All’s well that ends well
It was a very pleasant stay at the albergue. Just three of us: Rachel and I, and another Rachel from England. We have made a choice. Until now we have been covering long distances each day in the hope that Rach might reach Sahagun before going home. To do so she would’ve been walking on her last day before getting a train back to Madrid, to catch her flight at 9:00 pm. But she decided that it was cutting it a bit too fine.
So we have decided to take a detour into Valladolid, the other big city along the route. Arturo, the hospitalero, insisted that we would have to come back to Puente Dueroto to rejoin the Camino, that it was impossible to meet it further north, too dangerous along the road, but I was certain we would find a way. We set off.
Now follows one of those stories that people say can only happen on the Camino. A hundred yards from the albergue, Rach wondered if she had left her phone behind. She returned, only to find that it was in her pack after all. While she was there, the hospitalero said, “You didn’t leave a donation.” “Yes,” she replied, “two tens, there on the table.” “Ah,” he said, “the other Rachel must have taken them in error.” Our Rachel offered to pay again, but he refused to accept it.
So we walked on, disturbed by the incident, thinking that we would never see the other Rachel again, because she was fast and going in a different direction. But there she was, coming towards us, having lost her way. We told her what had happened. She searched in her purse, found the two tens, and left at once to return to the albergue.
But for this happy series of coincidences, perhaps he would be thinking, bloody mean Canadians didn’t leave a donation, or, after Rach had gone back for her phone, silly bloody Brit taking my 20€, or, perhaps the Canadian didn’t leave a donation at all, or, perhaps the Brit took the money deliberately?
Instead we were all left with positive feelings. We were impressed with his decency in refusing a second donation and the other Rachel’s honesty in returning to the hostel. His doubts about the veracity of our story and her honesty were dispelled. The other Rachel would have been relieved not to have discovered the missing tens in her purse and wondered if she had inadvertently taken our donation.
It was an easy walk all the way in to Valladolid along a bicycle path.
We crossed the motorway and entered the outskirts of Valladolid, stopping for our second breakfast at the Cantena La Puneta. Two coffees, two orange juices, a croissant, a generous slice of tortilla, all for less than five euros.
Apart perhaps from the entrance to Toulouse along the Canal du Midi, this is the most pleasant entry to a city I have experienced. You enter along the Passeo de Zarilla, a broad thoroughfare, perhaps a hundred yards wide, road, bike lanes, footpaths, all running together, and separated by plain trees, the humblest and yet noblest of trees, providing the shade and separating the lanes.
We spent the rest of the day strolling around this delightful city, with its churches, plazas, and winding streets. In one of these an English class was in session. We were impressed by the notice outside.
We are staying at the Book Factory Hostel, in a dorm because the rooms were taken, but it is a pleasant place. Rach and I differed over whether her nail clippers would work on my fingers and toes. Ever helpful, she insisted they would, but I was dubious. I didn’t even get to my toes; they broke on my second thumb. Tough calcium!
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