Once upon a time (that’s definitely the appropriate opener here) a German pilgrim couple travelling with their son stopped in Santo Domingo de la Calzada. A young maiden, jaded by the German boys refusal of her advances, hid a silver cup in his bag, for which the boy was hung. The sad parents continued on to Santiago de Compostella praying for their son all the while. On their return to Domingo de la Calzada, the couple found their son alive in the noose ( Hi mum, Hi dad, up here? Details are sparse). Hearing their plea for their son’s release, the magistrate, enjoying the middle aged equivalent of a Big Rooster chicken dinner at the time, laughed exclaiming, “that boy is no more alive than my roast chicken!” at which point the chicken upped, grew feathers and crowed”. The resurrected chickens’ ancestors still live in a coup in the cathedral. I was so moved by this story (actually more by the fact that people actually believed it), that I vowed to convert to Catholicism the instant Di’s lunch was resurrected. (Di had chicken wings – so outside chance – but my faith was strong). Shockingly nothing happened and Di got to eat some of the ancestors, at least their wings.
Last night we headed up the road for dinner under the shadow of looming storm clouds and spots of rain. We were early and so left our ponchos at the bar and ducked up the road for supplies. First the supermacardo, a small bedroom sized space filled with the aged contents of an entire ALDI. The old grocer, who likely purchased said goods when still a teenager, would look at each item we pointed to and yell in Spanish until a reply came from somewhere inside the house, the price we assume, from his wife, at which point he’d pop the goods on the counter. They were very nice, (the wife came out eventually, no doubt sick of the questions), and gave us some biscuits for free as we were pilgrims (perhaps I should stop slagging off at the catholics?). Second the pharmacie, fitted with a window vending machine selling pilgrim necessities; blister blockers, knee braces, antiseptic cream, sun cream, ky lube and condoms. It’s just so hard not to take the piss.
By then the storm had struck, thunder boomed and rolled through the town, great flashes of lightening lit up the flooded pavers, water gushed out of drain pipes, poured off roof tops and cascaded in torrents down the gutters as we sprinted, thongs in hands, back to the bar. Wish we took our ponchos!
A bottle of red and two seafood paellas later and we were all warm and cozy with bellies full.
Today’s walk took us 22km through Ciruena, a golfing/retirement village where we grabbed a coffee and then to chicken town and on to Granon. Cloud kept us cool as we rose to about 700m and by Ciruena we were walking through a light mist. The track is well gravelled but was, nonetheless, muddy in parts after the rain requiring some delicate footing through low spots but nothing like the bogs of the peaks district.
The patchwork quilt of smaller vine plots has given way to rolling oceans of wheat, green and lush to the distant hills.
You can sleep on the floor in the church in Granon, cook with fellow pilgrims and attend mass, but we were so drained by our near-resurrected-chicken experience that we opted for a room in an albergue. If you don’t receive further blog posts, we’ve made the wrong choice. This place is dodgy as.
Tomorrow, assuming we survive the night, another 20km to Tosantos as we continue to climb.
