Day 24. April 2, 2017. Calzada de Valdunciel to Villanueva de Campean. 32 kms

My dear Norfolk, this isnt Spain, this is England

 

 

I am sharing the hostel with three of the Germans, Sarah, Marcel, and Michael. 

Sarah is the future. Young, she went to an International school in Majorca, took English A levels, and speaks German, Spanish and English fluently, switching from one to the other at will. Like many Camino walkers, she is in between jobs, having left employment in a hotel because she didn't like it. She is confident she will find something else, and she will.

Marcel, in his thirties I would say, is also the future. He developed, and sold, his computer company, and now works on contract when he wants to. Peter the historian maintains that there are many young people like Marcel and Sarah in Europe who move easily from job to job. He argues that this is becoming the new norm.

Michael, a little older, is an elementary classroom teacher with a special interest in music. A gentle man, he seems ideally suited for his profession.

Last night they had stayed at the hostel in Salamanca, and when they left in the morning, they arranged to leave their backpacks at the hostel. Certainly, said the hospitalero, but you must pick them up at twelve sharp. On the dot, he emphasized. They arrived at ten to twelve, just to be sure. No hospitalero. Ten past. Nobody. Half past. Nobody. To cut a long story short, he hadn't arrived by one o'clock. They called the police, because they had a key. The hospitalero, and the police, arrived at half past one. "I was doing my shopping," said the hospitalero.

I had a similar experience, but not such a crucial delay. I arrived at a restaurant at half past seven for the pilgrim's menu. Eight o'clock, said the barman. At twenty past, I asked if I could eat. Ten minutes, he gestured. Twenty minutes later, I asked again. Ten minutes, he said. I left, and ate some tapas at another bar. I have to remember that this is Spain, not England, or Germany.

I left before dawn, with frost on the ground, mist on a pond, and a few rosy streaks in the sky, not only from whisps of cloud but a few vapour trails from distant planes. I passed a battery of solar panels, enough to supply the town with electricity. Spain is taking this seriously.

It was a long day on a dirt road, beside a highway, along a disused railway line, and then across the fields.

I have to say a special word for a very special hospitalero at the very comfortable municipal hostel at Villanueva de Campean. Maria Eugenia, who also runs the hotel which is very fine according to a couple of the guests I was talking to in the bar, drove me 32 kilometres back to the previous hostel where I had left my sleeping bag. She didn't want to accept payment, and I had to force money upon her for the petrol. "I like to help people," she said. I won't bore you with the story of how I came to leave my sleeping bag behind.