Day 12. March 24, 2024. Torremejia to Merida. 17 kms

We left the town with Circe on the right and an Amazon on the left.

It was a medley of roads this morning: national roads, old bitumen roads, farm roads, rural roads, gravel roads, dirt roads, and no road at all as I made my way through the olive trees trying to find the road. And even a railroad, which a couple of pilgrims followed off course. I passed by the usual olives and grapes and also a field of barley, perhaps to make Cruzcampo beer which prevails over Estrella Galicia in this province.

Within sight of the city of Merida I paused for a final rural reflection and repose. In a visual sweep I could see carnivores, eucalypts, olives, with gorse and lavender on the slopes, and of course I could hear the euphony of birds and insects. What a pleasant walk this has been! I could keep going to Santiago, but only if I could be guaranteed a bottom bunk at every hostel.

Arriving at noon I walked over the famous Roman bridge to a cacophony of bells. It certainly wasn’t grandsire triples! Why do Spanish bells clang and English bells peal? It was Palm Sunday. Later in the day we encountered another religious profession.

A good walk, good family, good friends, good food, good wine, good beer!

Day 11.March 23, 2024. Villafranca de Los Barros toTorremejia. 27 kms

 

Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home,

Your house is on fire, your children are gone. 

It was a very long day indeed, so we left before six and had breakfast at a nearby bar.

As we left town before dawn, I noticed two rather sensuous twin peaks far, far away, and remembered walking towards them eight years ago. Our destination  was somewhere near them.

Olives and grapes, olives and grapes, olives and grapes, and then rather more grapes than olives, along a gravel road that stretched on forever. But it was flat.

Everyone who has walked the Camino will speak of the pleasures of the little social encounters along the way. You become an infinitesimal part of each other’s lives.

This morning at about the tenth kilometre I was about to sit down to have a rest, when a couple of elderly German ladies caught me up. We introduced ourselves. One was Rita but I couldn’t quite catch the name of the other one. We tried again. Was it Marcellina? No. Finally, she said, “Jesus’ girlfriend.” “Ah, Magdalena, Mary Magdalena,” I said, and we laughed.

I chuckled on for another few kilometres, and then, I took my halfway rest, sitting down with my back to a concrete block. A ladybird settled on my knee, and we stared at each other for a while, part of each other’s life. It was a pleasure and a privilege, but one that I didn’t extend to the ants that were then crawling up my leg. Time to go. 

And now, a little epiphany. Prompted by the spiritual encounter with a ladybird, and the earlier biblical allusion, and the friendly encounters I had been enjoying with other pilgrims during the morning, I reflected on the essence of the Camino de Santiago de Compostela. I used to think of it as a former Christian pilgrimage, now a secular one, but I was coming to think of it still as a Christian pilgrimage, not in the sense of the procession of penitents in pointed hats and the statue of Our Lady raised on high that we had witnessed yesterday, but in the words of Jesus before they were appropriated by the Church and forgotten by the zealots.

Love thy God, and love thy neighbour as thyself.

And God? Manifested in the ladybird. 

Enough profundities, or profundetti . I wondered whether the ladybird verse was still part of the child’s golden treasury of nursery rhymes. Probably not. It might upset the sensitive child. A shame! I remembered other rhymes from my childhood that I think I survived.

I’m the king of the caaastle

And you’re the dirty raaascal.

How we used to stretch out those vowels! Or,

Fat and skinny went to war,

Fat got shot with an apple core.

Some nice literary devices there. I’ve read worse poems.  Does the recitation of these childhood rhymes lead to an appreciation of poetry?

Enough frivolity. By now, Circe was much closer, but sadly, rather uneven and misshapen.

Five more kilometres and I arrived at the rather Wild West town of Torremejia. Pilgrims had been passing me all day and getting to the albergue before me, but fortunately, Rob, who walks at the speed of light, had arrived before them all, and saved me a bottom bunk.

Much joviality at the restaurant over dinner: a rabble of pilgrims and a babble of tongues.

Day 10. March 22, 2024. Zafra to Villafranca de Los Barros. 21 kms.

He is a dreamer. Let him pass.

What a brutal climb out of town this morning! Three and a half kilometres up, up and up, and I was progressing so slowly that when a woman came up from behind and greeted me, the Buenas” came from three feet behind, and the “Dias” three feet in front. She was racing up the hill .

A further kilometre and we arrived at for breakfast at Los Santos de Maimona. And what a bar!

I have written about bars in Spain before, bars with character, not always good, somber stone buildings with little light and men that shout at each other, and dubious facilities with toilets that lean and leave you little room to do what you have to do and no toilet paper and no paper towels but only a sluggish hand drier that may or may not work.

By contrast, the bar at Los Santos de Maimona was light and bright and white, and the toilets were clean and amply supplied with paper. It was more a coffee shop than a bar. We arrived before nine, ordered breakfast, and then in twos and threes and fours, women arrived until they numbered twenty-five in all. There were only a few men, one at the bar, the others at a table with their wives. Quite remarkable. The only thing in common with the more traditional male bars was that the women shouted at each other.

We left the village on a little country road with trees on all sides, hills in the distance, the rumbling of machinery from a factory on the hill, and the barking of distant dogs.

The stony road stretched out far in front of me, and I could see the pilgrims who had recently passed me: a couple of Frenchman, who were a little faster than I, a pair of Korean women, and far in the distance, Rob, who walks exactly twice as fast as I do.

And then I realized. This was no ordinary country road meandering to nearby farms. This was a very ancient road indeed, a road with a purpose, stretching straight for several miles, very likely part of the Roman road linking the important towns of Seville and Merida.

And here was I, whose “little life is bounded with a sleep”, walking with Romans and Phoenicians and Christians and Moors, and feudal lords and their retinue, and knights on horseback, and the merchants, for this was the Via de la Plata, the Way of the Silver. 

Or perhaps not. I was told in Seville that the name of the famous route was composed of two words, one Latin, one Arabic, both meaning “the way”. The Way of the Way. Redundant perhaps, although here a Christian might quote, “I am the way, the truth and the life.”

As the legions passed by, I heard the centurion telling Decius to pull his finger out and keep in step (in Latin, of course).  

We have settled in at a hostel at Villafranca de los Barros, and while we were eating dinner on a nearby street, we found ourselves witnessing a procession for Holy Week. It was impressive, but I shall not attempt to describe it.

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.

Day 9. March 20, 2024. Valencia del Ventoso to Zafra. 23 kms

Another wonderful day, rather more hilly than yesterday, gently climbing, following rural roads across the fields.

We had two river crossings, one successful, the other, less so.

On the first, we had to ford the river on stepping stones, very delicately with my shaky sense of balance, and when Bede offered to take my pack, I accepted, for if I were to fall into the water it were better my pack not come with me.

Up across a field of buttercups, along a gravel toad, and down to another fording of the river, giant stepping stones this time with a giant stride between them, and only Rob could manage it. In the process, Rach slipped and bruised herself rather badly, but has recovered and is troopering on. The rest of us waded across the stream, and up the hill and into Medina de las Torres for coffee and lunch.

Along the road for a further few kilometres and then off to the left on a country road for the final stretch. A few kilometres before Zafra I sat against the tree and listened to all that was happening around me. I have already waxed about the visual delights of the countryside, but there are many intriguing sounds as well, and the more you listen the more hear: the singing and trilling and chirping and curious repetive calling of of birds and the clicking of insects, and of course the ever distant barking of dogs. We don’t have enough words in our language for the sounds of birds and insects.

After a long loop off the road we arrived in Zafra, the end of the Camino de Sur, the Camino de Huelva.

This is a camino, as others used to be. Walked by only about fifty each year, pilgrims are still a novelty, and welcomed by the locals. In four of the towns, accommodation was free, and donations were refused. There were a few nasty stretches along the highway, but some compensating wild walks. In fact, in places I was glad not to be walking alone. It’s better to have company when you’re lost, or threatened by a dog, or approached by curious cows, or balancing precariously on a stone in the middle of a river.

And I was fortunate indeed, to have such fine company who carried my pack on treacherous crossings, and hauled me up off my arse when it was time to get going again. Rach and Bede have headed back to Madrid and New Zealand; Rob and I are having a rest before walking another day or two along the Via de la Plata.

Day 8. March 19, 2024. Cañaveral de León to Valencia del Ventoso. 21 kms

What an idyllic day! For the most part anyway.

Ambling along a gentle country road bordered by dry stone walls, pastures on either side, olive trees, a couple of horses at the fence waiting to be stroked, packs of pigs and lambs running around in circles, one friendly dog bouncing all over us, others barking and watching warily, a farmer proud of his farm and his animals, lavender, heather and the white sage rock rose, and the singing of the cuckoo.

But then, in the afternoon, after following a dubious arrow, a country lane that ended in a patch of prickly bushes, a field of weeds, a herd of apprehensive cows, a maze of dry stone walls, a wading across a river in search of a road that leads anywhere, and finally, a steep climb up to the town.

Day 7. March 18, 2024. Cañaveral de León to Segura de León. 16 kms

 

May the pigs run free

Upon the natural stage

And curséd be he

Who puts them in a cage.

The hospitality and the meal at the Bar St. Sebastián were superb.

I have been doing more waning than waxing, and, in fact, a little bit of wailing and whining and whingeing as well. To myself, anyway. Yesterday was brutal for me. Today was easier. And it’s amazing how a few tiny poppies can lift your spirits.

It was an upward climb to our coffee stop at Fuentes, eight kilometres on. A sombre beauty in olive green, pasture on either side of the road, sometimes sheep and sometimes cows grazing under the oaks, bordered by drystone walls. On the higher ground, olives grew on the steeper slopes.

At Fuentes, we enjoyed leisurely cafe con lechés at €1 each. And the afternoon was an easy stint along the road. Again I took the road, while my hardy companions took the natural detour. I am preserving my energy.

I rarely eat pork in Canada because of the evil treatment of pigs in cages but here I have not hesitated to sample the pork delicacies for which the region is famous, because we have often seen the pigs at large. This afternoon, I watched them running free, not even in a sty, but in a field ambling and gambolling about, as happy as pigs in muck.

Tonight, we are staying at a casa rural, recommended by Ferdinand, the man behind the Camino de Huelva.