March 21, 2024. Zafra

 

Roberto insista

His blista persista 

But it was all grista 

His mill.

Mista, he hissta,

Shaking his fista

I admit I am pista

But still,

The pain, it exista,

But plasta assista

And I must resista 

Until

The blista desista,

The vista consista

The trail that we misseda 

The hill!

Is there anything more relaxing than strolling down a crooked little street and sitting in a Spanish plaza, sipping a beer, underneath the palm trees? It’s a sunny day but every so often a gust of wind blows over a potted plant, and the poster boards advertising the delights of competing restaurants clatter on the cobblestones. Pigeons peck around our feet. A train of school children crosses the square. Since yesterday, a fellow has been handing out roasted almonds which we eat without thinking what or why. Now we realize that these were samples, as he reappears and tries to sell his product. A few pilgrims, not many, stroll across the square.

We have had a relaxing rest day in Zafra. Tomorrow, we will walk north on the Via de la Plata.