On letting people know that you’re on the loo when you can’t close the door (second version)
All you who wait out in the hall
Must know I’m on the loo.
My plaintive voice must tell you all
That I do spend a sou.
(To the tune of O God Our Help in Ages Past)
Rach got lost yesterday as she made her way back to Madrid. She was planning to walk back to Simancas to catch a bus to Valladolid in time for her train. But it’s not easy following the arrows backwards; you need eyes in the back of your head, and Rach doesn’t have them. After wandering in the wilderness for a while she returned to Penaflor de Hornija. She sought the help of the wonderful Gonzales at the El Bar Hornija, where the good food is served. Gonzales’ girlfriend drove Rach back to Valladolid in time for her train.
After a quick breakfast in the centre of town at Medina de Rioseco, I walked for eight kilometres along the bank of the Canal Castilla. It was a delight. Sunny but cool: my numb fingers told me it was only two or three degrees. But oh, so calm and peaceful.
Three long low warehouses lined one side of the canal at its beginning, suggesting it was once a very important transport route. Magnificent buildings!
What do canals and discontinued railway lines have in common? They are flat, and a joy to walk along.
Happily, the canal was lined with poplars, not plain trees. On the Canal du Midi the plain trees are dying, stricken by a curious malady that seems to be transmitted by the water flowing along the canal.
About eight kilometres on, I arrived at a bridge next to an old mill. A leet (how often do I get to use that word?) ran underneath the mill, fed by a pond formed by a widening of the canal. I crossed the bridge and walked towards Tamariz de Campos. Here there was supposed to be a friendly bar, when it was open. It wasn’t.
Just after the town the guide suggested several options, including a direct but unofficial route along the road. Surprisingly, this was the route indicated by the arrows, so I walked along the highway for eight kilometres to Cuenca de Campos.
The field to one side stretched as far as the eye could see. Newly cut hay indicated that this land was used for producing animal feed. On the other side I noticed splashes of water rising in different parts of the field. Sprinklers were fed by pumps on tractor trailers drawing water from a network of pipes obviously coming from the canal. After the ground was soaked, a tractor would draw the pump to the next location. The motors driving the pumps would be running all day long.
In the grand scheme to end the raising of animals for food, these fields would be planted with trees, for this was a wasteful consumption of water and fuel. But every farmer who passed me by gave me a friendly wave. They enjoyed farming this land.
Part of a tower and a wall were all that remained of a ruined church, but the storks were happy to make their nests on the top of the tower
A tractor passed me by, and the make reminded me of an old joke, attributed by my daughter to one of her teachers, about the man whose wife left him for a tractor salesman and sent him a John Deere letter.
I had a mixed salad at the restaurant, and checked into the albergue, the upper floor of a palatial municipal building, shared by an elderly German couple and me. I haven’t seen Albert the Dutchman today, but Rachel the Brit stayed here last night.
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