What can I say – I like Germans. On the one hand, they know how to have fun, on the other, they’re as tough as mountain goats. Only difference is, they once had Hitler as a teacher, where jokes didn’t even exist as a concept. I thought we’d been partying late into the night, but in reality, it was barely 10 p.m. when I said goodbye. That’s when the Spaniards were only just crawling out of their burrows, while I could see nothing but my bed.
It all started with the older locals having their own bash with a bingo night – probably the most adrenaline-packed event within a 50 km radius – followed by some “physical culture” on the dance floor. The competition? Who’s got the better dance moves, in the style of “if your hip holds out, you win.” I had no desire to take part – my legs needed rest, and they needed it immediately.
But since my hotel was right in the middle of it all, sleep was out of the question. Such a comfortable bed, too! The bathroom was just a metre away – pure luxury! I have to admit, the locals really went all out to see María off. The party went on until five in the morning.
Finally, peace. Yeah, right. The second the music stopped, the Spaniards decided María should have an after party – a procession through the town. No way you could sleep through that unless you were deaf or dead.
Before this circus began, I’d been thinking about staying in town another day, because I really needed to sleep. The town had a swimming pool where I could cool off during the day. But when the locals fired up again in the morning, it was clear there’d be no peace here until Monday. And today was only Friday. Spaniards take this holiday seriously. Very seriously.
So I decided to hit the road – with a hangover in my head that was throwing its own hangover party. Because of the holiday, accommodation was packed, and everywhere I called was fully booked. The only option was 30 km away, the next one 42 km. I went for the first – another donativo. I had no idea how my legs would react after the previous day.
I didn’t set out until around eight in the morning. The walk began along a surprisingly busy road for a holiday. I turned to Google Maps to find me a quieter route. And off we went, away from the Camino trail. We wandered past hills and burnt trees – interesting, but also a bit eerie, since this wasn’t the Camino path. I wasn’t sure if I could trust Google. And without trust, you don’t get far.
It led me along a beautiful track, just the right kind of uphill – a full 8 km of “just right.” I had no idea if it would take me back to the Camino. It did. When I rounded the hill, I was as happy as a kid at Christmas.
I arrived in a village – a sign of life! But the dogs in the fields made it very clear I wasn’t welcome. Five of them surrounded me, barking in a tone that wasn’t friendly. My heart skipped a beat – they could have attacked. Two were huge and white, two medium-sized black-and-whites, and one little yap-yap clearly suffering from a small-dog complex. The drama lasted a minute, but it felt like an entire National Geographic documentary.
I prayed none of them would leap at me. I tucked my hands under my armpits, kept my head down, and thought of my parents – somehow it’s calming. Luckily, the dogs backed off and I could continue. I love dogs, but not that kind.
There were still 10 km to go, which passed quickly. When I arrived in the village with the accommodation, it turned out to be another ghost town. Once again. Plastic-covered beds, a shower, and no food. On a holiday, everything was closed.
In the morning I ate my last sandwich – not enough to get through the day. I scouted the village and found nothing open. But I ran into two Italian hikers. We chatted a bit, and they asked if I wanted to join them to Rionegro del Puente, 15 km away. I said I wasn’t in the mood for “sunny company,” but I’d think about it.
Five minutes later, I decided to go anyway. I went back to the lodging, filled my bottles, took a shower, and set off. Thankfully there were a few fountains along the way and even a couple of clouds to give me shade.
The only open bar was in the last 7 km – called “Jesus.” Figures, I thought. There I had two small beers and wrote up the previous day’s notes. Then I put music in my ears, and when I saw the village at the end of the road, it made me happier than a Sunday lunch with Radio Veseljak.
Despite the hangover and lack of sleep, I’d walked over 40 km. And I still hadn’t collapsed. A miracle. Since I’d chosen the tarmac route, I didn’t run into the Italians. They arrived in town an hour after me. We were all happy to see each other again. We went for a beer and waited for the hostel owner to arrive so we could check in.
