Day 2. March 11, 2017. Guilleno to Castilblanco des Arryeos. 18 kms

                                              'Tis my belief

That every flower enjoys the air it breathes

 

This morning, I walked out of town, down to the river, past a line of gum trees leaning longingly to the south, and along the highway beside another huge industrial complex, totally deserted. I was about to rail, once again, about the evils of capitalism, when I realized it was Saturday. That's why there was nobody there! Perhaps in punishment, I missed the way, which in fact had turned off through the complex, and I walked on a kilometre before realizing my mistake and retracing my steps. I passed between the warehouses, past a clump of dead bamboos, and out into open country.

Suddenly a small plane flew overhead. Crop dusting? Not at this time of year, surely. I thought of the famous film and looked for cover. If not a hail of machine gun bullets, perhaps a poisonous cloud would envelop me. Then another plane rose in front of me. I was at the foot of an aerodrome and would merely have to dodge the undercarriages.

I continued along this brown dirt track, olives on one side, oranges on the the other. Behind a steel mesh fence, under the trees, the ground was awash with fallen fruit, and I managed to poke my hiking pole through the mesh and roll one towards me. Delicious! I hadn't tasted an orange like that in years, certainly not in cold northern climes where they sit for weeks in boxes before we get to eat them, or even longer at a certain store which buys the produce that the other chains reject.

 

Eventually the fruit trees disappeared, and the track ascended into a kind of moorland, with the ubiquitous broom, not yet flowering, rosemary bushes, some heather, and various shrubs I didn't recognize. Daisies and dandelions abounded of course, and I was struck by a couple of other flowering plants which I later identified as white asphodel and the sage leaf rock rose.

 

 

Despite the very gradual ascent, it was heavy going. Water had eroded the track into ruts, which had deepened into crevices in places. Rarely was the footing level. I don't know how you would walk here in wet weather. In the rain it would be slippery and muddy. 

I passed only two people along the way, a French pair, Frederick a social worker, and Tamara his charge. She was a troubled teenager, and walking the Camino was a kind of therapy or self-confidence building project for her. A fine idea in principle, but her pack was heavy and she was suffering.

I continued along this rutted track and passed a sign which seemed to gauge my mood, but offered little cheer.

 

Perhaps it was the heat, but I found this a difficult step. Finally, I reached a road, and literally, not figuratively literally, but literally literally, staggered into town, and found a bed at the municipal albergue. Donativo with a minimum of five euros. Basic but with all facilities. A difficult stage, although only 18 kilometres, plus the extra couple resulting from my carelessness.