January 31st, 2005
An entire week devoted to nothing more challenging than the decision as to which type of seafood to eat for dinner, and whether or not to open that second bottle of wine. (Inevitably the answer to that question is “yes”). Despite being on what some may call permanent holiday, it has been wonderful to take a break from the break and give our bodies a rest.
We are in Asturias, about 300km north of Santiago on the coast, with mountains on one side and sea on the other. After months of walking, it was a strange and unsettling experience to climb into a car and drive 300km in less than a morning (well, it would have been less than a morning, if my mother and I had any map reading skills between us. As it was, we took the scenic tour and got there sometime before midnight). Our mothers are both here and we are ensconced in a wonderful villa complete with open fire, bath, and every mod con known to man – not to mention the most fantastic landlords ever. Conchita appears like magic every few hours to top up the wood pile, offer us the local 
cider, and even introduce us to a local journalist who interviewed us! 
Today we drove with Conchita, her husband Angel, and their daughter Lucia across to the magical village of Covadonga. Once the base of the Conquistadore Pelayo, it now houses his tomb, inside an ancient place of worship built into the cliffs above a magnificent waterfall. 
In recent centuries a beautiful cathedral 
has been built in the town, but the centrepiece (and place of pilgrimage) remains the cliffside shrine. The landscape around it is a dramatic mixture of sheer mountains and fast water courses. Fortunately there was also an excellent restaurant in the village, so we 
finally got to sample the local Asturian dish of Fabala, a stew of fava beans and chorizo. By the end of four courses we only just had the energy to drive up the mountain to the quite incredible lookout point, from which on one side the snowy Europa Picos rise abruptly, whilst on the other the mountains drop sharply to the sea. It is easy, standing up there, to understand why the Asturias region prides itself on being a natural paradise. 
It has been a wonderful place to relax and reorganise ourselves after over a month of straight walking.
We needed it. A week after we finished the camino, I am a little better suited to writing about it. Unfortunately it often seems that when we arrive somewhere there is a mad rush to get the updates written and uploaded, usually when I am still fairly exhausted, and last week it was particularly mad, as we did two 40km days to get into Santiago due to the fact that I had to fly out the following day to go to Sarah and James’ wedding in London. But it was worth every second of sore feet and exhaustion to be at the most beautiful ceremony I have ever seen, and I am so grateful I could make it. Finding myself in proper clothes and shoes was a bit of a bizarre experience, though!
Gary stayed in Santiago with our Mums and met up with Andreas and Ato.
It seems Andreas really suffered with his feet, having major problems with his Archilles, so he is not going to carry on through Portugal but go back to Germany to plan his next trip. Ato seems undecided about his next move despite originally planning an immediate return to Japan; if you spot a profane, Marlboro smoking Japanese bloke scoffing coffee on the road, you will know who it is.
I had a truly flying visit to London, although Jo and I still managed to stay up most of the night and polish off copious quantities of red. It was great to catch up with everyone again, even if only for a night.
Now we are trying to plan our next move. The Camino has a rhythm all of it’s own, and it is a pleasantly mindless sensation to have to worry about nothing more than walking. A guaranteed bed every night and regular food stops on the way make it easy to carry on walking without a break. Refuges rarely encourage pilgrims to stay more than one night, and the walking is so pleasant that it feels natural to just keep on going. Before we started the camino we would not have dreamed of doing more than 6 days at a time without a break. I imagine that now we are without regular refuges, and back camping again, we will return to our old routine; it is difficult to get washing done and dry in a tent, and important to rest the bodies.
The Camino Portuguese, from all accounts, is nowhere near as well serviced as the Camino Frances we have just walked. I am also a little unsure how it will work considering we are walking it in reverse. At least I won’t have major withdrawal symptoms from yellow arrows! If anyone reading this knows much about the Portuguese route, please email me, as we are setting off next Wednesday and are still looking for maps. Not that direction is a major problem. As long as the coast is on our right, we are going the right way. Even I should be able to manage that.
Meanwhile, Gary and I have spread all our belongings out on the floor and are sorting through them to re-equip ourselves. There have been a few big changes. Gone is Gary’s heavy, precious medium format camera; until we are in the desert and able to put it on a camel, we have come to the conclusion that he is just not using it enough. It takes about an hour to stop, set the camera up, take pictures and pack it all away again. With limited time when we are walking, and cold weather, we have decided to swap it for a regular 33mm SLR until the desert leg, which will finally get rid of the big blue bag on Gary’s front.
Obviously we are taking the camping gear again, but we are trying to pack and redistribute it so that it is easier to carry. Our new sleeping bags are slightly heavier than our old ones, but given that we no longer have to take blankets to keep warm, it shouldn’t be a problem. It seems suddenly that after all these months we are actually getting a handle on how to really pack our bags properly. It sounds stupid; I guess it is easy to say that we should have worked all this out before, but no matter how many trial trips you do, it is only when you carry the packs day in, day out, for several months, that you can get a true picture of what is needed. We both feel a lot better about it now after having met experienced walkers who tell us that it has taken them years, and many trips, to work out what is really necessary. It is also very different packing for our trip than just the camino, obviously. If you have a refuge to sleep in every night it makes life a lot simpler than if you have to go up to a week without a bed, roof or shower.
We are militant about the whole process now. Every item gets weighed before going into the packs. Language CDs are being burnt onto an MP3 player instead of carried with a walkman (Gary is still going to learn French, if I have to thump it into the boy’s head!); first aid kit has been halved, quartered, and then halved again until it is a shadow of it’s former bulky self; and all of the tiny things which came in handy but aren’t absolutely necessary are gone. It has been interesting to find that we were never carrying anything that was actually not useful; it was just that we were carrying too many things that weren’t strictly necessary. The distinction is a difficult one to make. We also have the unusual issue of carrying a lot of technological equipment for work purposes, so we have to be unusually ruthless in cutting down on other things to compensate for the added weight.
So this week has found us tripping over our tongues in our eagerness to bore our mothers witless with the minutae of walking, in between eating as many fresh veggies and fruit as we can lay our hands on, and enjoying the sheer luxury of being warm, dry, and rested. It has been a great break, all the more enjoyable as we know it is only temporary and that next week we can get back to our real love of walking. We have never felt as keen, focussed, and positive about our adventure as we do now that we have come this far and are fit, healthy, and confident. Suddenly our goal seems not only viable but indeed almost too close. We keep on talking about all the other places we would like to go and walk, like China and South America, and wonder if perhaps we could just keep walking. I am sure we will feel a little different about it all after we reach Cape Town, but for now it simply seems that this is the best thing we have ever done. It is certainly been the most immense learning experience of both of our lives, and the people we meet every day – our hosts this week are another incredible example – make life a joy to live. 
We are more than halfway through the first leg of the trip now. It is becoming much easier to contemplate the walk as a whole – or at least to face the enormous distance with equanimity rather than a sinking feeling of dread. It helps to feel that we are fit and strong enough to get through it. We realise that so far we have done only the very easy part of the walk, and perhaps we will feel much different when we are confronted with the complete contrast of African countries, but on the other hand we will never have to go through the tough process of breaking ourselves in physically again, or getting used to carrying a pack. In some ways the first few months in France were a very difficult period of adjustment. Lucky we had such great food, booze, and company to ease the way.
I realise this is a little more of an introspective diary entry than usual. It must be something to do with all this comfort and a crackling fire. Best I get back to a hard bed and some sub zero temperatures in order to regain my customary sarcasm!
But a final moment of sentimentality: to all of our wonderful, beautiful friends who I was so lucky to see again in London, even if only for a night, it is impossible to convey to you how much your love, support, and friendship means to us both, and I would like to thank every one of you. As much as we love this adventure, getting back on the plane and saying goodbye to you all again was a difficult thing to do. May your lives be full of good food and wine, and lots of laughter, until we are able to share both with you again.
Right. It must be lunch time by now.
And P.S: I can’t leave this weblog without saying that if ever you fancy a really quiet, peaceful holiday, at a rock bottom price and in extraordinary comfort, this is your place. You can contact Conchita and her husband Angel on . Much as it goes against our custom to advertise, I honestly cannot recommend this villa highly enough – it is in beautiful condition, cheap, welcoming, and with awesome views. God knows how we’ll go back to the tent after all this luxury. It even has a BATH….
January 21st, 2005
Two thousand and something kilometres later, here we are in Santiago. Home of the bones of St James, place where one hugs a statue on an altar, and earns a place with the man upstairs. Of course, mine was already assured, so this is of little importance.
Odd that after 800km on the Camino, and many refuges – some good, some not – the worst should come at the very end of the journey. “Adequate” was how our guidebook described it. Adequate if one was a patient in a mental asylum in Siberia 50 years ago, perhaps, with the odd KGB guard playing nursemaid, but somewhat less than salubrious to the modern day traveller – especially at €10 for both of us, and no kitchen.
However.
Please excuse the long break in updates; we have been a little busy trekking over mountains, catching up with the odd Templar Knight, and indulging in that most important of pastimes: eating.
We left Astorga, and the last of the meseta, in it’s usual frozen state, 
and headed up the road on the way to the highest point on the Camino. Andreas and Ato had fallen behind by a day – sore feet on Andreas’ behalf, sheer laziness on Ato’s – and it was to be the last day we would spend with the Bavarian Barbarian, also. Johannes was determined to walk on further than us to spend the night with a character called Tomas. So that you have an understanding of our preconceptions regarding Tomas, I shall reproduce here the brief in our guidebook:
“….a simple refuge best described as atmospheric….Tomas devotes his life year round, in an almost medieval manner, to caring for pilgrims in this high, desolate spot where bad weather (fog, rain, wind, snow) is almost the norm….mattresses for 20, basic W.C, outdoor kitchen. Gregorian chant provided.”
Quite frankly, we have had enough of the medieval spirit what with tent living in the middle of winter, so we were happy to give Tomas a miss. Johannes, however, at last fulfilled his threats to leave, and fuelled by the last of his full fibre cookies, loped off up the hill.
The following day we plodded up the track to Manjarin, where Tomas lives. It was a truly 
beautiful day, sunshine and no wind. Perfect for mountain climbing and meeting odd characters; and odd, our Tomas most certainly is, but in the loveliest way.
I imagine you have heard of the Knights Templar, the medieval order of monastic militants who became the repository for much of Europe’s banking treasure during the early middle ages. To my knowledge, conspiracy theories and bestselling novels aside, the Templars have been history for a good 600 years. Not according to our Tomas.
On approaching his self-built home of stone and wood, 
a large banner hangs proudly out the front, sporting the Spanish mark of the Templars, the Templar “T” in bright red on a white background.
(It hangs right next to the sign which has the distances to Jerusalem, Machu Picchu, and Timbuktu on it). 
Then Tomas himself comes out to meet you, wearing his Templar apron belted around the waist with a large leather belt. Somewhat aggressive geese wander about, pecking happily at unwitting pilgrims, and various dogs, chooks, and other miscellaneous wildlife (some recognisably human, only by their own Templar aprons) also mooch around the place. Tomas has set up a long trestle table with coffee and biscuits for passing pilgrims, and another with the Templar sword laid out with various historical works about the order, in an almost ritualistic manner. He is enormously friendly and hospitable, eager to talk and to share his biscuits and coffee. No matter what may be written about him, offering tired and cold pilgrims hot coffee and biscuits goes a long, long way to raising someone in my estimation.
He showed us all around his abode. It was quite a construction, from the subterranean well to the solar powered computer hooked up inside an old decrepit Landrover. Apparently Tomas came up the mountain some 15 years ago, had a vision of a kind, and decided that middle class family life in Madrid was not for him. He fashioned himself in the Templar tradition and has been up there ever since. A large bell hangs outside his front door; on seeing a pilgrim coming up the mountain in bad weather, he rings it frantically to guide them in the right direction. For some reason I found that enormously touching.
Nonetheless, and all admiration aside, little would have induced me to spend a night on top of a freezing mountain in winter, in truly medieval conditions, with a few people convinced that the Templars live on, and Gregorian chants blaring continuously from the stereo. Each to their own. It obviously did it for Johannes; by all accounts he did indeed spend the night there. The fibre cookies must have done their job, for thereafter Johannes has been no more than a name in various refuge guestbooks – at horribly long distances apart; we reckon he must have got to Santiago at least three days before us, and we have been going pretty hard. Ah, the joys of an 8kg pack.
Meanwhile we walked on from Tomas and up to the summit, the highest point on the Camino. It really was dramatically beautiful, with rugged snowy peaks on one side, 
and the soft, green valleys of Galicia on the other. Coming down the mountain,entering the verdant country of Galicia was like walking into another world after the harsh meseta. Even the villages seemed more beautiful.
Ponferrada has an old Knights Templar castle, and after the Tomas encounter we thought we had better stop and have a look at it. Ponferrada also has a good outdoor equipment shop, and our desire to stop was largely fuelled by the momentous decision to buy NEW SLEEPING BAGS.
Oh yes, folks, after months of freezing our extremities off, the cold refuge at Molinaseca was the last straw, and we decided that there was nothing for it but to spend some of the bank’s money on two new, flash, sub arctic aint-nothing-getting-through-these-suckers roasty toasty sleeping havens. There are not the words to describe my excitement on first sliding between the covers of my new cocoon; except to say that I refused to leave it for over twelve hours. I mean, you could have a party in this thing. Want to pull one knee up but not the other? No problem, it has stretchy bits at knee level. Fancy pulling the whole thing over your head? No dramas, it’s over 6 feet long. I could go on. I could give you weights, measures, and percentage of down and feather, but I appreciate the fact that you may possibly be bored stupid, and that I may make Tomas look entirely balanced by comparison.
Incredibly fortunate that we invested in these new toys when we did. Seeing as every refuge since Ponferrada has been BLOODY TROPICAL.
Would you believe it? It seems that the local authorities in Galicia pay for the refuges, which means they can run the heating permanently, on Jamaican temperatures, so that one spends much of the night with a window open gasping for fresh air whilst sweating buckets.
These flash refuges also coincide with an increase in that speciality of the Camino: The Nutter.
Suddenly they are everywhere, and they are all have titles. There is Bicycle Man; he rides an ancient contraption with a variety of plastic bags hanging off it, and rarely travels more than ten kilometres in a day. If he isn’t behaving madly enough to alert the Hospitalero on arrival, it usually takes no longer than the following morning for him to be unceremoniously thrown out, whereupon he hops unsteadily back onto his creaking steed and weaves off to harass the next lot of pilgrims. So far he has introduced himself to me three times, and each time he has claimed a different town of origin and different starting point on the Camino. It is estimated that he has been living in Albergues/refuges for over three years now.
Then there is Hat Man, who fancies himself an invaluable help to every Hospitalero on the Trail, and who has a rather substantial drinking problem; he usually staggers in from the bar at around 10pm, tells the assembled pilgrims that he is there to help, passes out and talks to himself all night, and then stalks out early the following morning in high dudgeon with the world at large. We have seen him getting on the bus twice now, so I guess walking isn’t really his thing. One Hospitalero told us he has over 30 Compostela Credencials.
These are just two of what really is an endless list. During the winter months the refuges are abused constantly by the enterprising bums of the world – and good luck to them, I say. They provide amusement in spades.
The last part of the Camino is by far the most walked. In order to qualify for their little Compostela certificate, people only need to walk the last 100km; as you can imagine, at the 100km point the Way suddenly becomes more like the M25. I think I liked it better when we were freezing in the meseta.
But, oh sweet Lordy, the food. We have been waiting for some time to fall in love with Spanish food. We knew it was out there, we just hadn’t had the experience which would transform it for us. So it was with great care that we made sure we passed by the Bar O Marillo in time for lunch.
Our guidebook raved about it as a great place to eat typically Galician food. The most well known of these is Pulpa, or octopus, but we had decided to wait until we reached a proper “pulperia” for that, and were prepared instead for lashings of Caldo, a Galician casserole type soup, and whatever else came our way.
Oh, Man, it was good. From the fresh asparagus and jamon and rich Caldo, to the perfectly cooked veal and hand cut potato chips, it was sheer bliss. The wine was good, and even the dessert list went outside the usual “helados, fruta, flan, tarte” spiel which Elsbeth used to have perfectly memorised. To finish they insisted we try some of the local moonshine. A shot of that stuff and no mountain would be too high, I tell you. 
The most awesome thing about eating in Spain is the price – for two full three course meals, with wine and coffee, we paid only €16.
Some days are just perfect; we sailed out of that restaurant into brilliant sunshine. The mountains were all behind us and Santiago and a holiday in front. Not to mention the fact that buoyed by that much alcohol, we probably could have flown to Santiago if we had tried.
As it was it took a few more very long days to get here.
And I am really, really glad that it is not our final destination, and also that we did not have hugely high expectations of our arrival. I guess that after walking over two thousand kilometres, hugging the statue of the Apostle of St James is a bit of an anti climax, really, even if his venerated remains lie beneath. Santiago is a beautiful old city, with an historic centre as picturesque as any, but at the end of the day, the heart of the Camino is in the walking I think; not in the arrival.
And the stupid woman in the pilgrim’s office didn’t believe us anyway. She smirked and cocked her eyebrows at me in a most disbelieving fashion when I answered “London” to her question about where we started. “So, you walk from Paris?” she said, indicating the fact that the next stamp after London in our credencials came from Paris.
“No, actually, we walked all the way from London itself,” I answered, used to people misunderstanding.
“No, you didn’t, I think from Paris, yes? And you are FROM London?”
“No, I’m FROM Australia, but we walked from London.”
“But you didn’t walk all the way from London.”
“Well, actually, yes we did. To Dover. Then by boat to Calais. Then through France, and then in Spain. Walking.”
“But perhaps you took the bus some of this way, I think?”
“No. We walked.”
“Hmmmmmmmm.” (Highly sceptical eyebrow raising look). “So I will write that you began in Paris then.”
“Whatever. From London, though. Actually. We walked.” At this point she was just nodding absently as she wrote “Paris” in the “Commence” part of the form though, and I really couldn’t be bothered arguing with her.
My only revenge came when we had to provide a motivation for our journey. In order to qualify for the “Compostela” certificate one has to claim a spiritual motivation for making the pilgrimage, otherwise one only gets the inferior “certificate”. The stupid thing about this is that all you have to do is write “spiritual” in the relevant box in order to qualify, which I think is particularly pointless. I have never much liked filling in forms, or bureaucracy of any type, for that matter. I had also read that the office much prefers to issue “Compostelas” as averse to “certificates”, no doubt for nefarious number crunching reasons of their own, so with great pleasure I wrote “cultural” in the little box and waited for her response.
Sure enough she looked up with a frown. “But did you walk the Camino with a spiritual motivation?” She asked me sternly.
“Well,” I began, knowing I was going to enjoy this, “there were definitely elements of the spiritual in our journey, but my motivation was not of a spiritual nature, no.”
“So you would say your journey was a spiritual one?”
“It definitely had spiritual moments.” Particularly in the O Marillo bar, though I thought it impolitic to say this.
“So you walked for spiritual reasons.”
“No. Do you think so?”
“Yes. Definitely spiritual.” And she crossed out my answer.
There you go. Me, a non Catholic sceptic, walked the Camino for spiritual reasons, not just because it was on the way to Cape Town. Ah well, at least I know now, and the Church has one more number for it’s statistics, bless it’s wealth gathering little socks.
So now we are resting our tired little bones in Santiago for a week or so. Both Gary’s mother and mine are arriving to spend some time with us, which we are looking forward to. The 800 plus kilometres from Dax to here have taken us 37 days; not bad when you consider that is very close to the distance from Sydney to Melbourne. I have to say, though, it is the kind of pace I don’t fancy keeping up indefinitely. Even if there are good restaurants on the way.
By text Andreas tells me that he and Ato are only a couple of days behind, so we should see them soon. We caught up with the four Basque walkers last night, which was wonderful, and they insisted on buying us dinner which we hope to return one day somewhere down the line! I think they enjoy their food as much as we do.
So now we are about to head out into the sunshine for another looooong lunch. Important to have as many of these as possible before we walk again, I think. I guess the next entry may come from somewhere near Portugal, as that is where we are heading, although how I will ever find my way anywhere without little yellow arrows now I don’t know….
January 7th, 2005
Bavaria is a separate, independent nation from Germany. Did you know that? Neither did I. Due to the fact that our current travelling cotillion consists of two Germans (sorry, one BAVARIAN and one German), one Japanese, and four Spanish (sorry, four BASQUE people who happen to live in the nation of Spain) I am undergoing something of a crash course in international politics. So far I have discovered many interesting, if utterly useless, facts; for example, that apparently the Bavarian accent is rated the "most erotic" of all German accents. One could argue that this is hardly a distinction of note – but one would do so at the severe risk of sparking the ire of both Andreas and Johannes. I may do it anyway.
We acquired Johannes in Burgos.
Despite the fact that he has managed to walk all the way here from Munich, doing well over thirty kilometres most days, he has suddenly slackened his pace to keep time with us "lazy pilgrims" and our twenty to twenty five. On a daily basis he threatens to abandon us and charge ahead with his tiny little 8kilo pack, but every evening finds him waiting, one could say a little pathetically, at the door of whichever refuge the rest of us are pitching up to.
Meanwhile, Ato the wandering guy from Japan 
finds it utterly impossible to pass any of the (numerous) bars en-route. "BAR??" he says, eyes lighting up under his woollen hat, "LEALLY??" Then he gets a kind of fixed, determined look about him, and the next words which come out of his mouth are accompanied by a plethora of drool: "Ahhhh, CAFÉ CON LECHE…." Occasionally he comes out with an absolute gem of a comment, in a very subtle, understated kind of a way. Playing chess with Gary the other night, he was asked where he learned to play. "In India, with my master," he replied solemnly. Master of philosophy, or chess, we asked. Still nodding seriously, "master of life," he said. But a second later, and still with a completely straight face, he continued: "…and of hash hish." He looks so completely innocent you can’t help but howl with laughter.
Ato has also fully embraced that most versatile of English verbs, the "F" word, with insistent enthusiasm, using it at every available opportunity.
On waking: "F***ing FLEEZING."
On cooking: "F***ing Lice."
On walking: "F******ck."
Meanwhile, our new Spanish cohorts are dedicated pilgrims, and actually get out of bed while it is still dark and leave by eight o’clock. Like all their countrymen, they don’t actually eat their evening meal until after 9.00 pm, so it beats me how they leap out of bed with such mad enthusiasm, particularly in the consistently subzero temperatures. But then they have only been walking since Burgos.
(where’s the BAR?)
Andreas is our "jailhouse coffee" man; he simply doesn’t function until after the first cup of thick brew in the morning. If there is no facilities to boil water – frequently the case – Andreas is undeterred from his sacred coffee making mission, and instead uses the technique perfected by the inmates of the mental hospital where he is a nurse. He simply shakes a good four dessert spoons of coffee into his mug, free pours a generous mountain of sugar, sloshes in some milk, puts the mug under the hot water tap – regardless of how hot the water actually is – screws the lid on, and shakes vigorously. When I ask, somewhat incredulously, if this vile concoction is actually drinkable, he shrugs and gives his standard Andreas response: "Ja, sure, it’s ok, why not?" For those of you who know Gary, Andreas is equally laid back, so between them they are almost in reverse. 
The refuges along the way run the full gamut from the sublime to the truly ridiculous. Some have kitchens, many don’t; some consist of a few beds upstairs in a nunnery or town hall. Some have showers with hot water; many don’t. Some have utterly barmy "hospitalieros", or hosts, which is often an interesting experience, to say the least. (Yesterday’s was run by a mad Spanish woman – we are rapidly coming to the conclusion that madness is endemic amongst Spaniards – who had the somewhat unsettling ability to insult every one of us in our own language. Including Japanese. In depth.) They are universally FREEZING, although occasionally we find one that has an open fire, which then leads to the most un-pilgrim like behaviour of scouring every back yard in the immediate vicinity for stray bits of wood. 
(boys staring hopefully at where a fire should be)
(mad Bavarian axeman waiting for wood to chop. We hope.)
On the subject of weather, it is worth noting that the region we have been walking through for the last couple of weeks is experiencing it’s most severe winter for over twenty years (or fifty, depending on who you talk to). What this means for us is day after day of walking through a white, frozen world 
much like the imaginary realm of Narnia, across the wide, flat landscape of the meseta.
Occasionally the mist lifts to afford us a glimpse of seemingly endless plains, framed in the distance by snowy mountains. 
Some days we trudge through snow – after Burgos it was actually over our knees for much of the next two days’ walk – some days it is mud, and every day it is cold and icy. But when the sun comes out, we are rewarded with a striking, brilliant world, and the self-gratifying knowledge that few people are mad enough to walk the Way in such conditions. 
For Gary and I, it is a bit like a holiday from our Big Walk. No matter how cold or primitive, after the arctic weeks in the tent in France, it is sheer luxury for us to have a roof over our heads every night and a bed to sleep on – with extra blankets that we don’t have to carry. Most days we get a shower, even if not always a hot one, and the route is clearly marked so that even idiots like us can’t get lost. The break has given us time to reassess our packs and what we are carrying, and to think about how we can streamline our operation to make it easier. Most importantly we have had the energy to walk every day instead of needing long breaks to recover from our heavy packs.
Since crossing the Pyrenees from St Jean Pied de Port we have walked more than half of the 770km to Santiago; from here in Leon we have about 300km to go, and are hoping to be there by the 23rd of January.
It is strange to think that if we had walked South through Spain instead of west to follow the Camino, we would almost have traversed the country by the time we reach Santiago. Not that we would have missed this experience. How else would I have learned that the people of Bavaria are culturally inferior in every way to their German counterparts? (JOKE, Johannes, that is what we call a JOKE.)
Thankyou to all who sent such lovely Christmas and New Year messages to us. You will be pleased to know that as I am the sole drinker in our little crew, this New Year’s was the most sober I have ever spent. So much for Germans and beer drinking. Andreas and Johannes are strictly coffee men, and as for Ato, one beer and he’s "F***ing DLUNK."
We are leaving the meseta soon and crossing some more mountains, so there should be an interesting diary entry after that little excursion.
Cheers, and thanks to the Nutter and the Donkey for their edifying comments on the last entry.