Day 1. March 10, 2017. Seville to Guilleno. 22 kms

O yellow arrow,

Straight and narrow,

Thou leadest me along the path

I shall not tarry

For I carry

A burden on my arthe.

 

I do occasionally lapse into bad taste. And how much is that burden? It's what it should be. Seventeen and a half pounds: a little less than one tenth of my present weight and a little more than one tenth of what I will weigh at the end of this walk.

Yesterday, our guide reminded us that the Via de la Plata doesn't mean the Way of Silver, for "Plata" comes not from the Spanish for "silver", but from the Arabic for "way". El Camino del Camino, le Chemin du Chemin, the Way of the Way. A redundancy that doesnt really mean anything. Or does it?

This morning I walked along the little narrow street from the hostel in the old quarter of Triana down to the river, and then along the bank, across a major road, and there were the arrows. Ecce sagittas! 

I followed these out of town, through nineteenth century shops and houses, and on to the industrial outskirts, through weedy wastelands, graffitied walls, modern warehouses outnumbered by abandoned factories, roofless houses, service stations, buildings with fallen plaster revealing the naked bricks beneath, and then dusty towns lined with familiar trees - jacarandas, and cape lilacs with the berries that once served as ammunition for our gings or shanghais. They were more effective when they were green. Here they were soft and yellow. 

Ten kilometres of road walking, and then a stand of eucalypts where the path left the highway and cut across country for another ten kilometres, straight and narrow, like the meseta on the Camino Frances. Fresh air after the exhaust fumes, but tedious walking with nothing to break the monotonous trudge. This area is subject to flooding, and water had pooled in the low patches. At one spot I slithered down a bank and got mud all over the arse of my brand new Tilley shorts.

Alex Tilley, whose iconic hat identifies Canadians of a certain age around the world, had recently sold his company, so I was curious to see whether the new owners would honour the life-time guarantee on my old shorts, which after many Caminos had finally frayed around the keepers. No hesitation, and now I would have to wash them.

At other times on other parts of the Camino my washing has take an extra day to dry, and I have become a walking washing line, a perambulatory Hills Hoist. But today, it was all dry in a few hours.

On the outskirts of Guilleno, I came upon a goatherd, leading, with the help of a couple of dogs, the largest herd I have ever seen.

I am at the Luz del Camino, a private albergue just at the entrance to Guilleno. The hospitalero is a German with a loud, high voice which echoes around the hostel as he meets and greets and seats the incoming pilgrims. At first I found him annoying because he seemed to be everywhere, piercing the silence. But he was being genuinely helpful. He introduced a Canadian to me who was in a right panic, having lost his phone and was desperate to let his partner know that he had safely arrived. I lent him my phone and gave him a few of my precious roaming minutes. What could I do? He was Canadian, eh?

Peter, the hospitalero, had negotiated with a nearby bar to open up in the evenings to provide a pilgrim's menu. When I walked the Camino Frances in 2003, the typical pilgrim's meal cost 8€. Now it ranges from 10€ to 12€. Tonight it was 6€. It was a simple, but very good meal, with no money in it for the establishment, just the pleasure of providing old-fashioned hospitality. Here we are raising our glasses to the host: Peter the hospitalero, Paul from Leicester, Charles from Canada, Werner from Germany, Stephan from Germany, and John from Canada.