The alberge last night was just as I remember them in Spain. Four double bunks crowded into a small room. Nowhere to put your stuff. One small window. No emergency light, so you needed a torch to get out in the night. Otherwise, nice ambience and quite good food. Voluntary contribution.
As I left the gite, I walked down a path, and onto a track that led to a farm. A pack of dogs forced me to take a short cut across a field. Then I walked due west for miles along a gravel road, my shadow stretched out in front of me. A hawk hovered overhead, waiting for something to move in the field below.
Tonight we are staying in the ruined village of Ruesta, abandoned in 1959 because of a hydro-electric project. I'm not sure why, because it isn't flooded. The whole village, including a castle and church, are in ruins, except for the alberge and a bar which have been restored. This is another village which must somehow survive on the pilgrim trade.
The Spanish snorer from Jaca is with us tonight. He likes his food and wine, and carries a lot of weight. He arrived after me, sat down to lunch with a bottle of red, and is now sleeping it off in the dorm. The room is rocking.