Calzadilla to Mansilla

Day 18 (Saturday 25 May) 360 kilometres to Santiago. Last night's albergue, while pricey at 15 Euro, was the best yet. Four single beds to a room (no bunks), with sheets bottom and top, a blanket, and a counterpane. A real bed. Best of all, I turned out to be the only occupant of my little dorm. Luxury. Checking my e-mails in the afternoon, I see that Diane has corrected my statement that it was Dutch Princess Christina who was born in Ottawa - in fact it was Margreit. These non-fiction blogs are hard work. After completing the usual chores, I dine with Kiwis Rachel and Tom from Cambridge on the North Island. They are taking a 2 month holiday, which includes the Camino, before moving to Melbourne so that they can experience life in a big city. Before retiring, I ask our server whether it would be possible to pick up a sandwich in the morning before I leave, as there are essentially no enroute stops. She says yes. As I fall asleep I can hear the wind gusting and moaning in the eaves. Perhaps the chain of light wind days will be broken tomorrow.

In the morning, I imagine the kitchen sparking into action to prepare breakfast for its 07:00 start. That would be my opportunity to ask for my sandwich (bocadilla) to go. In the event, nothing is stirring as I exit at 06:25, bound for Mansilla de las Mulas, about 25 kilometres away. I have 2 energy bars in my ruck, so I'll be fine. The wind has dropped overnight and the day promises to be a repeat of the 2 before. As I exit the village, following some white arrows (not the usual yellow), I sense that I'm not headed in the right direction. The signs for the Camino are few and far between. In the event it takes me about 35 minutes of walkabout and a few short false starts before I sort out where the trailhead really is. So, my start time is really 07:00. I mark this down to experience (it turns out that white arrows point to a tienda (small grocery)) and rationalize that I wouldn't have taken some moonlight photos of the local church and some roosting storks if I hadn't taken a wrong turn.

Once I clear the town on a secondary paved road, I'm completely on my own. I'm on a beautiful Spanish plain, but, as far as people are concerned, I could be on the dark side of the moon. The trail turns to hard packed earth, studded with many rounded and pointed stones. This is the Calzada Romana, described in my guide book as "... the most perfect extant stretch of Roman road left in Spain today." I had imagined that the surface might be rectangular stones, but, except for a few stretches where the cart tracks are somewhat elevated, it looks like most other dirt tracks in northern Spain. I weave from side to side, seeking the smoothest terrain underfoot. Perhaps I'm looking at the sub-surface of this ancient road after the rectangular stones have worn away? In any case, this modern legionary is walking in the tracks of some ancient soldiers (including Mark Bucken).

This landscape is reminiscent of the Canadian prairies and I feel right at home. There are even trains passing to my south. The analogy starts to break down with that thought, however. These are Spanish TGV electric trains and they appear to be travelling along controlled access track. What is missing is the low, mournful whistle of a Canadian diesel locomotive as it approaches a level crossing.

I note that there is a range of snow-capped mountains to the north, between me and the Bay of Biscay. It actually starts behind me to my right and continues through my 12 o'clock position before petering out to the southwest. It looks as if I can reach the high ground ahead of me by the end of the day, but I know that this is a visual illusion. Notwithstanding, I also know that I'm looking at the end of the Meseta. It's been grand, but I'm also ready for some different terrain. I notice a gap in the range on the horizon ahead of me and surmise that this may be my route to the city of Leon tomorrow.

About an hour before I reach Mansilla de las Mulas, I come across Dutch Rhea, taking a break on the side of the road. She is the first person that I have encountered in more than 4 hours. Somewhat footsore, I enter the town through the Arco de Santa Maria and find my albergue about 5 and one half hours after I set out.

 

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