean-Francois. Anyway, JF is very, very French - think of a cross between Charles Aznavour and David Ginola. Tall and charming, he is a wine producer in Saint Emilion, probably owns a vineyard and I bet he wears his jumpers over the shoulders rather than putting them on properly.

Everybody speaks bloody English. No wonder I can’t find anyone to practice my Spanish on. When I went to the bar earlier to order a couple of beers, the bloke behind the bar looked at me quizzically and uttered those immortal words. “Que?” Perhaps I should have ordered in English. Or asked JF to order them for me. He could charm the habit off a nun.

Day 8 - 30 April - Los Arcos to Logroño

As Elvis Presley famously sang:

Wub me tender, wub me sweet                      

Never wet me go                                                 

For my darwing, I wish yoo                                    

A buen caminio

It’s been a long one today. Eighteen miles from Los Arcos to the city of Logroño, the capital of the province of La Rioja. Despite the promise of relatively easy walking conditions, both terrain and weather, the distance was intimidating so we set off early with a view to taking it as easy as one can take eighteen miles. We left our accommodation at 07.01 and made our first stop at 07.03 for breakfast and coffee which we duly consumed sat on a rickety wooden bench opposite. We got going properly at 07.18. 

Out of Los Arcos, the surroundings were pleasant improving to very pleasant over the next thirteen miles until we arrived in the town of Viana which old town was bloody lovely. We stopped for a beer and some delicious pintxos there, sat in the town square with Manoelle and Gaelle, two Belgian ladies whom we had seen regularly over the last few days, albeit not having previously properly introduced ourselves. 

From Viana it was all a bit downhill both literally and metaphorically as we trudged the final five miles towards Logroño. The countryside gave way to industry, urbanisation and concrete and our feet generally just gave way. However, the recuperative effects of thirst and hunger soon saw us out on the streets of, as it transpires, Logroño the party town. This place is jam packed with hen parties and stag do’s, and not to mention peregrinos (pilgrims). Within ten minutes, we were sat drinking beer with Kelsey and Katie from the USA together with Charlie and Lisa who we met at the albergue in Urdaniz four days ago. 

Unfortunately I didn't have a stick with me with which to beat off unwanted attention from attractive young ladies on a hen night so I reluctantly had to dance with the brunette after she practically begged me. To be fair, I think I was a bet. See if you can get that old, bald geezer up dancing type of thing. Either way it was a win win.

Later on, it was nice to bump into Michael from Switzerland of whom keen readers of this blog (is there such a thing?) will be pleased to know that I am so very over.

But I have to tell you about Henry. Second only to the Americans, in terms of numbers on the Camino, are the Koreans. And they are unfailingly nice and polite and some of them quite bonkers. Henry takes friendly to new levels. He embraces the bar owners, shakes hands with the waiters and buys beers for anyone who comes within two metres of him. But you can be too friendly. He was sat next to Mrs C in the bar when she was suddenly afflicted with a thigh cramp. She leapt from her chair and pogo’d around the bar shout-whispering “Ooh. Ouch. Cramp. Cramp in my thigh. Ouch”. 

I have some advice for Henry. In such circumstances, when husband of the afflicted is present, you do not leap out of your own chair shouting “you want I wub your leg? I wub your leg. Let me wub it”.

It’s just not cricket old boy. 

And talking of cricket, arrival in Logroño marks the one hundred mile point of our Camino adventure. One hundred not out, having survived Henry’s leg before appeal.