Cizur Menor/Puente Reina

Day 4 (Saturday 11 May) I fell asleep around 21:00 and woke up about one hour later. Without cloud cover to hold in the radiant heat from the earth, it's getting cold. Most hostels are not heated. I put on my merino wool sweater and actually pulled up the hood (it adds to the religious effect).

I wake up again at 01:00 and pass some time listening to the snoring pattern. It seems to rise and fall in waves from various corners of the room. It's not particularly intrusive, but will likely keep the lions at bay (one theory as to why our ancient ancestors evolved the practice in the first place).

I'm able to judge the amount of sleep that I get by virtue of the soft chime from a distant church bell sounding each hour. I wake at 05:30 and start quietly re-packing my rucksack at 05:45 by the weak light of a lantern in the courtyard. I'm away at 06:25 for Puente la Reina, 19 kilometres away, dressed in shorts, a T-shirt, and my MEC vest. The temperature is around 7 or 8 Celsius, with mid-level overcast clouds. I'm feeling a bit cold but know that I have a high ridge to climb ahead, so elect to press on as is. Although I know that there must be walkers ahead and behind, I see no one. One meets people all the time, before, during, and after a given leg of the route, but, so far, there is a lot of solitary walking and I'm fine with that. The weather starts to look better.

Just before 08:00, I enter the village of Zariquiegui. I have no idea how to pronounce this. Wherever I travel I try to pick up some of the language. It's both helpful and respectful. This name defeats me. I'm reminded of an old Michael Caine movie, where he can't pronounce various Russian names on a list to a young boy sitting next to him and so resorts to a common raspberry ending to all of them: Mikael Zub...phllt; Boris Niever...phllt.

On the outskirts, I encounter Steve from Collingwood and Georgina from London, Ontario. They have spent the night here and kindly point out a cafe up a wide side street. I would have missed it otherwise. I sit down to a delightful breakfast: OJ, a slice of lemon custard pastry, and, of course, a cafe con leche.

This cafe also has free WiFi, so I post my blog from yesterday and check my e-mail. Feedback from folks back home really lifts my spirits. It's nice to know that my efforts are appreciated and that people are following my narrative. I understand that the process for posting a comment on the Google blog itself is another Internet "secret squirrel"; Mark knows how to do it though. Other people are sending me e-mails on my G-Mail account. The thought crosses my mind that Mark Bucken's Camino of last year and mine are equal adventures in every way, except that I've elected to keep a blog and Mark, the selfish bastard, didn't.

As I cross the ridge line (replete with wind turbines), the temperature feels colder and the wind is up. I stow my MEC vest (a favourite) and don my merino wool, long-sleeve hoodie (also a favourite), then proceed carefully downhill toward Uterga. Once I'm in the valley, the temperature rises, and I switch to just a merino wool T-shirt. Once I'm sure that the sun is going to stay out, I stop and put on some sunscreen.

I notice the occasional article of clothing on the trail. I think what has happened is that people have pinned or fastened some clothing to their backpack to dry it during the day (the sun is mostly behind us), but something has come undone and the item has fallen silently off.

On the outskirts of Puente la Reina there is a pilgrim statue of St. James. In return for the same favour, I ask some Italian cyclists to take my picture.

I then carry on to my destination, but it's not until I've crossed the medieval bridge on the far side of town that I realize that I've overshot the albergue where I intend to stay. I rationalize this error by caling it a reconnaissance for tomorrow morning's departure. I then walk the 10 minutes back to the hostel and check in at about 12:30. This albergue is more primitive than the one from last night (14 people in my dorm), but it's also half the cost (5 Euro). Shower, dhobi wash, and lunch done, I encounter a couple in the lobby at 16:20 who have just been told that there are no beds left; this in a place with 100 beds in early May. They use my guide book to locate another albergue on the far side of town.

A few minutes later along comes 2 Jamaican/Canadian girls in the same jam. Talking to one of them it's clear she's nonplussed with her walking partner. Not only do you have to have personalities and habits that are congenial, you also have to walk at about the same pace. Her friend rises late and walks slowly, and there appears to be some friction.

I dine just before 19:00 at a bar in town. Green salad, patatas fritas (again), a fried egg (go figure), and something that looks like chicken mcnuggets (hey ... I only recognized the "pollo" part of this "prix fixe" menu package). The cost, with one juice glass of red wine (vino tinto) is 6 Euro. I note that the red wine is served chilled - this has happened before. I suspect that they are serving industrial strength "vino collapso" by the barrel and cooling it makes it last longer.

When I get back to the albergue, I retrieve my laundry from the outside line and proceed upstairs to complete my "evening before" pre-departure process. I notice many others doing the same thing. It's not a race, but there is a desire to make the morning departure process go as smoothly and as quietly as possible.

 

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