| |
It is half
past six in the morning when we pass the bronze pilgrim that is sitting
opposite the cathedral of Burgos. The city is deserted. It is very nice
going through Burgos at dawn. We walk beside the pilgrims’ hostel, which
is in a park, fairly far from the city center, after crossing the
river. An Italian that we know meets us. He is Giovanni. After a while he
leaves us. He is very young and we go too slowly for him.
Paca and I
remember the good friends, or, better still, the good mates
of the Camino who left us from Roncesvalles until here. We give up this
task because it is very sad for us.
A hearty
breakfast in Tardajos raises our spirits. Today it is very hot. We have
definitively come back to the same old Castilla.
...to Hornillos...
Some
kilometres before arriving at Hornillos we find a pilgrim who carries all
sort of things in his rucksack, most things hanging from it. He looks like
a musician. The Spanish musician is making an obvious attempt to pick up a French girl. She
is red-haired, her name is Yasmine and she is from Orleans. The Spaniard
speaks a lot and he is teaching the French girl about all the different
farming in the Castillian moorlands: Wheat and barley. Suddenly they stop,
they shout to us. The Spaniard, pointing at a field, asks us:
-
« What’s
this? »
-
« Beet »,
we answer.
With
this wise answer we score some points with the couple.
We
remain in Hornillos del Camino. Once there, people tell us that hostel
price is 500 pesetas. We meet three old pilgrims we know there: Pepe,
Fernando and Javier.
The
fresh hostel basement invites you to rest. Even though the bookguides do
not mention any news about it, there is a very decent bar-restaurant in
the village. People are solicitous with the pilgrims. The village is about
20 kilometres away from Burgos. As we did not walk a lot today, Paca and I,
decide to take it easy in Castilla. Our feet are killing us and we do not
want to tempt our good luck. Too much self-confidence is dangerous.
We
have lunch with Fernando, the one from Zaragoza, Javier, from Ronda, and
commander Pepe, from Valladolid. Fernando and Javier come from
Roncesvalles and Pepe from Jaca, as we said before. The French young man
we saw on the foggy hill, before arriving at Burgos, and another French
girl, « La Pepi », are at another table. It looks like they
have become friends because, after eating, they go to have siesta beside
the river. However, she does not remain in the hostel, she goes on to Arroyo
San Bol hostel. It is more exotic.
The
evening is burning hot. I devote my time to writing in the hostel kitchen,
which is in the basement and so is surprisingly fresh.
Some
foreign pilgrims’ nerve astonishes me. They switch gas cylinders on and
off, look inside everything, paw everything they find, no matter whom it
belongs to, they do not ask for permission for anything, they have their
siesta on any bed and then they leave without paying a single penny. They
have no manners. At one time I feared they would snatch my pen and letter
from my hands and have the gall to start reading it. I do not think that
these people behave like this in their countries or, at least, I hope not.
I do not understand why Spanish teachers, when I was a little boy, used to
say that foreigners were polite people, and that they shoud be an example
for us.
While
Paca is having a snooze I go to the village bar. In the bar an American
pilgrim, who is travelling with her daughter, complains to me about the
bad organization of the Camino and the crowded hostels. (The Camino is not
crowded. There are not too many walkers, but a lot of roguery). I tell her
to stay in the hostels that are called hotels and inns, were guests pay, as Paca and I do. She
does not like my idea and says she did not come here so as to spend a
fortune on hotels. I suggest that she consider the good quality-price
combination (now in fashion) that the hostels offer, and the
effort of keeping them open. However she sticks to her guns and keeps
complaining. I wind up the dialogue by telling her to find an alternative
to the Camino in another country. Then she will know if
organisation and prices are better than those she finds here.
We
have dinner with Javier and Fernando in the bar. Before dining, we visit
the old small mill, which belongs to the mayor, who is also the hostel
manager. Besides we chat with his wife. She tells us that we can have some
milk with cocoa for breakfast and that the 500 pesetas we paid her are for
the town council.
At
half past ten p.m. the hostel manager takes a walk around the hostel and
closes its door. He is like a stableman, at night he goes to the stable
and watches over his cows. Having checked the livestock, he turns the
lights off and goes to bed. As he had been speaking to us this evening,
when he passes beside our beds, he reminds us and whispers: « There
is some milk in the kitchen for tomorrow! »
Stage 12  Stage 13 |