May 27 - Hornillas, San Bol, Hontanas, San Anton to Castrojeriz 12. 6 miles.
Walking with new amigos
Walking with new amigos
Upon leaving Hornillas the long-shadowed photo reminds me I got an early start knowing full well it can be dangerous walking pre-dawn and without light to guide the way. Corien catches up with me and again we walk together. We pass more haystacks.
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I felt the beginning tingle of sunburn on my face probably from the day before on the Meseta. Yesterday I was distracted by conversing with Corien so I didn’t notice. Besides, the sunscreen was packed deep in the backpack. I couldn’t find the white fingerless gloves either. I’ve been wearing the sun protection hat Carol Dyer gave me. I’m thankful for the white, long sleeved Columbia UV protection shirt I purchased just before leaving home. I end up wearing it almost every day. This hot, dry stretch will last another four days I'm told.
The zip-off hiking pants I purchased specifically for this trip have only been zipped off once. In days past and future I would see many sunburned, or heavily tanned legs with lines of demarcation from shorts or socks. Oftentimes, I wear dresses when I go out on the town in Tucson with my husband and decided not to bare my skin walking the Camino. A wise decision.
Impaired vision and hurt foot ....but it's the Camino!
My prescription sunglasses that broke just as I was getting off the airplane in Paris are sorely missed. I’ve had them for years. I thought of Randy and his pale blue sun-sensitive eyes.
Not able to see clearly is stressful. In addition, the temples to my clear prescription bifocals are bent. I didn’t dare straighten them too much for fear those would be ruined, too. I don’t like to wear bifocals while walking amidst obstacles and changing elevations. Perhaps failure to dig my glasses is the main reason I also didn't refer to my guidebook while walking.
My right foot is still hurting and the Meloxicam prescribed by the Urgent Care doc two days before I left is not working. At least not enough. I emailed Randy to ask our pharmacist if I can double the dose on the meds. She says, ‘no’. I'm trying to find the topical gel Voltadol or Dolotren I’ve heard about. I arrive in a town with a pharmacy that won't be open for another three hours. I have to decide whether to wait and lose time. I keep walking.
Another cross honoring St. James is held high in position with a pile of rocks nearly six feet high. More resplendent red poppies uplift the spirit as we approach Hontanas - a village of under 110. From a distance a majestic church steeple greets pilgrims. Corien wants to make a breakfast stop. On the way out of the humble village a blue sign is painted on the side of a building, “Buen Camino,” - the cheerful and encouraging pilgrim greeting.
The zip-off hiking pants I purchased specifically for this trip have only been zipped off once. In days past and future I would see many sunburned, or heavily tanned legs with lines of demarcation from shorts or socks. Oftentimes, I wear dresses when I go out on the town in Tucson with my husband and decided not to bare my skin walking the Camino. A wise decision.
Impaired vision and hurt foot ....but it's the Camino!
My prescription sunglasses that broke just as I was getting off the airplane in Paris are sorely missed. I’ve had them for years. I thought of Randy and his pale blue sun-sensitive eyes.
Not able to see clearly is stressful. In addition, the temples to my clear prescription bifocals are bent. I didn’t dare straighten them too much for fear those would be ruined, too. I don’t like to wear bifocals while walking amidst obstacles and changing elevations. Perhaps failure to dig my glasses is the main reason I also didn't refer to my guidebook while walking.
My right foot is still hurting and the Meloxicam prescribed by the Urgent Care doc two days before I left is not working. At least not enough. I emailed Randy to ask our pharmacist if I can double the dose on the meds. She says, ‘no’. I'm trying to find the topical gel Voltadol or Dolotren I’ve heard about. I arrive in a town with a pharmacy that won't be open for another three hours. I have to decide whether to wait and lose time. I keep walking.
Another cross honoring St. James is held high in position with a pile of rocks nearly six feet high. More resplendent red poppies uplift the spirit as we approach Hontanas - a village of under 110. From a distance a majestic church steeple greets pilgrims. Corien wants to make a breakfast stop. On the way out of the humble village a blue sign is painted on the side of a building, “Buen Camino,” - the cheerful and encouraging pilgrim greeting.
After passing a field of pink flowers we encounter an unexpected treasure. Corien and I stop at the ruins of Hospital de Peregrinos San Anton. The roofless ruins of a 14th century convent and hospice were so awesome I can't stop taking photos.
Beyond is solitary walking with no markers for miles. Then a half mile outside of Castrojeriz two local women, dressed in their Sunday best, were handing out wrapped, hard caramel and mocha candies to pilgrims. This simple kindness is not forgotten.
Sometime after noon we stop at the village. Don and Frank catch up with us at Albergue Casa Nostra at Castroxeria (the ‘x’ is pronounced as a ‘g’) with 26 beds in three rooms.
By some miracle I manage a Skype signal while standing in the middle of the street outside the albergue. I telephone Randy. My husband laughed when he saw me on Skype. I must have looked an awful sight. “Bad hair day?” he quipped.
Every day on the Camino is a bad hair day for me and my baby-fine locks.
Later that afternoon the internet is available for one Euro per 15 minutes. It seems to take that long to sign on and my coins are limited. The keyboard is especially frustrating. It's difficult to find the @ sign. The commands - send, inbox, outbox, delete, etc. are in Spanish. I shouldn't have been surprised. Nevertheless, not having access to a computer every day was stressful. Longhand writing is not as satisfying. Thoughts and images do not come easily. Not like at the keyboard. I never realized before how I would miss it and what a a satisfying outlet writing is for me.
Even though it's Sunday suprisingly the four of us pilgrims find a tienda that opens at 4 p.m. Selection is limited. Mostly canned. No fresh tomatoes or onions for sale. However, the bread and local cheese is good. We split the cost and pay less than 2 euros each. Vino purchased from the Albergue cost 3 euros.
Frank appoints himself Chef. The Aussie is determined to make pasta his own way and does not want to eat before 6:30 p.m. Corien and I both like to cook and assumed we were going to help with the preparation. We were both annoyed at Frank. Besides it was five o’clock and already we are hungry. We chow down on cheese and bread in the small kitchen. Somewhere within those minutes I come to my senses. “How ungrateful. Someone has offered to cook for me. Be appreciative.”
A stray cat hangs around the kitchen. Don and Frank are cat lovers: Corien and I are not. The two men feed the cat bits of cheese rind and Frank opens a can of liver pate and gives the entire contents to the cat. Corien and I think this excessive. But, ça la vive.
Over our pasta dinner Frank tells about his home life and that his 30-year old son is back living with him in his apartment and “free-loading.”
The night before I asked Don, an American, how he came to live in Biarritz, France. He said, “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.” This evening after our shared meal and vino he is ready to share his story. His daughter was a graduate of culinary school and a chef working in Biarritz. The father-daughter duo planned to walk the Camino together some day. Then he received a call. His daughter committed suicide. He now lives in her house part of the year in France. He is carrying his daughter’s ashes along the Camino, much like in the movie, “The Way.”
By some miracle I manage a Skype signal while standing in the middle of the street outside the albergue. I telephone Randy. My husband laughed when he saw me on Skype. I must have looked an awful sight. “Bad hair day?” he quipped.
Every day on the Camino is a bad hair day for me and my baby-fine locks.
Later that afternoon the internet is available for one Euro per 15 minutes. It seems to take that long to sign on and my coins are limited. The keyboard is especially frustrating. It's difficult to find the @ sign. The commands - send, inbox, outbox, delete, etc. are in Spanish. I shouldn't have been surprised. Nevertheless, not having access to a computer every day was stressful. Longhand writing is not as satisfying. Thoughts and images do not come easily. Not like at the keyboard. I never realized before how I would miss it and what a a satisfying outlet writing is for me.
Even though it's Sunday suprisingly the four of us pilgrims find a tienda that opens at 4 p.m. Selection is limited. Mostly canned. No fresh tomatoes or onions for sale. However, the bread and local cheese is good. We split the cost and pay less than 2 euros each. Vino purchased from the Albergue cost 3 euros.
Frank appoints himself Chef. The Aussie is determined to make pasta his own way and does not want to eat before 6:30 p.m. Corien and I both like to cook and assumed we were going to help with the preparation. We were both annoyed at Frank. Besides it was five o’clock and already we are hungry. We chow down on cheese and bread in the small kitchen. Somewhere within those minutes I come to my senses. “How ungrateful. Someone has offered to cook for me. Be appreciative.”
A stray cat hangs around the kitchen. Don and Frank are cat lovers: Corien and I are not. The two men feed the cat bits of cheese rind and Frank opens a can of liver pate and gives the entire contents to the cat. Corien and I think this excessive. But, ça la vive.
Over our pasta dinner Frank tells about his home life and that his 30-year old son is back living with him in his apartment and “free-loading.”
The night before I asked Don, an American, how he came to live in Biarritz, France. He said, “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.” This evening after our shared meal and vino he is ready to share his story. His daughter was a graduate of culinary school and a chef working in Biarritz. The father-daughter duo planned to walk the Camino together some day. Then he received a call. His daughter committed suicide. He now lives in her house part of the year in France. He is carrying his daughter’s ashes along the Camino, much like in the movie, “The Way.”